The Hades Factor

  Abruptly, there was silence. For some reason, the Republican Guards were holding their fire. Then Jon knew why. Their booted footsteps hammered toward the curtained archway. They were going to rush the storage room.

  “Praise Allah!” Ghassan leaped excitedly up from behind his pile of tires. He was grinning maniacally, and fire burned in his black eyes. Before Jon could stop him, he charged through the curtained doorway, his AK-47 blazing.

  Screams and grunts from beyond the curtain echoed through the shop. The sound of scrambling and diving for cover. Then a sudden silence.

  Jon hesitated. He should get the woman out of here, but maybe—

  Crouched low, instead he ran toward the curtained archway.

  Another violent fusillade burst out beyond the curtain.

  Jon hit the floor and crawled forward. As he reached the curtain, the barrage stopped. He held his breath and peered under the bottom of the dangling curtain of beads. As he did, a single rifle, like a small voice in the wilderness, tore out another series of defiant bursts. Ghassan lay behind a corner of the shop counter. He had the Republican Guards pinned down. Smith felt a surge of admiration.

  Then he saw the Guards crawling through the shop to get behind where Ghassan held out. There were too many of them. The brave Iraqi could not survive much longer. Jon wanted desperately to help him. Maybe the two of them would be able to at least gain the time for everyone to escape.

  Then he heard the vehicles outside on the narrow street.

  They were bringing up reinforcements. It would be suicide.

  He looked back at where the woman watched him. She held the baby and seemed to be waiting to see what decision he made. Ghassan had told him to save her. He was sacrificing his life not only to defend his business but to make certain she and the child escaped. Plus, Jon had a mission to complete, one that could save millions of people from a horrible death. Inwardly he sighed as he accepted the fact that he could not save Ghassan.

  Once he decided, he did not wait. As the ear-splitting sounds of gunshots continued, Jon yanked open the splintered rear door. The screams of the injured in front echoed through the bullet-riddled shop. He gave the woman a reassuring smile, took her hand, and peered out into a dark alley so narrow and deep, even the wind had little room to blow. He tugged, pulling her behind, and slid out into the passageway.

  Cradling the infant close in one arm, she followed as they ran two doors to the left. And froze.

  Military vehicles screeched to a stop at both ends of the alley. Soldiers jumped out and pounded toward them. They were caught. Trapped in the Republican Guards’ snare.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  1:04 A.M., Wednesday, October 22

  Frederick, Maryland

  Specialist Four Adele Schweik awoke with an abrupt start. Next to her ear pulsed the sharp, unnerving alarm from the sensor she had planted in the Russell woman’s office a half-mile away at USAMRIID. Instantly alert, she turned off the annoying blast, jumped from bed, and activated the video camera she had also installed in the distant office.

  In her dusky bedroom, she sat at her desk and stared at the monitor until a figure dressed in black appeared in Russell’s office. Apprehensively she studied the intruder. He—or she—looked like an alien invader, but he moved with the fluidity of a cat, and a swift purpose that told Schweik he had broken into guarded buildings before. The figure wore an antiflash hood with respirator and a black flak vest. The vest was state-of-the-art-it would stop cold the bullets of most pistols and submachine guns.

  As stiffly alert in her nightgown as she was in her daytime uniform, she stayed before the glowing screen long enough to be certain of the intruder’s intention: He was conducting a thorough search of Sophia Russell’s office. In a rush of adrenaline she yanked off her nightgown, dressed in her camos, and raced out to her car.

  In a darkened RV a block from the entrance to Fort Detrick, Marty Zellerbach glared unhappily at his computer screen. His face was pinched with worry, and his soft body slumped in exaggerated despair. He had taken his Mideral seven hours ago, and as its effects had faded he had finished a brilliant program to automatically switch relay routes randomly, assuring no one could trace his electronic footprints ever again.

  But that achievement had not led to success in either of his two main objectives: Sophia Russell’s other phone calls, if they existed, remained stubbornly erased, and Bill Griffin’s tracks had been too well covered.

  He needed to find a creative solution, which was a challenge he would welcome under different circumstances. But now he was anxious. There was so little time, and the truth was … he had been working on both problems all along, and he still had no breakthrough on either. Plus there was the fact that he was frightened for Jon, who had willingly vanished into Iraq. And—as much as he distrusted people in general—he had no desire to see vast quantities of them erased, which was sure to be their fate if the virus was allowed to continue its rampage.

  These were the moments he had spent his life avoiding: His wellhoned self-interest had just collided with his deepest, darkest secret.

  No one knew he harbored a streak of altruism. He never hinted at it and certainly would never admit it, but he actually thought kindly of human babies, old people with cantankerous dispositions, and adults who quietly did charity work without being paid. He also gave away his entire yearly trust income to a variety of worthy causes around the world. He made plenty to cover his living expenses by solving cyber-problems for individuals, companies, and the government, and he always had that pleasant savings account from which he had drawn fifty thousand dollars for Jon.

  He sighed. He could feel the nervous edginess that told him he was close to needing another pill. But his mind ached to escape into the unknown where he could be his liberated, exciting self. As he thought that, bright colors flashed somewhere ahead on the horizon, and the world seemed to expand in ever-larger waves of possibilities.

  This was that fertile time when he was close to losing control, and there was every reason he should. He had to figure out how to check Sophia Russell’s phone logs for accuracy, and he desperately needed to find Bill Griffin.

  Now was the time!

  Relieved, he leaned back, shut his eyes, and happily launched himself into the starry world of his vast imagination.

  Then a cold, hard voice that seemed to come from nowhere shocked him: “Should I have been the enemy, you would be dead.”

  Marty jumped. He yelled, “Peter!” He turned. “You idiot! You could’ve given me cardiac arrest sneaking up like that!”

  “Sitting duck,” Peter Howell grumbled and shook his head morosely. “That’s what you are, Marty Zellerbach. Must be more alert.” He was reclining in a lounge chair, still dressed in the all-black uniform of an SAS counterterrorist commando. His gray antiflash hood lay in his lap. He had returned from his uneventful mission inside USAMRIID and reentered the RV without disturbing the air.

  Marty was too angry to play the old spy’s game. He longed for all this aggravation to end so he could return to his quiet bungalow where the most annoying event of the day was the arrival of the mail.

  His lip curled in a sneer. “The door was locked, you moron. You’re nothing but a common burglar!”

  “An uncommon burglar.” Peter nodded sagely, ignoring Marty’s pitying glare. “If I were the usual bumbling second-story man, we wouldn’t be having this chat.”

  After they had left Jon Smith at San Francisco International Airport, they had taken turns driving the RV cross-country, sleeping and eating in it so they could make the best time. Peter had shouldered the vast majority of the driving and the shopping to lessen Marty’s complaining. Plus he had had to teach Marty to drive again, which had tried his patience. Even now he looked at the electronics genius and was not quite sure how the soft little man could feel superior, since he appeared to be so handicapped in daily life. Besides, he was bloody irksome.

  Marty groused, “I hope to heaven you achieved better r
esults than I.”

  “Alas, no.” Peter’s leathery face grimaced. “I found nothing of consequence.” Once they had reached Maryland, he had decided the wisest course was to start at the beginning with Sophia’s lab and office, to be sure Jon had missed nothing. So he had parked the RV where it was now, donned his SAS commando gear, and slipped into Fort Detrick. He sighed. “Marty, my boy, I’m afraid we’re going to need your unearthly electronic skills to dig into the poor lady’s past. Can you break into her personnel file here at Detrick?”

  Marty brightened, raised his hands above his head, and snapped his fingers as if they were castanets. “You have but to ask!” Moving with great speed, he tapped keys, watched the monitor, and minutes later sat back, crossed his arms, and shot a Cheshire-cat smile at Peter. “Tadah! Personnel file for Sophia Lilian Russell, Ph.D. Got it!”

  Peter had been watching from the shadows, worrying as soon as Marty began talking in exclamation points. Thin and wiry, he slid across the RV’s living room to lean over the computer monitor.

  He said quietly, “Jon thinks there was something in the deleted report you recovered from the Prince Leopold Institute that Sophia considered important. That’s why the report was erased and the page of her comments cut from her logbook.” He looked into Marty’s shining green eyes. “What we need is anything that could tie into that report.”

  Marty bounced up and down on his chair. “Not a problem! I’ll print out the entire file.” Electric energy seemed to shoot from his pores, and a self-satisfied smile wreathed his face. “Got it! Got it!”

  Peter clamped a hand on his shoulder. “Better take your Mideral pill, too. Sorry. Know you don’t like’em. Buck up, though. What we’re about to do is a task for the boring part of both of our brains. At least you can medicate yours.”

  With Sophia’s file in front of them, Peter read the Prince Leopold report aloud as Marty checked it against the personnel file. Marty moved line by line, his mind working methodically, while Peter read and reread the report. The Mideral was a wonder drug, and its quick-acting effect had slowed Marty’s speech and enabled him to sit quietly through the onerous task. He was acting like a courtly but gloomy gentleman.

  As dawn approached, they had still found no link between Sophia’s past activities and current contacts at USAMRIID.

  “Right,” Peter acknowledged. “Take a step back. Where did she do her postdoc work?”

  Marty peered at the file. “University of California.”

  “Which one?”

  If Marty had been off his meds, he would have thrown up his hands in despair at how poorly Peter was informed. Instead he simply gave a shake of his head. “Berkeley, of course.”

  “Ah, yes. And they say we Brits are snobs. Can you crack that august institution, or do we have to drive all the way back to the West Coast?”

  Marty raised his brows at Peter’s idea of levity. He said in a measured, irritatingly slow voice, “Tell me, Peter, do we dislike each other as much when I’m off my meds?”

  “Yes, my boy. We certainly do.”

  With dignity, Marty inclined his head. “Thought so.” He sat at his computer, and ten minutes later Sophia’s transcript at Berkeley was in his hands.

  Peter read aloud the Prince Leopold report again.

  Marty checked the transcript. “No names that match. No fieldwork. Her entire program was in human genetics, not virology.” He sat back, and the transcript slid off his knee. “It’s hopeless.”

  “Nonsense. As we Brits say, ‘We’ve not yet begun to fight.’”

  Marty frowned. “That was John Paul Jones against the British.”

  “Ah, but technically he was still a Brit when he said it.”

  Marty gave a gimlet smile. “You’re still trying to hold on to the colonies?”

  “Always did hate to give up a good investment. Very well, where did she do her doctoral studies?”

  “Princeton.”

  “Crack away.”

  But the transcript of her doctoral studies showed her work to be far too extensive and lacking in detail to help. Her dissertation had no connection to viruses. Instead, she had researched the gene cluster that held the genetic mutation responsible for the missing tails of Manx cats.

  Marty pointed out, “She took extensive field trips. That could be useful.”

  “Agreed. Is a graduate adviser listed?”

  “Dr. Benjamin Liu. Emeritus. He still teaches an occasional course, and he lives in Princeton.”

  “Right,” Peter said. “I’ll crank up this heap. We’re off.”

  8:14 A.M.

  Princeton, New Jersey

  Sunrise illuminated the autumn colors of trees and bushes as Peter and Marty drove north. They traded off driving to sleep and crossed the Delaware Memorial Bridge south of Wilmington and sped up the Jersey Turnpike past the bustling metropolises of Philadelphia and Trenton. When they entered Princeton, the sun was bright, and the tree leaves were vibrant shades of red, gold, and tangerine.

  It was an old town, Princeton, a scene of battle during the Revolutionary War when the British headquartered here. It still retained the tree-lined streets and grassy meadows, the old houses and classic university buildings, and the elegant and peaceful atmosphere in which high learning and tranquil lifestyles were most comfortably pursued. The famed university and the historic town were symbionts, neither succeeding fully without the other.

  Dr. Benjamin Liu lived on a side street heavily planted in maple trees whose leaves burned flame red, as if on fire. The sedate, three-story frame structure was shingled in that eastern seaboard wood color that is neither dark brown nor dark gray but somewhere in between, earned by years of bravely facing the elements.

  Dr. Liu himself had a well-weathered face. Far from the cliché of an inscrutable Chinese courtier, he was tall and muscular, with the eyes and white drooping mustache of an ascetic Mandarin but the jutting chin, full cheeks, and ruddy complexion of a New England whaling captain. He was a fine blend of Chinese and Caucasian, and the walls of his study helped to show why. Hanging there were two portraits that appeared to be his parents. One was a tall, athletic, blond woman wearing a yachting cap and carrying a fishing rod, while the other showed a distinguished gentleman in the traditional robes of a Mandarin Chinese elder seated on the bow of a ship. On one side of the photographs hung mounted game fish, while on the other were displayed historic Chinese court badges of rank.

  Dr. Liu had just finished his breakfast. He waved them to seats in the study. “So how can I help you? You spoke on the phone of Sophia Russell. I remember her well. A great student. Not to mention a hell of a looker. She was the only time I was tempted to dare the fates with a teacher-student affair.” He sank into a wing-back chair. “How is she, anyway?”

  On his meds, Marty began one of his slow, methodical answers. “Well, Sophia Russell is—”

  Peter gave in to impatience. “Right, Marty. My job here.” He focused on the retired professor. “She’s dead, Doctor Liu. Sorry to be so blunt, but we’re hoping you can help. She died from the new virus.”

  “Dead?” Dr. Liu was shocked. “When? I mean, is it possible?” He looked from Peter to Marty and back to Peter. He shook his head, slowly at first, then vigorously. “But she was so … young.” He hesitated as if seeing Sophia’s vitality. Then the rest of what Peter had said penetrated. “The new virus? It’s a global disaster! I have grandchildren, and I’m frightened to death. It could wipe out half the species. What are we doing to stop it? Can anyone tell me?”

  Peter’s voice was reassuring. “Everyone’s working around the clock, Professor. It’s what Dr. Russell was researching.”

  “Researching? So that’s how she got the virus?”

  “Perhaps. It’s one of the things we’re trying to ascertain.”

  The professor’s face was set in grim lines. “I can’t imagine I can be of any help, but I’ll try. Tell me what you want.”

  Peter handed the one-page report to the professor. “Thi
s is from the Prince Leopold Institute of Tropical Diseases. Please read it and tell us if anything in there ties in with Dr. Russell’s studies at Princeton. Classes, field trips, research, friends, any bloody thing that occurs to you.”

  Professor Liu nodded. He took his time reading. He stopped often to think and remember. An old clock on the mantel of the study ticked loudly. He read the report again. And again.

  Finally, he shook his head. “I see nothing here that strikes me as relating to Sophia’s work or studies. She concentrated on genetics and, as far as I know, never took a field trip to anywhere in South America. Giscours didn’t study at Princeton, and Sophia didn’t study in Europe. I see no way they could’ve met.” He pursed his lips and glanced down at the report again. He raised his head. “But you know, I do recall … yes, a trip. In her undergraduate years. Not viruses, though.” He hesitated. “Damn, it’s only something she mentioned in passing at an informal gathering.” He sighed. “I’m not going to be able to tell you more than that.”

  Marty had been listening closely. Even when he was on his medication and his brilliant mind was tethered, he still tested smarter than ninety-eight percent of the human populace. Which increased his annoyance with Peter Howell. So just to prove he could, he forced himself to ask quickly: “Where was she an undergraduate?”

  The professor looked at him. “Syracuse. But she wasn’t studying biology then. So I don’t see how that trip could possibly relate to Giscours and his report.”