Jon swore. They had lost their best opportunity so far—maybe their last.
With another abrupt lurch, the truck slowed again, throwing them forward. As it lumbered to a stop, someone in the cab shouted angrily. An answering shout came from out in the night. Suddenly the motor of another vehicle roared. Headlights swept across the darkness and focused on the truck’s canvas side, eerily illuminating the interior where Jon and Randi listened.
It was in Arabic. “What are they saying?” Jon asked.
“We’ve got more visitors.” Randi listened to the voices. “And our friendly police aren’t all that happy about it.”
“Who is it this time?”
“I’m not sure. It could be Republican Guards again. Maybe something spooked them back at the checkpoint, and they’ve got a new batch of questions.”
“Terrific. Then we’re in even worse trouble.” Jon wiped sweat from his face.
Suddenly Randi whispered urgently, “That last voice! It was speaking Arabic all right, but it wasn’t Iraqi Arabic.”
Inside the truck, the two policemen had gone into wary crouches, their AK-47s up. They radiated vigilance. Something out there frightened them. They exchanged low words and reached for the canvas flap that covered the rear.
Their backs were facing Jon and Randi.
Without hesitation, Jon breathed, “Let’s do it.”
He flung himself forward, trusting Randi to do the same. He tackled the policeman on the left, yanked him backward, and slammed his fist into the man’s right temple. As he dropped to the floor unconscious, Jon wrenched away his AK-47.
At the same time, Randi pulled up her skirt, grabbed the knife from her thigh, and leaped at the second guard. Just as he whirled in his crouch to help his friend, Randi jammed the knife into his arm. He screamed, dropped his rifle, and grabbed the wound.
Randi thrust her knee up, connecting with his chin. His neck snapped back, and he sprawled onto his back unmoving, atop the other uniformed policeman.
As Randi swept up the AK-47, automatic fire exploded outside. It was as loud and surprising as thunder. Shouts and cries echoed across the desert night. There was the sound of running feet and more gunfire. It was a battle. The sounds were coming closer, and the fighting would soon be upon them.
Chapter Thirty-Five
6:32 P.M.
Long Lake Village, New York
At his desk in his corner office, Victor Tremont pushed aside the report on which he was working, rubbed his eyes, and again checked his Rolex. He tapped his fingers on the edge of the massive desk. He was tense, on edge. There had been no word from Nancy Petrelli or the surgeon general, and more than nine hours had passed since he had heard from al-Hassan. The end of more than a dozen years of risky work was coming to a triumphant conclusion, and he was too close to being one of the richest men in the world for anything to go wrong now.
Restless and concerned, he arose, clasped his hands behind his back, and paced across the plush carpeting to his wall of windows. The lake stretched into the distance like a silver crater in the final fade of sunlight. He could almost smell the thick pines on both sides as they darkened from blue to purple and now black. House lights blinked on like a scattering of emerging stars. He looked right and left to view the sprawling, heavily landscaped industrial complex that was Blanchard Pharmaceuticals, as if to reassure himself that it was all there. That it was real. That it was his.
His intercom buzzed. “Mr. al-Hassan has arrived, Dr. Tremont.”
“Good.” He returned to his desk and composed his face. “Send him in.”
Nadal al-Hassan’s pockmarked features were triumphant. “We have Smith.”
Excitement surged through Tremont. “Where?”
As al-Hassan came to a stop before the desk, his cadaverous frame leaned forward like a greyhound about to pounce on a rabbit. He smiled. “In Baghdad. The policemen I bribed ‘arrested’ them.”
“Them?” This was even better than he had hoped. “Zellerbach and the Englishman are there, too?”
Al-Hassan’s smile faded. “Unfortunately, no. He was accompanied by some CIA agent. A woman we believe was working underground there.”
Inwardly, Tremont swore. An additional complication. “Whatever Smith has learned, she’ll know by now. Destroy her. What about the other two?”
“We will have them soon. Zellerbach and the Englishman were discovered early this morning by our person inside USAMRIID—”
“This morning?” Tremont scowled angrily. “Why wasn’t I told?”
Al-Hassan dropped his gaze. “Our agent at Detrick was alone at first and too involved following them. When Maddux and his men took over, they were kept so busy simply maintaining contact with this Howell that they had no chance to call. I received the full report only an hour ago. I have castigated him and impressed on him the need to keep me completely informed.” Al-Hassan described Peter Howell’s break-in search, Marty Zellerbach’s downloading of Sophia’s file, and the pair’s subsequent trip to Princeton. “Maddux reports they have driven north and are now outside Syracuse.”
Tremont paced across his office, thinking. Then he understood: “Zellerbach and Howell must be backtracking Sophia Russell’s history.” He paused, furious. “They could learn about her undergraduate trip to Peru and, from that, about her relationship with me.” He glared, controlling his anger. He prided himself on his understanding of human nature, and as he stared at the Arab he reminded himself that this enigmatic man from another land was all that stood between him and discovery by Jonathan Smith and his allies. Inwardly he nodded: Yes, he had to make certain al-Hassan succeeded in destroying Smith. Suddenly he an idea: “You should have stopped them long ago, Nadal. You’ve failed me.”
Just as Tremont had hoped, the hatchet-faced al-Hassan winced. The Arab stood motionless and silent, not quite able to speak, and Tremont had a sense of the man’s discomfort, almost humiliation, because he had failed. This was exactly the reaction on which Tremont had been counting.
Al-Hassan’s voice was flinty. “It will not happen again, Dr. Tremont.” He straightened, and respect radiated from him. “I have a plan.” He left the office as silently as death itself.
8:21 P.M.
Near Syracuse, New York
Dressed again in his black SAS uniform but without the hood or equipment belt, Peter pensively mulled everything over as he drove the big RV along the dark highway toward the distant twinkling lights of Syracuse. Behind him, Marty worked intently on the computer. The virus’s sudden explosion across the world terrified both men. They must find something that clicked with the Prince Leopold report in Syracuse, or Marty had to turn up Sophia’s missing phone calls or Bill Griffin’s hideout.
They had heard nothing from Jon. This did not surprise Peter, but it concerned him. It could mean Jon was in trouble and unable to get back to the embassy in Baghdad, or it could mean nothing at all.
Soon after they had left Princeton, Peter had the uneasy sense they were being followed. To be certain, he had driven a circuitous route on secondary roads from New Jersey into New York. Well inside the state, he entered the thruway. If there had been a tail, he figured he should have exposed or lost it by now. Still, the uneasiness would not leave. These people were experienced and skillful.
Twice he pulled off at rest stops to search the RV’s exterior for a tracking device. He found none. But the concern persisted, and he had learned long ago to trust his feelings. That was why he exited the thruway early to take the slower but less traveled back roads into Syracuse itself.
For the first five miles he saw only occasional lights behind, and those vehicles had driven straight on when he pulled off to watch. He had changed direction more than once, going west for a time, then south, then east, then back north, and finally west again toward the city. Now he was driving through the outer suburbs. Since he had still seen no evidence of surveillance, he began to relax.
The sky was starry and black, with charcoal clouds low and ominou
s beneath the moon. To their right, a woodsy state park extended along the road, its split-rail fence like ghostly broken bones in the night. The park appeared to be densely forested, with picnic tables and fireplaces dotting open areas. There was little traffic at this hour.
Then from out of nowhere a gray pickup passed the RV at high speed. It pulled in front, its brake lights instantly glowed blood red, and it slowed, forcing Peter to hit his own brakes. Peter instantly checked his rearview mirror. High headlights were closing in fast. It had to be another truck or SUV. Right on the RV’s tail.
Peter called out, “Hold on, Marty!”
“What are you up to now?” Marty complained.
“Pickup in front. SUV or pickup in back. Bastards think they’re going to trap us like chopped liver in a sandwich.”
Marty’s round face flushed pink. “Oh.” He instantly locked down the computer, tightened his seatbelt, and gamely grabbed the table, which was bolted into the RV’s frame. He steeled himself and sighed. “I suppose I’m actually growing accustomed to these emergencies.”
Peter pumped the brake and yanked the steering wheel right. The left wheels tilted up like a yacht in a high wind. Marty let out a surprised yell. The RV skidded on the two others, landed hard, and tore into the lighted picnic grounds. Behind them, brakes shrieked and rubber burned. The high headlights bounced across grass, roared over a sapling, and blasted through brush to emerge again on the park road. The gray pickup was close behind.
Marty watched through the windows, his heart palpitating with fear. Still, he was riveted by the spectacle. Although the Englishman was intellectually inferior, he had an uncanny ability where anything physical, particularly violence, was concerned.
Ahead, the road forked. Peter swerved the RV right. He was racing the bouncing, swaying pickup through the darkness. Abruptly the road curved back toward the lighted picnic area.
“Bloody damn!” he swore. “Road’s a loop.” The high headlights were behind them, and the gray pickup was driving toward them from ahead. “Trapped again!” He reached behind his seat and pulled out his Enfield bullpup. “Get to the back door and use this!”
“Me?” But Marty caught the assault rifle as Peter tossed it to him.
“When I say, just point and pull the trigger, my boy. Imagine it’s a joystick.”
The creases on Peter’s leathery face were deep canyons of worry, but his eyes were glowing. He hit the brake again, yanked the wheel, and ran the RV off the road into a grove of trees that extended thick into the darkness. As soon as he skidded the big vehicle to a stop, he jumped from the seat, pulled out his H&K submachine gun, grabbed two cases of clips, handed the SA80 rounds to Marty, and hurried with his own clips and submachine gun to a side window.
The RV’s nose was deep in the trees, and the side door also faced the woods. This meant the vehicle presented a solid side to the attackers while Peter and Marty could still fire from both the rear door and the small side windows.
Marty was examining his weapon, prodding it as he muttered to himself.
Peter asked, “Got it figured out?” The one good thing about the annoying fellow was he had turned out to be as smart as Jonathan Smith had claimed.
“There are some things I never wanted to learn.” Marty looked up and sighed. “Of course, I understand this primitive machine. Child’s play.”
The car behind the headlights was a large black SUV. It had stopped on the road. The gray pickup was driving slowly across the grass toward the RV.
Peter shot out the front tires of the pickup.
The pickup sagged to a stop. For a time nothing moved.
Then two men pitched out like rag dolls from the pickup and dove under it. At the same time, automatic fire blasted from the SUV and slammed into the RV’s side with loud screeches of tearing metal.
“Down!” Peter shouted as the RV rocked from the gunfire’s impact.
Marty dove head first, and Peter crouched against the side wall.
When there was a pause, Marty looked around. “Where are the bullet holes? We should look like a sieve.”
Peter grinned. “Had some serious plate put on this buggy. Thought you knew that from the ruckus in the Sierras. Good thing, right?”
A new fusillade hammered against the armored steel sides. But this time, it smashed windows and tore curtains, too. Glass shards sliced through the air and embedded themselves into appliances. Bits of cloth floated down like snow.
Marty had wrapped his arms over his head. “Obviously you should have considered putting plate on the windows.”
“Steady,” Peter said quietly. “They’ll become weary after a bit and stop to see if we’re still alive. Then we’ll just spoil their little party, eh?”
Marty sighed and tried to calm the terror in his veins.
After another minute of the violent barrage, the firing died away. The cessation of sound seemed to create a vacuum in the lighted park. The birds were silent. No small animals scurried through the underbrush. Marty’s face was white with fear.
“Right,” Peter said cheerfully. “Let’s have a look-see.”
He raised up to peer out a corner of the shattered window above him. The two men from the gray truck were standing in the shelter of their vehicle holding what looked like Ingram M11 submachine guns. They stared across the swath of lighted grass to the RV. As Peter watched, a short, heavy man in a cheap gray suit, his face glistening with sweat, stepped out of the big SUV. His weapon was a Glock pistol. He motioned with his arm, and two more well-armed men climbed from the SUV. With another motion he ordered the group to spread out and close in on the RV.
“Right,” Peter said again, softly this time. “Marty, take the two on the right. I’ll take the left. I doubt any of them will charge into fire, so don’t worry about your aim. Just point in their direction, squeeze the trigger, and let it rip. Ready?”
“My degradation increases.”
“Good man. Here we go.”
Chapter Thirty-Six
Inside the heavily equipped RV, the tension was electric. Still some twenty yards away, the five armed men and the short, square leader were rapidly closing in on Peter and Marty. The attackers progressed carefully, their gazes constantly roaming. They carried their weapons with the sureness of experience. Even in the distance, menace radiated from their walks.
“Now!” Peter fired a careful burst at the leader, while Marty let loose with everything.
As Marty’s barrage shredded leaves and pine needles, ripped bark, and sawed through small branches, Peter’s target grunted, clutched his right arm, and fell to his knees. Marty continued to spray bullets. The noise was deafening.
“Hold it, Marty! That’s enough.”
The echoes of the furious volleying reverberated through the park. The four men and their wounded leader crawled wildly for the shelter of firepits, benches, brush, and trees. Once under cover, they opened fire again at the RV. Bullets whined through the open window above Peter’s head and thudded into the opposite wall. Selective this time, they were looking for targets.
Peter crouched low. “They won’t hit us dead on again because of our firepower, but at the same time they won’t go away. They’ve probably left a driver in the SUV. It’s only a matter of time before one of us is hit, we run out of ammo and they get us, or the police come and arrest us all.”
Marty shivered. “Too bad the police are out of the question. Many aspects of the idea are appealing.”
Peter nodded and grimaced. “They’d want to know what we were doing with highly illegal weapons and a command post in the RV. If we tell them about Jon, they’ll check, find he’s wanted, and toss us into the slammer to wait for the army and FBI. If we don’t tell them, we’ll have no explanation, and they’ll lock us up with our villainous friends out there.”
“Logical. You have a solution?”
“We must split up.”
Marty said firmly, “I will not be abandoned to those cutthroats and murderers.”
&nbs
p; Peter’s eyes glinted out from the shadows. In his black commando clothes, he was difficult to see. “I know you don’t think I’m too swift, my boy, but do remember this is how I’ve made my living since before you were an irritating twinkle in your father’s eye. Here’s the plan: I shall slip out the front door where they won’t see me. You will then blast away to cover me. Once clear, I will circle to the left and make so much noise they’ll believe a brigade is escaping. When they’re convinced we’ve both quit the RV, they’ll pursue me with their entire force. At that point, you’ll be able to safely crank up this packhorse and do a fast bunk. Clear?”
Marty pursed his lips. His round cheeks expanded in thought. “If I stay with the RV, then I can keep checking for contact from Jon while I pursue Sophia’s phone calls and look for Bill Griffin. Obviously, I’ll have to find someplace to hide the RV. When I do, I’ll post my location at the Asperger’s syndrome Web site, just as we discussed.”
“You’re quick, my boy. There are certain aspects to dealing with a genius I like. Give me a minute to get into position, then fire away until your magazine’s empty. Remember, a full minute.”
Marty studied the weather-worn face with the craggy features. He had grown accustomed to seeing it. Today was Wednesday, and they had been together constantly since Saturday. During the past five days, he had been hurled into more terrifying and hair-raising experiences than in his entire life, and with far more at stake. He supposed it was natural he had grown accustomed to having Peter around. For an instant he had a strange emotion: Regret. Despite all the Englishman’s annoyances, Marty would miss him. He wanted to tell him to be careful.
But all he could manage was, “It’s been strange, Peter. Thanks.”
Their gazes connected. Quickly both turned away.
“I know, my boy. Me, too.” With a wink, Peter crab-walked to the front of the RV and fastened on his equipment belt.
Marty gave a brief smile and took position again at the rear door. Nervously he waited while giving himself a stern lecture that he could indeed pull this off.