The Hades Factor

  Jon nodded. “And because he’s a scientist, he could’ve recognized the potential of a serum for such a deadly virus and somehow managed to infect a few people during Desert Storm. He must’ve known it wasn’t very contagious and that it was slow-acting, lying in the body for years like HIV.”

  “Good God,” Peter breathed. “So he started his secret testing on humans in Iraq ten years ago, when he had no guarantee he’d ever develop a serum to cure them when the virus went into its last fatal stages? He’s a monster!”

  “Maybe it’s worse than that. It’s very convenient for the virus to break out now.” Jon’s eyes were icy blue. “Somehow he made the pandemic start so he could cure it and make a fortune in the process.”

  Shocked silence filled the RV. Smith had spoken the words they had not wanted to hear. But it was the truth, and the implications hung in the air like a sharp ax waiting to fall.

  Randi finally said, “How?”

  “I don’t know,” Jon admitted. “We’ve got to check Blanchard’s records. Damn, I wish Marty were here.”

  “Perhaps I can substitute,” Peter said. “I’m pretty fair with a computer, and I’ve been watching him use his own special programs for days.”

  “I tried, but he was using a password.”

  Peter gave a grim smile. “That I know, too. Typical of Marty’s odd sense of humor. The password is Stanley the Cat.”

  10:58 A.M.

  Long Lake Village, New York

  In the deep recesses of whatever honesty and integrity he had left, Mercer Haldane had suspected what Victor Tremont had never admitted: Somehow Victor had caused the pandemic that was sweeping the world. Now, as he looked down through his office window at the platform and giant TV screen that were being assembled for this afternoon’s ceremony, he could keep silent no more. God in heaven, the president himself was coming to send off the first official batch of serum as if Blanchard and Victor were Mother Teresa, Gandhi, and Einstein rolled up into one.

  For days the moral battle had raged inside him.

  Once he had been an honorable man and had taken great pride in his integrity. But somewhere along the line of building Blanchard into a world-class pharmaceutical giant, he realized now he had lost his way. The result was that Victor Tremont was to receive America’s revered Medal of Freedom for what could be the most despicable act the globe had ever seen.

  Mercer Haldane could not tolerate that. No matter what would happen to him … even though he would probably have to take the blame .. so be it. He had to stop this tragic farce. Some things were more important than money or success.

  He reached for his phone. “Mrs. Pendragon? Please get the surgeon general’s office in Washington. I believe you have the number.”

  “Of course, sir. I’ll put the call through immediately.”

  Mercer Haldane leaned back in his executive desk chair to wait. He rested his neck against the cool leather and put his hands over his eyes. But another wave of doubt assaulted him. With a shock, he remembered again he could go to prison.

  Lose his family, his position, his fortune. He grimaced.

  On the other hand, if he said nothing, Victor would make a great deal of money for all of them. He knew that.

  He shook his white head. He was being a fool. Worse, a sentimental old fool. What did all those faceless millions really matter? They would die one way or another anyway, and the way life was, most would not expire from natural causes but from disease, hunger, war, revolution, earthquake, typhoon, accident, or an angry lover. There were too many people anyway, especially in the Third World, and the overpopulation increased geometrically every year.

  The result was nature would strike back anyway, as it always did, with famines, plagues, wars, and cosmic disasters.

  What did it matter if he and Victor and the company grew wealthy on the deaths of millions?

  He sighed, because the truth was … it mattered to him.

  A person controlled his fate. He remembered what the Prussians said: A man’s worth began only when he was willing to die for his principles.

  Mercer Haldane had been trained on principles. At one time, he had cherished them. If he still had a soul to save, the only way he could do it was to stop Victor Tremont.

  Inwardly he continued his war, his eyes closed, his neck against the chair pillow. As the conflict raged on, he felt ever more weak and miserable. But in the end, he knew he was going to tell the surgeon general everything. He had to. He would pay any cost to know he had done the right thing.

  When he heard the door open, he uncovered his eyes and swung around in the chair. “Is something wrong with the connection, Mrs. Pendragon?”

  “Lost your nerve, Mercer?”

  Victor Tremont stood in the office. He was a towering figure in his expensive business suit and polished kid shoes. His thick, iron-gray hair glowed in the overhead lights, and his distinctive face with its aquiline features and faintly haughty expression glowered down on Haldane. He radiated the kind of self-assurance that commanded boardrooms with the ease of a great maestro before a world-class orchestra.

  Haldane lifted his old eyes to gaze at his former protégé. He said evenly, “Found my conscience, Victor. It’s not too late for you to rediscover yours. Let my call to the surgeon general go through.”

  Tremont laughed. “I believe it was Shakespeare who wrote a conscience was a luxury that made cowards of us all. But he was wrong. It makes us victims, Mercer. Losers. And I have no intention of being either.” He paused and scowled. “A man is either the wolf or the deer, and I plan to do the eating.”

  Haldane raised his hands, palms up. “For God’s sake, Victor, we help people. Our goal is to relieve suffering. ‘First, do no harm.’ We’re in the healing business.”

  “The hell we are,” Tremont said harshly. “We’re in the money business. Profits. That’s what counts.”

  Haldane could contain himself no longer. “You’re an egotistical freak, Victor!” he exploded. “A fiend! I’ll tell the surgeon general everything … . I’ll—”

  “You’ll do nothing,” Tremont snapped. “That call’s never going to go through. Mrs. Pendragon knows a winner when she sees one.” He slid his hand inside his jacket and withdrew a dark, lethal Glock 9mm pistol. “Nadal!”

  Mercer Haldane’s old heart pounded. Sweat suddenly bathed him as a tall, pockmarked Arab entered the room. He, too, carried a large pistol.

  Paralyzed with fear, Mercer stared from one to the other, speechless.

  Chapter Forty-One

  11:02 A.M.

  Lake Magua, New York

  The Christmaslike odor of pine needles permeated the spacious living room of Victor Tremont’s lodge. Through the windows, the lake reflected crystalline blue surrounded by the thick green forest. Near the giant fireplace where flames licked high, Bill Griffin sat in a leather club chair. His stocky body gave every appearance of being relaxed. As usual, his brown hair hung limp and unruly to his jacket collar. He crossed his legs and lighted a cigarette.

  He smiled a slow smile at Victor Tremont and Nadal al-Hassan and explained calmly, “The trouble was, all of us were working at crosspurposes. Ever since you gave me the order to eliminate Jon Smith, I’ve been watching three places at once—his house in Thurmont, the Russell woman’s condo in Frederick, and Fort Detrick. No wonder you had a hard time contacting me.”

  It was all a lie. He had been hiding in a walk-up apartment in Greenwich Village that belonged to a woman friend from the old days in New York. But when he had seen the news story about the president’s honoring Blanchard Pharmaceuticals and the orders that were rolling in for the serum, he had known he had to return to make certain he received his fair share.

  And there was still the issue of Smith. “I’d expected to take out Smith when he left Detrick,” he explained, “but I couldn’t get a decent opportunity, and after that night he never showed up again at any of the other places. He vanished into thin air. Maybe he gave up or took leave. Or went somewh
ere to grieve for the woman.” He hoped that was true, but knowing Jon, he doubted it.

  Victor Tremont stood looking out the picture window at the trees as the sun reflected scattered bursts of light on the lake’s surface. His voice was thoughtful. “No. He hasn’t taken leave to mourn.”

  Nadal al-Hassan sat one hip of his emaciated frame onto the arm of the high sofa that faced the fireplace. “In any case, it is irrelevant now. We know where he is, and he will soon be no more problem.”

  Griffin’s cheeks widened in another smile. “Hell, that’s a relief.” He added almost as an afterthought, “Maddux on him?”

  Tremont left the window and bent to his humidor to extract a cigar. He offered the humidor to Griffin, who lifted his cigarette and shook his head. Nadal al-Hassan, as a strict Muslim, did not smoke.

  As Tremont lighted the cigar, he spoke over his hands and the rising smoke and aroma: “Actually, Maddux has captured one of Smith’s friends. A computer geek named Martin Zellerbach. We’ll soon make Zellerbach divulge where Smith is hiding in Syracuse.”

  “Smith is in Syracuse?” Griffin seemed alarmed. He gazed accusingly at al-Hassan. “That close to us? How the hell did he get so near?”

  Al-Hassan’s voice was mild. “By checking back through Russell’s life and education. She did her undergraduate work at Syracuse.”

  “Where she was studying when she went on the trip to Peru?”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  “Then he knows about us!”

  “I don’t think so. At least, not yet.”

  Griffin’s voice rose. “But, dammit, he will. I’ll stop him. This time, I’ll—”

  Tremont interrupted, “You needn’t worry about Smith. I have another job for you. Jack McGraw is up to his nostrils preparing security for the president. The ceremony this afternoon is, of course, a great honor, but it was a last-minute decision. Everyone’s scrambling. Plus there are all the media people to deal with. We don’t want any interlopers crashing the party. You have FBI experience, so you should be the one to coordinate with the Secret Service.”

  Griffin was puzzled. “Of course. You’re the boss. But if you’re still worried about Smith, then I think—”

  “That won’t be necessary.” Al-Hassan’s voice was definite. “We have it taken care of.”

  “How? Who?” Griffin glanced doubtfully at the Arab while inwardly he worried.

  “General Caspar has managed to plant a CIA agent with Colonel Smith. She is Russell’s sister, and she has a strong personal hatred for him from some old insult. She has been told Smith is a grave danger to the country. She will have no qualms about eliminating him.” Al-Hassan studied Griffin. “I think we should consider the task completed. For us, Smith is dead.”

  Bill Griffin’s face remained unchanged. He took a long drag on his cigarette.

  Then he nodded, feigning satisfaction tinged with doubt to be consistent with the stance he had taken since he had discovered Smith was a target. They had suspected him since the night he had warned Jon. His failure to kill him had deepened their distrust. Now they had captured Zellerbach, whom he remembered from high school as a genius, but also as weak and easily frightened. Sooner or later, Marty would break and betray Jon. Plus they had planted Sophia Russell’s sister, Randi. That was especially bad. He had heard Jon speak about how much the woman hated him. She would be capable of killing. Any CIA field agent had to be.

  With Marty’s capture and the infiltration of Randi Russell, Tremont and al-Hassan had their problems under control. Or so they thought.

  Griffin stood up, a stocky man with a bland face. “Sounds like the perfect assignment for me. I’ll get right on it.”

  “Good.” Tremont gave him a dismissive nod of the head. “Use the Cherokee. Nadal and I’ll take the Land Rover after we finish our business here. Thanks for coming in, Bill. We were worried about you. Always a pleasure to see you.”

  But as Griffin exited, Tremont’s expression changed. His gaze cold, he watched the traitor disappear out the door.

  Bill Griffin drove the Jeep Cherokee off the road and parked in a dense stand of oaks and birch trees. As he pulled brush around the Cherokee to camouflage it from the road, his mind was a maelstrom of conflict. Somehow he must reach Jon and warn him about Randi and Marty. But at the same time, he did not want to lose everything he had worked for since he had met Victor Tremont and joined the Hades Project two years ago. He was entitled to his share of the good things along with all the other thieving bastards who ran this world. More than entitled after his years of service to the goddamn ungrateful cheats and liars who ran the Bureau and the country.

  But he would not let them kill Jon. That far he would not go.

  He waited among the trees, watching the rustic lodge and the matching outbuildings. Insects buzzed. The aroma of sun-warmed forest duff scented the air. His pulse began to race.

  After fifteen minutes, he heard the Land Rover. With relief, he watched it pass where he hid and disappear southeast among the trees. Tremont and al-Hassan would reach the main country road after a few more miles and drive on into Long Lake village to prepare for the ceremony. That did not give him much time.

  Urgency swept through him as he drove back to the lodge, parked behind the staff wing, and hurried to a cyclone-fenced enclosure at the edge of the woods, out of sight of the lodge. He unlocked the gate and whistled softly. The large Doberman appeared silently from inside a wood doghouse. His brown coat shone in the mountain light. His sharply pointed ears periscoped forward as his intelligent eyes never strayed from Griffin.

  Griffin stroked the dog behind his ears and spoke quietly. “Ready, boy? Time to go to work.”

  He headed out of the enclosure, the big dog trotting softly behind. He relocked the gate, and they moved swiftly toward the lodge. He watched everywhere. The three-man outside security team should be no problem, since they knew him. Still, he would rather not take the chance. At a side door of the lodge, he breathed deeply and gazed around one more time. Then he opened the door, and he and the Doberman entered. The house was eerily quiet, a massive wood coffin. Almost everyone had left for the celebration at Blanchard headquarters in Long Lake village, with the exception of a few technicians in the big lab on the second floor. Tremont would not stash a prisoner on the lab floor.

  The rest of the lodge should be empty, except for Marty and perhaps an armed guard to watch him. He bent to the Doberman. “Sweep the area, boy.”

  The Doberman vanished among the corridors, as silent as fog rolling across a moor. Griffin waited, listening to the relaxed chatter of two of the security men who had paused outside a window as they made their individual rounds.

  Two minutes passed, and then the Doberman was back, circling and eager to lead Griffin to what he had found. Griffin followed the pacing animal along a hallway lined with doors to guest rooms that had once been the retreats of the nineteenth-century wealthy, who had played here at returning to nature. But the dog stopped at none. Instead, he continued on past the gleaming kitchen, strangely silent and empty because the cooks and scullery staff had been given the afternoon off to attend the festivities in Long Lake village.

  At last the dog stopped before a closed door. Griffin tried the knob. It was locked.

  His skin prickled with nerves. The enormous empty house was enough to make anyone edgy, but now Griffin was about to open a door he had never seen beyond. Glancing right and left, he drew a small case from his jacket pocket and extracted a set of narrow picklocks. He worked skillfully through three of them. Finally the fourth opened the lock with a quiet click.

  Griffin pulled out his pistol and turned the knob. The door swung open silently, its hinges well oiled. Inside was a faint smell of mold. He felt around the wall until he found a light switch. He flicked it on, and an overhead lamp illuminated stairs that disappeared down into a cellar. Griffin gave a hand signal and closed the door. The Doberman raced down to continue its mission, nails tapping on the wood stairs.


  As Griffin waited, he stared uneasily down into the darkness. The dog was back in seconds, indicating for Griffin to follow.

  Griffin found another light switch midway down. This turned on a series of overhead lights that illuminated a large cellar with open storage rooms filled with cardboard banker’s boxes. Each box was neatly labeled with the names of files, sources, dates—the history of a scientist and businessman. But the dog’s interest was at the only closed door. He circled warily in front of it.

  His gun ready, Griffin pressed his ear against the door. When he heard nothing, he looked down at the dog. “A mystery, eh, boy?”

  The dog lifted his muzzle as if in agreement. Right now the animal was merely watchful and alert, but if Griffin should need him, he would instantly turn into a killer.

  Using his tools again, Griffin unlocked the door, but he did not open it. The basement area seemed like a sepulchre. It increased his disquiet. His veins rushed with an urgency that he act, but prudence had taught him long ago to never expect the expected. He did not know what waited on the other side of the door—whether it was an armed squad, a madman, or simply nothing. Whatever it was, he would damn well be prepared.

  Again he listened. Finally he put the picklocks away, gripped his weapon firmly, and pressed open the door.

  The room was a dark, shadowy cell with no windows. A rectangle of light spilled in from the hallway. Ahead, a mounded figure lay on the only piece of furniture—a narrow cot shoved against the far wall. There was an open pot on the floor, and the unpleasant odor of urine rose from it. The whole place gave off an air of danger and sadness. Griffin quickly signaled the Doberman to guard the doorway and sped softly to the bed. A small, rotund man was sleeping under a wool blanket.

  He whispered, “Zellerbach?”

  Marty opened his eyes. “What? Who?” His speech was slow; his movements stiff.

  “Are you all right? Are you injured?” Griffin supported his shoulders until Marty was sitting upright. For a moment, he thought Marty had been hurt and then that he was disoriented by sleep. But as the fellow shook his head and rubbed his eyes, Griffin remembered the Marty Zellerbach he had known in high school. He was Jon’s other close friend—the crazy, supercilious bastard who was always getting Jon into fights and arguments. Not crazy or arrogant, they found out later, but sick. Some kind of autism.