Mercer Haldane stood with the technicians in front of the single camera. It was switched on, focused, and waiting. He continued to mop the sweat that poured down his face under the hot lights. No one made small talk. The room seemed to bristle with tension.
At the studio door, Peter no longer watched the corridor outside or listened to anything but the silence that seemed to stretch endlessly. He did not know what was happening in Long Lake village, but he knew the speeches must have begun at least ten minutes ago, and he hoped that by now Jon and Randi were approaching the platform to shout out their accusations in front of the president, the crowd, the secret service, Tremont, and the worldwide TV audience.
Accusations they would have no chance to prove … unless Marty broke into the transmission in the next few seconds.
5:17 P.M.
Long Lake Village
Jon and Randi had reached the second row of packed spectators. Just ahead was the raised stage with its colorful patriotic bunting. The entire throng—all the dignitaries, Victor Tremont, and the president—were staring up at the giant image of the prime minister heaping praise and gratitude on Victor Tremont.
Jon took a breath, nodded to Randi, and they abruptly pushed through the last people and shouted up to the president’s turned back.
Smith bellowed: “Tremont is a fraud and a mass murderer!” He waved the printouts of the secret records. “He caused this pandemic himself! For money. To extort billions from the world!”
The president turned in shock at Jon’s first shout.
Victor Tremont spun to face them, shouting back: “They’ve got guns! That man is a fugitive from the military, a rogue scientist, and a killer. Shoot him!”
The secret service leaped from the platform and ran toward Jon.
Randi took up the cry. “Tremont’s still infecting millions of people! He’s sending out the virus in his antibiotics. He’s shipping infected antibiotics every day. Even today!”
Nadal al-Hassan and his men struggled through the crowd toward them. Jack McGraw was bawling orders at his security guards.
Jon battled in the grip of the secret service. He managed to wave his papers. “I have the proof! I have their records. I …”
The secret service swarmed him to the ground.
Other secret service and FBI men pounced on Randi. Pain shot through her shoulders. They found her Uzi. “She’s armed!”
Nadal al-Hassan had almost reached them, his gun hidden at his side.
5:18 P.M.
Lake Magua
Marty shouted into his microphone, “We’re in!”
“Go!” Peter cried.
Mercer Haldane stared into the camera, took a deep breath, and started to talk.
5:18 P.M.
Long Lake Village
On the platform, more secret service grabbed the president to hustle him away.
The giant screen above the milling crowd went dark for a second, and then Mercer Haldane appeared with his white, flowing hair and dignified face. He was standing in the secret laboratory. Behind him the four lab technicians held up giant blowups of the most damning printouts. Watching from below, the crowd fell into a surprised hush.
“My name is Mercer Haldane.” His words boomed. Somehow Marty had managed to increase the volume. “Until last week, I was chairman and CEO of Blanchard Pharmaceuticals. I have news about the virus that all of you must listen to carefully. Your lives depend on it. A great evil has been perpetrated on all of us by Victor Tremont.” Shocked by his words, everyone’s attention was riveted, including the secret service. “Ten years ago, Victor inaugurated a monstrous secret plan. He called it the Hades Project, and he infected twelve soldiers in the Gulf War, six on each side of the conflict, with a unique and deadly virus he had found in the Peruvian jungle. Then he contaminated Blanchard’s antibiotics with the live virus and shipped it across the world. This virus would lie dormant for—”
On the platform, the president had stopped to listen. Still closely surrounded by the watchful agents, he stared up at the mammoth screen, his eyes slowly blinking as he took in Mercer Haldane’s story. All the dignitaries had focused on it, too. The great crowd stood in an eerie silence as Mercer Haldane pointed to record entries, to dates, to figures.
The audience began to murmur, softly at first like a distant tornado barely heard, and then louder and louder.
The secret service agents relaxed their holds on Jon and Randi.
On the giant screen, Haldane showed the list of officers and stockholders in the secret VAXHAM Corporation.
As a shudder of understanding and belief seemed to sweep over the throngs, the president barked an order. Secret service and FBI agents went to stand beside Nancy Petrelli, General Caspar, Ben Sloat, an angry General Salonen, and the four officers of VAXHAM.
The president scanned the audience. “Bring those two who were shouting. I want to see the records they were trying to show me.”
Randi brushed away the FBI and secret service agents, jumped onto the platform, and handed her printouts to President Castilla. “Sir, you must arrest Victor Tremont at once, or he’ll escape and transfer billions of dollars to his offshore accounts.”
The president scanned the papers and barked an order. The secret service and FBI agents spread out, looking for Tremont.
The chief of detail ran up to the platform. “He’s not here, Mr. President. Victor Tremont is gone!”
Randi searched all around, too. Her voice rose. “So is Jon!”
“Find them!” the president shouted.
5:36 P.M.
The hallways in the storage basement of the main building of Blanchard Pharmaceuticals, Inc., were brightly lighted and filled with boxes, file cabinets, and discarded office furniture and equipment. Beneath that level was the sub-basement where the lights were dimmer. Here spread all the machines to heat, air-condition, supply, and operate the big two-story building. The equipment made a quiet hum.
Under that was yet a third level, unmarked. Seldom visited. It was dark, damp, and rived with narrow corridors. It was not silent. Running footsteps echoes from the walls as Victor Tremont and Nadal al-Hassan rushed along with the speed and certainty of those who knew where they were going. Each carried a weapon. They passed an ordinary steel door on the right. They did not stop but continued on to the wall at the very end. This wall was as smooth and unbroken as all the rest in the dank sub-sub-basement. Simply the end of the corridor, apparently.
Victor Tremont took a small black box from his suit-jacket pocket.
Nadal al-Hassan, his weapon ready, watched warily back along the side corridor.
Tremont pressed a button on the box. The entire wall slid heavily to the left, revealing a hidden vault door made of the strongest steel available when it had been built on Tremont’s orders at the time he had Blanchard’s operations moved to the Adirondack Wilderness. Tremont was shaking. He spun the combination lock, and the massive door rose a few millimeters up on pneumatic lifts and slowly swung open.
“Clever,” Jon said as he stepped from the main corridor, the Beretta held steady in both hands. He aimed it at the two fugitives, who looked up. While Mercer Haldane had been speaking to the stunned crowds, Jon had watched Victor Tremont slip away. Caught in the mass of bodies, Jon had been unable to work his way as swiftly as he had wanted. But in the end, it had not mattered. He had found Tremont.
Nadal al-Hassan never hesitated. A thin smile spread across his narrow face. He swung his Glock and fired before the echo of Jon’s voice ceased.
The bullet missed Smith’s throat by the thickness of a hair.
Jon did not hesitate or miss. All the horrors of the past two weeks swept over him in an unforgettable second. He pulled the trigger, and al-Hassan fell forward without a sound. He lay spread-eagled, his blood pooling on the gray concrete floor at the side of his head.
Victor Tremont’s bullet did not miss either. It stabbed like searing ice through the upper part of Jon’s left leg. It hurled him against
the wall, which caused Tremont’s second and third shots to fly past and ricochet, whining away along the main corridor.
Propped against the wall, Jon fought to stay conscious. He fired again. His bullet hit Tremont’s right arm, knocking him back against the half-open door and sending his pistol flying with a metallic clatter to the floor. It bounced and skidded, and the sound reverberated away along the secret corridors like a dying cry.
Dragging his bloody leg, Jon advanced on the mass murderer.
Tremont did not cringe. He lifted his chin, his eyes glowing with the certainty that any man had his price. “I’ll give you a million dollars! Five million!”
“You don’t have a million dollars. Not anymore. You’re dead. They’ll electrocute you.”
“They won’t find me.” He jerked his head behind him toward the half opened door. “I destroyed the plans. No one knows an exit is here. I had it built by foreigners. The money’s already transferred where no one can find it.”
“I thought you’d have some plan.”
“I’m not a fool, Smith. They’ll never find me.”
“Not a fool,” Jon agreed. “Just a ghoul. A murderer of millions. But that’s statistics. The world will have to deal with you for that. But you killed Sophia, and that’s personal. I get to decide what to do. You ended her life with a wave of your hand: Eliminate her. Now it’s my turn.”
“Half! I’ll give you half! A billion dollars. More!” Tremont shrank back against the massive steel door, his long body cowering.
Jon limped forward, the Beretta steady in both hands. “I loved her, Tremont. She loved me. Now—”
It was Randi’s voice behind him. “No, Jon. Don’t. He’s not worth it.”
“What do you know? I loved her, dammit!” His finger tightened on the trigger.
“He’s finished, Jon. The FBI is here. The secret service. They’ve got them all. The serum’s on its way to stop the dying, and they’ve confiscated all the antibiotics. Let them deal with him. Let the world deal with him.”
Smith’s face was fierce. His eyes glowed like coals. His chin jutted. He took another step closer, the Beretta steady, inches from Tremont’s trembling face. The arrogant executive tried to speak again, to say something, but his mouth and lips and tongue were too dry. All that came out was a whimper.
“Jon?” Randi’s voice was suddenly soft, close.
He glanced back over his shoulder and saw Sophia. It was her lovely face, her large, intelligent eyes and sweet smile. He blinked. No, it was Randi. Sophia. Randi. He shook his head to clear it. He knew what Randi wanted, and what Sophia would have wanted.
He made himself take another deep breath. He glared once more at the shaking Tremont. Then he lowered the gun and stumbled away, his wounded leg dragging. He brushed past Randi and pushed through the ranks of FBI and secret service. Some of the agents reached out to stop him.
“Let him go,” Randi said gently. “He’ll be all right. Just let him go now.”
Jon heard her behind him, but a rush of tears was blinding his eyes. He could not stop the tears. Did not want to. They poured silently down. He turned into the main corridor and hobbled on toward the distant stairs.
Epilogue
Six weeks later, early December
Santa Barbara, California
Santa Barbara … . Land of palms and magenta sunsets. Of diving seagulls and glossy yachts with white sails afurl on the turquoise channel. Of lovely young women and handsome young men in the briefest of swimware. Jon Smith, M.D., formerly of the U.S. Army, tried to occupy his mind with the languid beauty of this soft paradise where effort seemed trivial and appreciation of life, nature, and dreams was all.
It had been a fight to resign his commission. They had not wanted him to go, but he knew there was no other way for him to find a reason to live. He had said good-bye to his friends at USAMRIID, pausing a long time in Sophia’s former office. Already an eager young man with a closetful of credentials had scattered his things where her pens, notes, and perfume had lain. Jon had stopped in his own office, which was empty, waiting for its next occupant, with less sadness. Then he had gone to say farewell to the new director. As he had stepped inside the office door, he could almost hear the noisy bombast of General Kielburger, who had turned out to have a strain of decency no one had suspected.
Then he had paid a company to pack up his house and put it on the market. He knew he would never be able to live there again, not without Sophia.
The whole sordid incident of the Hades Project had occupied the news media for weeks as more and more revelations of Victor Tremont’s plans were made public and more arrests of once-respected private and public officials were reported. Legal charges against Jon Smith, Randi Russell, Martin Zellerbach, and a mysterious Englishman were quietly dropped. All refused interviews or any official gratitude for their roles. Details were swept under the mantle of national security. He was not pleased when an enterprising newswoman dug up some of his history at USAMRIID, Somalia, West Berlin, and Desert Storm and tried to draw a connection between it and his ability to face down the criminal activities of Victor Tremont and his cohorts. He was consoled by the fact that time would pass, other news would take over the headlines, and if he went far enough away and severed his ties as completely as he had managed … interest in him would dwindle. He would not be considered for even a footnote in history.
He had stopped for a day in Council Bluffs, Iowa, to see once again the river town of his birth. He walked through the downtown park with its water fountain and big graceful trees and went out to Bennett Avenue to sit in the parking lot and stare at Abraham Lincoln High School, remembering Bill and Marty and the days of their youth. It all had been so much simpler then. The next day, he had flown on to California to this tranquil resort pueblo with its distinctive red-tiled roofs and easy ambience. He had rented a beachside cottage next to the Remaks’ house in Montecito and played poker twice a week there with a group of university professors and writers. He ate at local restaurants, walked the breakfront, and never struck up a conversation with strangers. He had nothing to say.
Today he was sitting on his deck barefoot and wearing shorts as he stared out at the cloud-rimmed islands. The air tasted of sea salt, and although the day was cool, the beaming sun seemed to warm him to the bones.
When the phone rang, he picked it up.
“Hi, soldier.” Randi’s voice was bright and cheery. In the beginning, she had called nearly every day. There was the business of disposing of Sophia’s belongings and condo, which the two of them had worked through as quickly as possible, each choosing important mementoes to hold Sophia’s memory close. But then Randi had continued to phone a couple of times a week, and he had realized she was checking on him.
Amazingly, she was worried.
“Hi, spy,” he retorted. “Where are you now?”
“D.C. The big city. Remember it? Working away at my lowly, boring job here at the think tank. Oh, for a life of adventure. I don’t think I’m going to have a new assignment for a while, but I get the sense they’re cooking up something big. Meanwhile, they seem to think I need my rest. Why don’t you visit for Christmas? All that sunshine and good weather must be getting on your nerves.”
“On the contrary. It suits me just fine. It’s going to be just me and Santa. We’ll have a jolly old time.”
“You’ll miss me and Marty. I know you will. I’m having Christmas dinner with him. Of course, there’s no way to blast him out of that little bungalow of his, so I have to go there.” She chuckled. “He’s made Samson part of his fortress routine. You should see them together. Marty’s particularly fond of the way Samson can make his fangs drip. At least, Marty claims Samson has control over that particular involuntary bodily function.” She paused. “You’re a doctor. What do you think?”
“I think they’re both crazy. Who’s cooking?”
“I am. Unlike them, I’m not crazy. I want something edible. What do you like—traditional turkey? Maybe a
standing rib roast? How about a Christmas goose?”
It was his turn to laugh. “You’re not going to talk me into going back. At least not yet.” He gazed out at the tranquil Pacific, rippling with sunshine. Santa Barbara was where Sophia and Randi had grown up. He had driven past their childhood home the day he arrived. It was a beautiful hacienda perched atop a cliff with panoramic ocean views. Randi had never asked whether he had visited it. There were still areas neither wanted to discuss.
Their conversation continued about five minutes longer before they said good-bye. As they hung up, Jon thought about Peter, who had returned to his California aerie as soon as he had gotten permission to leave Washington. His wounds had been as superficial as Jon’s initial diagnosis had suggested, and only the cracked rib had given him continuing pain. Last week, Jon had called to see how he was feeling, but a machine had answered. He had left a message. Within the hour, some officious clerk had phoned to inform him that Mr. Howell was on an extended vacation and could not be reached for a month or more. But don’t get discouraged, Dr. Smith. Mr. Howell would be in touch as soon as he was available.
Translation: Peter was off on some operation.
Jon crossed his arms and closed his eyes. A warm offshore wind ruffled his hair and sent the glass chimes at the corner of the deck into a series of tinkling tones. In the distance on the beach, a dog barked. Children laughed. Seagulls called. He propped his bare feet up on the rail and felt himself grow drowsy.
Behind him, a voice asked, “Had enough peace and quiet yet?”
Jon jumped. He had not heard a door open or footsteps tread across the raised-wood floor of the house he had rented. Automatically he reached for his Beretta, but it was locked in a safety-deposit box in Washington.
For just that instant, he was back on the trail of Victor Tremont, wary and alert … and alive.
“Who the hell!” He turned.