The Hades Factor

by Robert Ludlum

  Now the first of the reports were coming in from the other Hot Zone labs. Everyone agreed the virus seemed like a hantavirus, but matched nothing in any of their data banks. All the reports from the CDC and the foreign laboratories showed no progress. All contained desperate, if informed, guesses.

  In her office, tired to the marrow, Sophia leaned back in her desk chair and massaged her temples, trying to ward off a headache. She glanced at her watch and was shocked to see the time. Good God, it was nearly 2:00 A.M.

  Worry lines furrowed her brow. Where was Jon? If he had arrived home last night as scheduled, he would have been in the lab today. Because of her frantic work schedule, she had not thought too much about his absence. Now, despite her tiredness and headache and her initial worries about Jon, she could not help smiling. She had a forty-one-year-old fiance who still had all the curiosity and impulsiveness of a twenty-year-old. Wave a medical mystery in front of Jon, and he was off like a racehorse. He must have found something fascinating that had delayed him.

  Still, he should have called by now. Soon he would be a full day late.

  Maybe Kielburger had ordered him somewhere in secret, and Jon could not call. That’d be just like the general. Never mind she was Jon’s fiancée. If the general had sent Jon off, she would learn about it with the rest of the staff, when the general was good and ready to announce it.

  She sat up in her chair, thinking. The scientific staff was working through the night, even the general, who never passed up an opportunity to be noticed in the right way. Abruptly furious and anxious about Jon, she marched out, heading for his office.

  Brig. Gen. Calvin Kielburger, Ph.D., was one of those big, beefy men with loud voices and not too many brains the army loved to raise to the rank of colonel and then freeze there. These men were sometimes tough and always mean but had few people skills and less diplomacy. They tended to be called Bull or Buck. Sometimes officers with those nicknames made higher rank, but they were small, feisty men with big jaws.

  Having achieved one star beyond what he could reasonably have expected, Brigadier General Kielburger abandoned actual medical research in the heady illusion of rising to full general with troop command. But to lead armies, the service wanted smart officers who could work well with the necessary civilian officials. Kielburger was so busy promoting himself he did not see his smartest move was to be intelligent and tactful. As a result, he was now stuck administering an irreverent gang of military and civilian scientists, most of whom did not take well to authority in the first place, particularly not to narrow-minded bombast like Kielburger’s.

  Of the unruly lot, Lt. Col. Jon Smith had turned out to be the most irreverent, the most uncontrollable, the most irritating. So in answer to Sophia’s question, Kielburger bellowed, “I sure as hell didn’t send Colonel Smith on any assignment! If we had a sensitive task, he’d be the last one I’d send, exactly because of stunts like this!”

  Sophia was as frosty as Kielburger was choleric. “Jon doesn’t pull ‘stunts.’”

  “He’s a full day late when we need him here!”

  “Unless you phoned him, how would he know we needed him?” Sophia snapped. “Even I didn’t know how bad the situation was until I started examining the virus. Then I was busy in the lab. Working. I’m sure you remember what that’s like.” The truth was, she doubted he had any memories of the pressures and excitement of lab work, because she had heard that even in those days he had preferred to shuffle papers and critique other scientists’ notes. She insisted, “Jon must have a reason for being late. Or something he can’t control is detaining him.”

  “Such as what, Doctor?”

  “If I knew, I wouldn’t be wasting your valuable time. Or mine. But it’s not like him to be late without calling me.”

  Kielburger’s florid face sneered. “I’d say it’s very much like him. He’s a goddamn pirate looking for the next chest of gold, and he always will be. Take my word for it, he’s run into an ‘interesting’ medical problem or treatment or both and missed his flight. Face it, Russell, he’s a goddamn loose cannon, and after you’re married you’re going to have to deal with that. I don’t envy you.”

  Sophia compressed her lips, fighting a strong desire to tell the general exactly what she thought of him.

  He stared back, idly undressing her in his mind. He had always liked blondes. It was sexy the way she pulled back her pale hair in a ponytail. He wondered whether she was blond everywhere.

  When she made no answer, he went on in a more conciliatory voice. “Don’t sweat it, Dr. Russell. He’ll turn up soon. I hope so, anyway, because we need everyone we can get on this virus. I suppose you have nothing to report?”

  Sophia shook her head. “To be frank, I’m about out of ideas, and so is the rest of the staff. The other labs are struggling, too. It’s early, but all we’re getting so far from everyone is negatives and guesses.”

  Kielburger tapped his desk in frustration. He was a general, so he felt obligated to do something. “You say this is a totally unique virus of a type never seen before?”

  “There’s always a first one to be discovered.”

  Kielburger groaned. This could ruin any chance he had to break out of the medical ghetto and move into line command.

  Sophia was studying him. “May I make a suggestion, General?”

  “Why not?” Kielburger said bitterly.

  “The three victims we have are widely separated geographically. Plus two are about the same age, while one is much younger. Two are male; one is female. One in active service, one a veteran, and one civilian. How did they get the virus? What was the source? It has to have been centered somewhere. The odds are astronomical against three outbreaks within twenty-four hours of the same unknown virus thousands of miles apart.”

  As usual, the general did not get it. “What’s your point?”

  “Unless we begin to see other victims centered in one of the three locations, we have to find the connection among the three we do have. We need to start investigating their lives. For instance, maybe they were all in the same hotel room in Milwaukee six months ago. Maybe that’s when all three contracted it.” She paused. “At the same time, we should comb the medical records in the three areas for signs of previous infections that could have produced antibodies.”

  At least it was a positive step, and it would make Kielburger look as if he was acting decisively. “I’ll instruct the staff to begin at once. I want you and Colonel Smith to fly out to California first thing in the morning to talk to the people who knew Major Anderson. Is that clear?”

  “Perfectly, General.”

  “Good. Let me know when Smith decides to return to work. I’m going to chew his ass!”

  So mad she could not even enjoy the spectacle of Kielburger acting out his Hollywood conception of a tough, no-nonsense American hero, Sophia stalked out of his office.

  In the corridor, she looked up at the wall clock: 1:56 A.M. Fresh worry overwhelmed her. Had something happened to Jon? Where was he?

  2:05 A.M.

  Washington, D.C.

  As he drove his small Triumph through the night city, Jon Smith mulled what Bill Griffin had told him, trying to comprehend even the unspoken hints.

  Bill said he had left the FBI. Voluntarily or by request?

  Either way, Bill was connected somehow to a new virus sent from some armed forces unit for USAMRIID to study. Probably for the lab to identify and suggest the best method of treatment. To Smith, it sounded routine—one of the vital tasks Fort Detrick had been established to handle.

  Still, Bill Griffin claimed Smith was in danger.

  His trained Doberman said more about Griffin’s state of mind than any words he had uttered. Obviously, Griffin believed there was peril, and not just for Jon but for himself.

  After their meeting, Jon had made his way carefully along the park’s dark paths, stopping often to melt into the trees to make certain he was not being followed. When at last he had reached his restored 1968 Tr
iumph, he had looked carefully around before getting in the car, then had driven south out of the park, heading away from Maryland and home, the opposite of what a pursuer would expect. Despite the late hour, traffic had been moderate. Not until the depths of night, sometime around 4:00 A.M., would the bustling metropolis finally grow weary and its main arteries empty.

  At first he had thought a car was pacing him. So he had turned corners, sped up and slowed down, and wound his way to Dupont Circle and Foggy Bottom and then north again. It had taken him more than an hour of driving, but now he felt certain no one was following him.

  Still warily watching, he turned south again, this time on Wisconsin Avenue. Traffic was very light here, and street lamps cast wide yellow pools of illumination against the dark night. He sighed wearily. God, he wanted to see Sophia. Maybe it was safe at last to go to her. He would cross the Potomac and take the George Washington Parkway to 495 north—heading to Maryland. To Sophia. Just thinking about her made him smile. The longer he was gone, the more he missed her. He could not wait to hold her in his arms. He was nearing the river and driving tiredly between Georgetown’s long rows of trendy boutiques, elegant bookstores, fashionable restaurants, bars, and clubs when a mammoth truck, its engine rumbling, pulled up in the left lane next to his small car.

  It was a six-wheel delivery truck, the kind that dotted every beltway and interstate around every city from the Atlantic seaboard to the Pacific coast. At first Smith wondered what a truck was doing here since businesses and restaurants would not open for deliveries for another three or four hours. Interestingly, neither the cab nor the white cargo section displayed a company name, address, logo, slogan, phone number, or anything to mark what it was delivering or for whom.

  Thinking longingly of Sophia, Smith did not dwell on the truck’s unusual anonymity. Still, the events of the evening had activated the finely honed sense of danger he had developed over the years of practicing medicine and commanding at the front lines where violence could erupt minute to minute, where death was close and real, where disease waited to strike from every hut and bush. Or maybe some movement, action, or sound inside the truck had caught his attention.

  Whatever it was, a split second before the behemoth vehicle suddenly pulled ahead and moved to cut off Smith’s sports car, Smith knew it was going to do it.

  Adrenaline jolted him. His throat tightened. Instantly he assessed the situation. As the truck turned into him, he yanked his steering wheel to the right. His car skidded and bounced up over the curb and onto the deserted sidewalk. He had not been going all that fast—just thirty miles an hour—but driving on a sidewalk, not even a wide one like this, at thirty miles an hour was insanity.

  As the truck roared alongside, he fought to control his car. With explosive crashes, he sideswiped a mailbox and litter bin and smashed a table off its pedestal. He careened past the closed, silent doors of shops, bars, and clubs. Darkened windows flashed past like blind eyes winking at him. Sweating, he glanced left. The huge truck continued to parallel him out on the street, waiting for a chance to bore in again and squash him against the facade of a building. He said a silent prayer of thanks that the sidewalk was empty of people.

  Dodging trash cans, he saw the truck’s passenger-side window suddenly lower. A gun barrel thrust out, aimed directly at him. For an instant he was terrified. Trapped on the sidewalk, the truck blocking the avenue from him, he could neither hide nor evade. And he was unarmed. Whatever their plans had been earlier, now they were counting on shooting him dead.

  Smith tapped his brake and swerved so the thug in the truck cab would have to contend with a shifting target as he tried to find his aim.

  Sweat beaded on Smith’s brow. Then for an instant he felt a sense of hope. Ahead lay an intersection. His hands were white on the steering wheel as he pushed the Triumph toward it.

  Just as he accelerated, the gun in the truck fired. The noise was explosive, but the bullet was too late. It blasted across the Triumph’s tail and shattered a store window. As glass burst into the air, Smith inhaled sharply. That had been too damn close.

  He glanced warily again at the gun barrel as it bounced in the truck’s open window. Fortunately, he was closing in on the intersection. A bank stood on one corner, while retail businesses occupied the other three.

  And then he had no more time. The intersection was immediately ahead, and this might be his only chance. He took a deep breath. Gauging distance carefully, he slammed his brakes. As the Triumph shuddered, he swung the steering wheel sharply right. He had only seconds to check the truck as his fleet sports car swerved away off onto the cross street. But in those few moments he saw what he had hoped for: The victim of its own speed, the truck hurtled ahead down the avenue and out of sight.

  Exulting inside, he gunned to full speed, hit the brakes again, and turned another corner, this time onto a leafy street of Federalist row houses. He drove on, turning more corners and watching his rearview mirror the whole time even though he knew the long truck could not possibly have made a U-turn despite the light traffic of the late night.

  Breathing hard, he stopped the car at last in the lacy shadows of a branching magnolia on a dark residential street where BMWs, Mercedeses, and other artifacts of the rich indicated that this was one of Georgetown’s most elite neighborhoods. He forced his hands from the steering wheel and looked down. The hands were trembling, but not from fear. It had been a long time since he had been in trouble like this—violent trouble he had not anticipated and did not want. He threw back his head and closed his eyes. He inhaled deeply, amazed as always at how quickly everything could change. He did not like the trouble … . Yet there was an older part of him that understood it. That wanted to be involved. He thought his commitment to Sophia had ended all that. With her, he had not seemed to need the outside peril that in the past had affirmed he was fully, actively alive.

  On the other hand, at this point he had no choice.

  The killers in the truck who had attacked him had to be part of what Bill Griffin had tried to warn him about. All the questions he had been mulling ever since leaving their midnight meeting returned:

  What was so special about this virus?

  What was Bill hiding?

  Warily, he shoved the car into gear and drove onto the street. He had no answers, but maybe Sophia did. As he thought that, his chest contracted. His mouth went dry. A terrible fear shot ice into his veins.

  If they were trying to kill him, they could be trying to kill her, too.

  He glanced at his watch: 2:32 A.M.

  He had to call her, warn her, but his cell phone was still at his house. He had seen no compelling reason to take it to London. So now he needed a pay phone quickly. His best chance would be on Wisconsin Avenue, but he did not want to risk another attack from the truck.

  He needed to get to Fort Detrick. Now.

  He hit his gas pedal, rushing the Triumph toward O Street. Tall trees passed in a blur. Old Victorians with their ornate scrollwork and sharply pointed roofs loomed over the sidewalks like ghost houses. Ahead was an intersection with lamplight spilling across it in silver-gray splashes. Suddenly car headlights appeared ahead, bright spotlights in the dark night. The car was approaching the same intersection as Smith’s Triumph, but from the opposite direction and at twice the speed.

  Smith swore and checked the crosswalk. Bundled against the cool night air, a solitary pedestrian had stepped off the sidewalk. As the man swayed and sang off-key from too much whiskey, he staggered toward the other curb, swinging his arms like a toy soldier. Smith’s chest tightened. The man was heading heedlessly into the path of the accelerating car.

  The drunk pedestrian never looked up. There was a sudden scream of brakes. Helplessly Smith watched as the speeding car’s fender struck him, and he flew back, arms wide. Without realizing it, Smith had been holding his breath. Before the drunk could land in the gutter, Smith slammed his brakes. At the same time, the hit-and-run driver slowed for a moment as if puzzled and
then rushed off again, vanishing around the corner.

  The instant his Triumph stopped, Smith was out of the car and running to the fallen man. All the night sounds had disappeared from the street. The shadows were long and thick around the artificial illumination of the intersection. He dropped to his haunches to examine the man’s injuries just as another car approached. Behind him, he heard a screech of brakes, and the car stopped beside him.

  Relieved, he lifted his head and waved for help. Two men jumped out and ran toward him. At the same time, Smith sensed movement from the injured man.

  He looked down: “How do you feel?—” And froze. Stared.

  The “victim” was not only appraising him with alert, sober eyes, he was pointing a Glock semiautomatic pistol with a silencer up at him. “Christ, you’re a hard man to kill. What the hell kind of doctor are you anyway?”

  Chapter Six

  2:37 A.M.

  Washington, D.C.

  A part of Jon Smith was already in the past, back in Bosnia and his undercover stint in East Germany before the wall came down. Shadows, memories, broken dreams, small victories, and always the restlessness. Everything he had thought he had put behind him.

  As the two strangers pulled out weapons and sped toward him through the intersection’s light, Smith grabbed the wrist and upper arm of the thug at his feet. Before the man could react, Smith expertly pushed and pulled, feeling the tendons and joint do exactly what he wanted.