The Hades Factor

by Robert Ludlum

  A heavy silence dropped like a dark shroud over the small room. They looked uneasily away from the HHS secretary. It was a question that had been on all their minds.

  “Ah, well,” Tremont said, “we knew that risk from the start. It was the gamble we took to make the billions we’re going to. But I doubt our government or any other government will see another choice. If they don’t buy the serum, an awful lot of their people are going to die everywhere. That’s the simple answer.”

  General Caspar nodded appreciatively. “Who dares, wins.”

  “Ah, yes. The motto of the SAS.” Tremont nodded recognition to the general and added drily, “But I’d like to think we take our risks for much larger and more realistic rewards than a few medals and a pat on the back from the queen, eh?”

  Tremont swung his leg as he watched the four wrestle with the enormity of it. Conscience makes cowards of us all. Shakespeare’s words, or close enough, echoed through his mind. But screw your courage to the sticking point, we shall not fail. But it was not courage or Shakespeare that had made them accept the risk of the potential slaughter. Not at the beginning of the twenty-first century. It was power and wealth.

  General Salonen said bluntly, “But none of us or our families will die. We have the serum.”

  They had all thought it, but only Salonen had the bravery or perhaps the insensitivity to say it. Tremont continued to wait.

  “How long until it begins?” Nancy Petrelli asked.

  Tremont considered. “I’d say in three or four days the reality of a pandemic will strike the global conscience like a bolt of lightning.”

  There was a murmur. Whether it was pity or greed it was hard to tell.

  “When it does,” Tremont continued, “I want each of you to emphasize the danger to humanity. Hit the panic buttons. Then we make our announcement of the serum.”

  “And ride to the rescue.” General Caspar gave a coarse laugh.

  All their doubts vanished as the four conspirators united in their vision of the goal they had dreamed of for so long. It was close. Very close. Just on the other side of the horizon. For the moment, any fear of an opposition, of Bill Griffin’s potential treachery, or of Jonathan Smith’s determined investigation flew from their minds.

  “Beautiful,” someone breathed.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  3:15 P.M.

  High Sierras, California

  “Oh, look!” Marty cried. “That’s so beautiful!” He came to an abrupt halt in the hallway, turned, and his awkward body rolled and thumped into a dim, cavernous room near the back of Peter Howell’s Sierra hideaway. He gazed transfixed at the opposite wall, his green eyes shining.

  On the wall, about ten feet above the floor, transparent electronic maps glowed. Each nation was alight in a different color. Tiny blinking bulbs moved continuously across the maps. Rows of multicolored lights blazed after each name on a roster that hung next to the maps. Beneath it all, state-of-the-art computer equipment filled the wall. In the center of the room waited a leather-and-steel command chair. On either side of it stood a large globe and a file cabinet.

  Smith studied the maps—Iraq, Iran, Turkey, and the parts of all three that formed the historic land of the Kurds. Then there was East Timor. Colombia. Afghanistan. Southern Mexico and Guatemala. El Salvador. Israel. Rwanda. The hot spots of tribal conflict, ethnic strife, peasant revolt, religious militancy, popular insurgency.

  “Your control room?” Jon asked Peter.

  “Right.” Peter nodded. “Good to keep busy.”

  It was more than any one private citizen should—or could—have. Obviously, Peter Howell was still working for somebody.

  Marty rushed toward the computer installation. “I knew your PC had far too much power to be ordinary. It must be connected to this Goliath. It’s gorgeous! I want maps like yours for my bungalow. You’re monitoring activities in these countries, aren’t you? Are you linked directly to centers in each one? You must show me what you’re doing. How the maps are linked. How—”

  “Not now, Mart.” Jon tried to be patient. “We’re on our way out. We’re evacuating, remember?”

  Marty’s face fell. “What’s so important about leaving? I want to live in this room.” The sullen expression vanished. His round face was as alight as the maps above. “That’s what I’m going to do! It’s perfect. The whole world will come to me here. I’ll never have to leave or—”

  “We’re leaving right now,” Jon said firmly, pushing him toward the door. “You could help us load, okay?”

  “As long as we’re here, I’ll take my files.” Peter grabbed a stack of brown files from the top of the free-standing cabinet. As he walked out the door, he pressed a finger against the frame. Jon heard a quiet click. “You two take what food you like from the kitchen to tide us over a day or so. We’ll need weapons and ammo, and the whiskey, of course.”

  Jon nodded. “We have things in our car, too. How the hell do we carry it all?”

  “Ah, trust me.”

  A low crooning sound came from the control room. Marty had slipped away from Jon and now sat in Peter’s power chair before the wall-sized console. He rocked from side to side, his gaze locked on the shifting array of lights on the transparent wall maps. He was beginning to understand what they all meant, how they interconnected. It was intriguing. He could almost feel the lights pulse in rhythm with his brain—

  Jon touched his shoulder. “Mart?”

  “No!” He whirled as if bitten. “I’ll never leave! Never! Never! Nev …”

  Jon tried to hold him as he kicked and writhed. “He needs to go back on his meds, pronto,” he told Peter.

  Wild with rage, Marty lashed out with his fists, swearing incoherencies. Jon gave up and grabbed him in a bear hug, lifted him so that his feet were off the floor, and moved him away from the console as he continued to kick and shout.

  Peter frowned. “We don’t have time for this.” He stepped forward and slugged Marty on the chin.

  Marty’s eyes widened, and then he collapsed in Jon’s arms, unconscious.

  Peter’s wiry frame trotted back out into the hallway. “Bring him.”

  Jon sighed. He had a feeling Marty and Peter were not going to get along. He picked up Marty, who had a peaceful expression on his round face. He dropped him over his shoulder and followed the ex–SAS trooper and MI6 agent through the rear door in the kitchen into what turned out to be a garage.

  Parked and waiting was a medium-sized RV.

  “There’s another road,” Jon realized. “Of course, there has to be. You’re not going to live anywhere where you know you’re trapped.”

  “Right. Never have only one way out. It’s a dirt road. Not on the map, not maintained well, but it’ll do. Stash Marty in the RV.”

  Jon deposited Marty on one of the three bunk beds fastened in a stack in the back. The rest of the RV’s interior was the usual—kitchen, dining nook, bath, all in miniature, except for the living room. That was the heart of the vehicle. It was a compact version of the map-and-computer center from the house, complete with wall maps, console, and tiny colored lights that came to life as Jon watched.

  “Adding a final boost to the batteries,” Peter said as Jon returned to the garage. The Brit had hooked up the RV to the house current.

  For the next hour they carried food, whiskey, guns, and ammo from the house. While Jon packed it away, Peter vanished to make arrangements. Finally Marty moaned on the bunk and flopped one arm. At the same time, Jon heard the approaching engine of a low-flying aircraft.

  He pulled out his Beretta and raced into the house.

  “Relax,” Peter told him.

  They went out front to stand together and look up at the mountain sky. A single-engine Cessna swooped low and roared over the cabin. A small steel tube dropped from it into the clearing. Moments later, Peter returned with the tube.

  “The little man’s medicine.”

  Inside the RV, Jon sat the groaning Marty up on the bunk, gave h
im a pill and a glass of water, and watched him take the drug, grumbling the whole time. Then he lay back without a word and stared up at the RV’s ceiling. He rarely spoke of his affliction, but sometimes Jon caught him in an unguarded moment like this, staring off as if wondering what other people felt and thought, what a ‘normal life’ was really all about.

  Peter stuck his head inside the door. His face was grim. “We have company.”

  “Stay down, Mart.” Jon patted his friend and hurried out into the garage.

  Binoculars dangled from Peter’s neck. He held his cleaned H&K MP5 in one hand, and with the other he tossed Jon the bullpup Enfield. His lined, perpetually tanned face had some kind of strange inner glow, as if who he really was—what he really liked, what made his blood course—had suddenly come alive.

  Jon inhaled and felt the buzz of excitement and fear that he used to crave. Perhaps the killers had arrived. And he was ready to meet them. In fact, eager.

  With Peter in the lead, they loped through the house and out onto the front porch. They stayed hidden behind bushes that rimmed the porch as they studied the steel footbridge that crossed the deep ravine and the five figures on the far side, who were investigating Jon’s rental car.

  Peter watched through binoculars. “Three are sheriff’s deputies from the county. Two are wearing dark suits and hats and appear to be running the show.”

  “They don’t sound like our killers.” Jon took the glasses and focused. Three definitely were uniformed police of some kind, and the other two were doing the ordering. The two in suits stood apart talking to each other as if the police weren’t there. One pointed at the cabin.

  “FBI,” Jon guessed. “They won’t come over shooting. I’m just AWOL.”

  “Unless they’re in cahoots with your villains, or unless the situation has changed. Best we take no chances. Let’s give them something to think about.”

  Peter left Jon and disappeared back into the house. Jon continued to focus on the FBI men, who were instructing the deputies to stay back as they advanced. All five took out their weapons and, with the FBI in the lead, approached the bridge. The first FBI man carried an electric bullhorn.

  They were only steps from the bridge when the five men came to an abrupt, astonished halt. Jon blinked, unsure himself. One second the footbridge had been there. The next, it vanished.

  There was a slapping sound, and dust rose from the ravine in a hazy brown-and-white cloud.

  The intruders’ mouths fell open. They looked down, then up and across. The two cops ambled forward. Through the binoculars, Jon watched them grin and peer appreciatively down into the steep ravine again. It was a joke on the FBI. The men laughed.

  Peter returned to crouch beside Jon. “Surprise them a trifle?”

  “I’d say. What happened?”

  “Electric legerdemain. The bridge has deucedly massive hinges on this side. When I release the gadgets that attach it at the far side, it swings down into the ravine, bounces against the wall, and comes to rest hanging straight down. A job putting it back, but a crew from Lee Vining will do that when I need them.” He stood. “Anyway, that should hold them a half hour or so. It’s a nasty climb down and up. Come on.”

  Jon chuckled as they trotted back through the house and into the garage, where Marty now sat on the RV steps looking tired and rueful. “Hi, Jon. Was I trouble?” His words were slow.

  “You were brilliant as usual, but we’re going to have to abandon our clothes again. The FBI’s found us. They’ve got our car, and we’re leaving fast.”

  “What can I do?”

  “Get back inside and wait.”

  Jon stepped out back again. He found the Brit sitting cross-legged in the pine-needle duff under the trees. Sunlight shone through the pine branches, making intricate patterns on the Englishman and the golden mountain lion sitting on its haunches, facing him.

  Peter spoke quietly. “Sorry, Stanley, but I’m off again. A nuisance, I know. So it’s back to the missus and fend for yourself for a bit, I’m afraid. Hold the fort until I return, and I’ll be back before you can say Bob’s your uncle.”

  The big solemn cat, his tail lying quiet, had fixed its yellow eyes on Peter. It almost seemed to Jon the cat actually understood the words. Whatever it was—words or tone or body language—the cougar stepped close, reached out its neck, and gently nudged Peter on the nose.

  “Good-bye, boy.” Peter nudged back.

  He stood. They exchanged a look, and the cat turned and bounded lightly off into the trees. Peter headed toward Jon.

  “Will he be okay?” Jon wondered. “Can he survive alone?”

  “Stan’s only partly trained, Jon. Not tame. I’m not sure any cat is actually tame, but that’s a different discussion. Stanley will tolerate and protect me and the cabin, but he actually lives something of a double life. He’s got his territory, hunts as usual, mates, and has cubs, but for some reason has accepted me and my spread as part of his responsibility. He eats the food I give him as compensation for taking time off from the hunt, I think, not because he needs it. He’ll be fine.”

  “He won’t try to attack those cops out there?”

  “Only if I told him to. Otherwise he’ll avoid humans, as any lion will unless he’s threatened. But he’ll protect the place against other animals—bears, for example, who’d destroy it.” Suddenly he raised his head, cocked an ear. “Right! They’re in the ravine and starting up. Time to dust.”

  Moments later, loaded and electrically charged, the RV was bouncing away down the mountainside among the tall pines and cedars and the occasional black oak. Behind them, a series of muffled explosions sounded inside the cabin.

  “J-o-n! What’s that?” Marty’s head swiveled.

  “They’re in the house!” Jon swore. “Damn.”

  “Hardly,” Peter told them. “A little self-destruct device. Can’t leave the control and computer room for them, can we? It’s imploding now. Everything in there will be destroyed, but the rest of the house will be fine. Untouched. Clever, eh? Work of an old sapper I know gone electronic.”

  With winter late in the Sierras, white patches from early snowfalls sparkled among the trees. Exposed rocks and ruts from past rains jarred the RV. They made decent time as they swayed, dipped, and jounced down serpentine switchbacks.

  Jon hung on. “Did you get me set up for Iraq?”

  Peter reached into the pocket of the bush jacket he had put on over his flannel shirt. He handed Jon an envelope. “Printout’s inside. Follow the instructions to the letter, or the trip will be over long before you know it. To the letter.”

  “I understand.”

  Peter glanced sideways. “There was talk of a task for me.”

  “What about me, Jon?” Marty asked from behind.

  “You know what we have to do,” Jon told them. “Find where the virus came from, how to treat it, who has it, what they plan to do with it, and who killed Sophia.”

  “And how to stop them,” Peter said grimly.

  “Especially how to stop them.” Jon hung on as a deep pothole hurled them off their seats, shaking their bones. “Every Bio-Level Three and Four lab around the globe is working on the treatment, so we’ve got help there. But that still leaves the other questions. In reality, it’s all one big one: Who has it? But information about any one of the others could lead to the final answer. I’m counting on Iraq as the best chance to discover where it came from and what they’re planning to do with it.”

  “And the answer to who killed Sophia could also tell us the rest, too,” Peter decided. “My assignment, right?”

  “Yes. Yours and Marty’s.” He looked back. “You keep trying to pull up any missing phone calls, Mart, and locate Griffin. But hit and run this time. Don’t stay on the same line long. Switch routes. Those are two important assignments.”

  Marty’s face was guilty. “I’m sorry, Jon.”

  “I know.” Jon paused. “We’ve got to have some way to stay in touch.”

  “The I
nternet,” Marty said promptly. “But not regular E-mail.”

  “Right you are,” Peter agreed. “But perhaps there’s somewhere we can leave a message.”

  Jon smiled. “I know—right under their noses, where they’ll never see it. We can use the Asperger’s syndrome Web site.”

  Marty nodded enthusiastically. “That’s great, Jon. Perfect.”

  They continued to discuss the site’s Web ring and what kind of coded messages to leave until Peter suddenly shouted: “Hold fast! Bogies at ten o’clock!”

  The RV gave a wild lurch to the right, swaying so far over for a second it rode on two wheels. A volley of shots exploded from the forest. Glass flew and metal ripped at the back of the RV. Marty cried out.

  “Mart?” Jon looked back.

  Marty sat huddled on the floor of the careening RV, clutching his left leg and trying not to be flung from side to side like a sack of flour. A bloody sack of flour. Jon could see a spreading pool of red on Marty’s trouser leg, but Marty grinned feebly and said in a shaky voice, “I’m all right, Jon.”

  “Get a towel,” Jon called back, “fold it and press it hard against the wound. If the bleeding doesn’t stop soon, yell out.”

  He needed to stay in the cab where he could use Peter’s Enfield if any of the attackers cut them off.

  Peter was too busy to use a weapon as he turned the wheel with a vise grip, his pale eyes cool. The unwieldy vehicle bounced off the road through the trees and brush, miraculously hitting nothing as Peter guided it with the precision of an astronaut docking at a space station. Twice he plunged the massive vehicle through streams, kicking up sheets of water and tilting dangerously on rocks hidden beneath the surfaces.

  On the road, two men ran with rifles trying to get a clear shot at the RV, but the bone-jarring, unpredictable lurches and bounces of the vehicle frustrated them. They dodged branches and leaped over rocks. Behind them, a gray SUV battled to turn on the narrow road so it could join the pursuit.

  As the runners fell farther behind, Jon spotted a deep ravine looming straight ahead. “Peter! Careful!”