The Hades Factor

by Robert Ludlum

  The incoming fire had all but ceased, probably while the attackers figured out a new plan. As soon as Peter slipped out of the RV and melted into the deep shadows of the moonlit woods, Marty counted out a minute in his head. He made himself breathe slowly and evenly. When the minute was up, he gritted his teeth, leaned out, and opened fire with the bullpup. The gun reverberated in his hands and shook his entire body. Frightened but determined, he kept up a steady stream of fire across the night and into the dark trees. Peter was depending on him.

  From their cover, the attackers returned a fusillade. The RV rocked from the hail of bullets.

  Sweat popped out on Marty’s face. He kept squeezing the trigger as he fought back fear. When the magazine was empty, he hugged the gun to his chest and carefully peered around the corner of the doorway. He saw no movement anywhere. He wiped his palm across his forehead, getting rid of a layer of sweat, and let out a long stream of relieved air.

  As another minute passed, he clumsily changed magazines. He sat back. Two minutes passed. His skin began to crawl with tension.

  Then he heard what sounded like somebody trying to be quiet among the trees far off to his left. Peter! He cocked his head, listening.

  A warning voice from one of the attackers carried across the picnic grounds: “They’re escaping!”

  Almost at once, heavy fire from what seemed like two or three rifles raked out of the forest on the left, the direction in which Peter had said he would go.

  On the picnic grounds, the men from the pickup and SUV frantically found new hiding spots as gunfire continued from this new direction.

  Then the firing ceased. It sounded as if several people were running away to the left through the forest.

  “After them!” a different voice shouted from the picnic area.

  Energy jolted Marty. That was what he had been waiting for. He watched as men from the truck ran off to the left. At the same time, someone turned on the SUV’s engine, drove it in a wide U-turn, and headed off to the left also. Everyone was chasing Peter, just as he had predicted.

  Guiltily, Marty rolled and bumped his way into the RV cab. He was safe while Peter was out there, a hare to their hounds. Still, he knew Peter was right—this was the rational way to handle this grave situation.

  The keys were in the ignition. He took a long breath to calm his resisting nerves and started the engine. He was worried not only about whether he would ever be able to uncover the vital information Jon needed; more to the point was whether he could drive Peter’s RV safely away from the park. But when the oversize motor’s power surged up through his hands and into his body, he had an idea: He closed his eyes and put reality on hold. Suddenly he was inside a Galaxy-rated starship, piloting it singlehandedly into the dangerous Fourth Quadrant. It was a forced trip, because he was still under the influence of his Mideral. Still, stars, planets, and asteroids flashed past the starship’s bulkhead windows in rainbows of light. He was gloriously in control, and the unknown beckoned.

  His eyes snapped open. Don’t be silly, he told himself with disgust, of course you can drive this gravity-bound RV. It’s virtually an anachronism!

  With a surge of confidence, he threw the RV into reverse, hit the accelerator, sped backwards, and scraped a tree. Undeterred, he looked over both shoulders, checked the rearview and side-view mirrors, and saw nobody. He yanked the steering wheel, turned the RV around, and blasted it out of the forest like toothpaste from a tube. At the same time, he watched for trouble, just as Peter had taught him. His glittering green gaze examined shadows and obstacles, checking everywhere that could be cover for their attackers.

  But this part of the park was quiet. Heaving a sigh of relief, he rocketed the RV past the picnic grounds and onto the highway heading north to Syracuse.

  Crouched in a concrete drainage ditch at the edge of the park, his submachine gun ready to fire, Peter Howell saw his RV rushing north on the highway. He grinned with admiration. That exasperating little bastard Marty had risen to the occasion yet again.

  He rubbed a hand over his grizzled chin and refocused his attention. He breathed deeply, inhaling the earthy scents of the damp ditch but also the fragrant trees on the higher ground and the myriad creatures that inhabited it. At the same time he listened and scrutinized with every fiber of his body. His senses were alert, on fire. He could hear and sense the attackers moving toward him on foot and in the SUV on the road that crossed the drainage ditch. It was time to get himself away.

  He unhooked two cylindrical black canisters from his belt, laid them side by side on the parapet of the bridge, and drew his 14-round Browning Hi-Power 9mm pistol from his open combat holster. The pistol in his right hand and the H&K MP5 in his left, he raised his eyes to look down the road.

  They were advancing in a wide line. The SUV was behind, its headlights outlining the bloody fools. He needed them closer together. So when they were still some fifteen yards away, he opened fire with both guns, moving quickly from side to side to simulate shooting by more than one person.

  They zeroed in on him and returned fire. He fell back, as if retreating. Encouraged, they ran toward him in a tighter semicircle, while he grabbed the canisters and shimmied toward them on his belly. As soon as they were just thirty feet away, he lifted his shoulder and hurled the first canister. The magnesium-based stun grenade exploded with a great flash and bang directly in the center of their semicircle, only a foot or two from most of them.

  All went down. Some screamed and clutched their heads. Others were simply stunned and momentarily out of action. Which was all Peter needed.

  He was up instantly, speeding around their left flank. The thousands of rounds fired in the SAS Close Quarters Battle House, perfecting the skill to rapidly score head hits while running at full speed, never left you. He squeezed off two fast shots, easily destroying the SUV’s headlights, and then he threw the second stun grenade. It landed in their midst. Since they still had not recovered from the first, it was not only physically but psychologically devastating. Within minutes, as they still tried to gather their wits, Peter was a hundred yards off in the distance, trotting softly but swiftly away toward the highway and Syracuse.

  As he closed in on the city, Marty slowed the RV, looking for somewhere to hide it and himself. He was beginning to think this time he had outsmarted himself. Where could you hide something as big and obvious as a recreational vehicle, especially one in which many of the windows had been destroyed and bullet holes had battered the sides? Behind him on the state highway a line of cars was piling up. Horns honked, making him nervous as he anxiously scanned all around for safety.

  Finally, he pulled onto the shoulder so the backed-up cars and trucks could rush past in an angry roar. Worried, he drove back onto the highway and resumed his search. Then he saw an intriguing sight: On either side of the highway were car dealerships with brightly lighted showrooms and lots full of vehicles. There was everything from inexpensive compacts to luxury sedans and sports cars. Miles of them. It was giving him an idea. He craned to look ahead. Would he find—?

  Yes! Like a miracle, a vast, lighted open area stretched off to the right. It was a new and used recreational vehicle sales lot and repair facility.

  He thought of the old children’s riddle: Where do you hide an elephant?

  The answer, of course, was in a herd of elephants.

  Chortling with glee, Marty turned into the main gate and drove to the back until he found an empty space. He pulled in and turned off his motor. It was late, so the dealer would have to close soon. With luck, no one would find him here at night.

  10:27 P.M.

  Syracuse, New York

  Professor Emeritus Richard Johns lived in a restored old Victorian on South Crouse Avenue below the university’s hill. In his living room, lovingly furnished by his wife with antiques of the same period as the house, he studied the man who had knocked on his door so late and wanted to know about Sophia Russell. There was something about the stranger that frightened John
s. An intensity. A suppressed violence. He wished he had never allowed him inside.

  “I’m not sure what more I can tell you, Mr.—?”

  “Louden. Gregory Louden.” Peter Howell offered a smile as he reminded the professor of the false name he had given on the doorstep. Then: “Dr. Russell thought highly of you.” He was dressed in coveralls and a trench coat he had bought from a curious trucker who had given him a ride into Syracuse. From there, he had caught a taxi to the professor’s house near the university, which had so far turned out to be a waste of time. The man was nervous and had been able to remember only that Sophia had been an excellent student and had a few close friends, but he could name none.

  Johns reiterated, “I was simply chair of her major department and had her in a few classes. That’s all. I heard she switched her field of study in grad school.”

  “She was studying anthropology with you, wasn’t she?”

  “Yes. An enthusiastic student. We were surprised that she left the major.”

  “Why did she?”

  “I have no idea.” Johns knitted his brows. “Although I do recall that in her senior year she took the absolute minimum requirements for anthro. She studied a lot of biology instead. Too late to declare a different major by then, of course, unless she planned to stay on another year or two.”

  Peter stopped pacing. “What happened in her junior year to interest her in biology?”

  “I have no idea about that either.”

  He remembered the Prince Leopold report had mentioned Bolivia and Peru. “What about field trips?”

  The professor frowned. “A field trip?” His gaze focused on Peter as if he had suddenly remembered something. “Of course. We have a summer departmental trip for majors between their junior and senior years.”

  “Where did Sophia go?”

  The professor’s frown deepened. He leaned back, thinking. At last, he decided, “Peru.”

  Excitement made Peter’s pale blue eyes luminous. “Did she talk about it when she got back?”

  Johns shook his head. “Not that I remember. But everyone who goes has to write a report.” He stood up. “I should have it here.” And just like that he casually walked out of the room.

  Peter’s heart thudded against his chest excitedly. At last, he had gotten what seemed to be a break. He moved to the edge of his chair as the professor talked to himself in the next room. Drawers opened and slammed closed.

  Then a triumphant “Ah-ha!”

  Peter jumped to his feet, as Johns returned, thumbing through a stapled document. “When I was chairman, I kept them all. They are a useful body of work to draw from for motivating the lower-year classes.”

  “Thank you.” The words were inadequate. Barely suppressing his eagerness, Peter took the undergraduate paper and sat in the closest chair. He read through it, and … there it was. He blinked, not quite believing his eyes. Then he read again, memorizing each word: “I encountered a fascinating group of natives called the Monkey Blood People. Some biologists from the States were studying them when we passed through. It seems like a fascinating field. There are so many illnesses in the tropics that it could be a life’s work to help cure them.”

  No names. Nothing specific about the virus. But had she remembered Peru when she was given the unknown virus to work with?

  Peter stood up. “Thank you, Professor Johns.”

  “Is that what you wanted?”

  “It just might be,” Peter said. “May I keep it?”

  “Sorry. Part of my archives, you know.”

  Peter nodded. It did not matter; he had committed it to memory. He said a quick good-bye and headed out into the dark, cold night, which for the first time seemed friendlier. He trotted uphill toward the university, where he knew he would find a pay phone.

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  12:06 A.M., Thursday, October 23

  Wadi al-Fayi, Iraq

  The Syrian Desert was cold and silent, and the stink of diesel seemed oppressive inside the canvas-covered truck. Next to the tailgate, Jon and Randi listened for more gunfire. Behind them lay the two unconscious policemen who had been guarding them, while outside some new, unknown force besieged them.

  Tense and alert, Smith dropped into a crouch, cradling his confiscated AK-47. He pulled Randi down next to him. She swung her Kalashnikov around so she was ready to shoot, too. They peered outside through cracks where the canvas flap closed against the sides of the truck.

  “All I can see are streaks of fire and moving silhouettes,” he said, disgusted. Sweat coated his face. Time seemed to pass with aching slowness.

  “That’s what I see, too. The light from the other truck’s too glaring.”

  “Damn!”

  They dropped the flap. Abruptly, the noise of fighting ceased. The cold night was menacingly quiet. The only sound was the raspy breathing of the two Iraqi guards lying unconscious on the floor in the eerie glow from the headlamps of the other vehicle.

  Jon looked at Randi, who turned just at that moment. He frowned. She shook her head. Her face was pinched. He saw fear in her eyes, then she moved her gaze.

  His chest tightened. Only the truck’s canvas walls and their confiscated Kalashnikov rifles stood between them and whatever peril waited outside.

  He told her, “We’ll open fire. We’ve got no choice.”

  “As soon as they’re close enough.”

  From the desert, a voice bellowed in Arabic at them, “Everyone has surrendered! Throw out your guns and follow with your hands up!”

  Quickly Randi translated for Jon. She added grimly, “Sounds like the Republican Guard.”

  Smith nodded. In the hovering silence, his gaze narrowed. He was not going to just sit and wait to be executed. He inched back the flap. In the slit he could see a trio of black silhouettes, their guns aimed at the truck where he and Randi hunched.

  “I can get three,” Jon decided. “Perfect targets. Problem is, who are they? And where are the others?”

  She rose up and peered out through the narrow opening above his head. The heat of her body warmed the chill around him.

  “We may have to kill them anyway,” she said grimly. “We’ve got to get this information about the virus out of Iraq. Concentrate on their legs. What’s a few shattered femurs compared to what’s at stake?”

  He nodded sober agreement and slid the nose of his AK-47 out. He wrapped his finger over the trigger, prepared to fire, and—

  Suddenly, a voice boomed: “Russell!”

  Jon and Randi stiffened. They gazed at each other, shocked.

  “Are you in there, Russell?” the voice yelled in English. Very American English. “If you and the U.N. guy have taken out the guards, give me a shout. Otherwise, you’re not likely to leave there without a lot of birdshot in your carcasses!”

  Randi inhaled with excitement. She squeezed Jon’s shoulder. “I know who he is, thank God.” She raised her voice. “Donoso? Is that you, pig breath?”

  “No one else, little lady.”

  “We almost killed you, you fool!”

  Jon spoke in a low, quick voice. “Don’t tell them who I really am. Use the U.N. cover. He already believes it, or he wouldn’t have identified me that way. If the U.S. Army gets its hands on me for being AWOL …” He let the words hang in the air. He knew she understood the inevitable result: He would be stopped from pursuing the people who had killed Sophia. “Randi? Will you do that?”

  She turned her angry, blazing eyes onto him. “Of course.”

  He had to trust her, which suddenly made him very nervous. Together they raised the canvas that overlay the tailgate. Jon shot her a worried look as a short, swarthy man in desert camos came around from the side. He had the firm face and bunched muscles of someone religious in his fitness training. Carrying a cocked 9mm Beretta, he peered beyond them and their Kalashnikovs to the wounded policemen sprawled in the back of the truck.

  He grinned approval. “Nice job. Two less for us to deal with.”

 
Smith and Randi jumped down, and Randi pumped Donoso’s hand. “Always interesting, Donoso. This is Mark Bonnet.”

  Jon exhaled, relieved, as she introduced him under the alias.

  She gave him a polite smile, then returned to focus on Donoso. “Mark’s here with a medical mission. Mark, meet Agent Gabriel Donoso. How the hell did you find us, Gabby?”

  “Doc Mahuk called as soon as they grabbed you. Then one of our assets picked up the truck crossing the Tigris.” His gaze swept the night. “I’d love to catch up on old times, but someone could’ve heard the gunfire. We’d better do a fast fade.” He peered speculatively at Jon. “U.N. medical mission, huh?”

  “CIA, I take it.” Jon shook his hand and smiled. “My personal appreciation for the CIA grows by the instant.”

  Donoso nodded sympathetically. “Looks like you two have had a rough time.”

  As Donoso led them around the truck, Jon saw an old Soviet BMP-1 troop carrier whose sides had been stenciled with Republican Guard markings. Ruts showed where it had first been angled to block the road. Now its headlights shone directly onto the canvas-covered police truck. Sitting on the light desert soil with their backs against it were the surviving Baghdad policemen and their officer, who was bleeding from a shoulder wound and no longer sported his tariq pistol. Standing sentry were two CIA agents who might easily pass for Iraqis.

  “Do you know what they were planning to do with us?” Smith asked Donoso.

  “Yup. Get you deep out in the middle of nowhere, kill you, and hide your corpses where not even the Bedouins would dream of looking.”

  Jon raised his eyebrows. He exchanged a look with Randi. It was no surprise.

  Donoso said, “I need those Kalashnikovs, Mr. Bonnet. Both of them, little lady.”

  As Randi and Jon handed over their weapons, Randi explained to Jon, “Donoso’s an unrepentant male chauvinist pig. He knows better, but he just doesn’t care. So he calls me little lady, or girlie, or sweetie-pie, or any other demeaning cliché he can dredge up from his rather ordinary redneck background.”