The Hades Factor

by Robert Ludlum

  Donoso grinned widely. “She sticks to ‘pig breath.’ She’s got great legs but a limited imagination. Let’s go. Into the carrier.”

  “A limited imagination? Hey, I’m the one who saved your butt in Riyadh. Where’s your respect?”

  He grinned sheepishly. “Whoops. That occasion slipped my mind.” He added their AK-47s to a pile of other weapons taken from the Iraqi policemen. “See your guns in there?”

  Jon quickly located his Beretta, while Randi dug around until she uncovered her Uzi. Donoso nodded approval and scrambled up into the carrier. Smith and Randi followed.

  As they found places to sit, Jon nodded back at the prisoners. “What are you going to do about the Iraqis?”

  “Nothing,” Donoso told him. “If they so much as hint about being out here on their own in a police truck, they’ll get a fast trip to Saddam Hussein’s gallows. No way are they going to breathe a word about what happened.”

  Smith understood. “Which means they’d better have their own guns when they get back to headquarters.”

  Donoso nodded. “You got it.”

  While the prisoners glared up sullenly, the old troop carrier spun its treads into the parched soil and took off. Its speed increasing, the driver directed the big machine down the center of the narrow road that led deeper into the hard, rocky landscape. The moon was sinking in the west, while stars glimmered brightly above. Far ahead on the horizon were dry, rolling hills, black against an even blacker sky.

  But Jon was watching behind. At last the Iraqis ran across the sand to the pile of guns and their truck. Now that the carrier was out of rifle range, they were safe to flee. Seconds later, their canvas-covered vehicle disappeared, raising mushroom clouds of light soil as it rushed back to Baghdad and, perhaps, survival.

  “Where are we going?” Randi wanted to know.

  “Old World War One outpost the Brits built,” Donoso answered promptly. “It’s nothing but ruins now. A few tumbledown walls and desert ghosts. A Harrier will pick you up there at dawn and fly you out to Turkey.”

  “They don’t want me to stay on, pig breath?” Randi wanted to know.

  Donoso shook his head with disgust. “No way, baby girl. This cute little caper has compromised you and damn near the whole operation.” His voice rose, and he glared again at Jon. “Hope it was worth it.”

  “It was,” Jon assured him. “You have a family?”

  “As a matter of fact, I do. Why?”

  “That’s how important it is. With luck, you’ve just saved their lives.”

  The CIA agent looked at Randi. When she nodded, he said, “Works for me. But you’ll have some fast talking to do at Langley, kiddo.”

  Randi asked, “You’re sure a Harrier can take both of us?”

  Donoso was all business. “Stripped, no missiles, one pilot. Not comfortable, but it can be done.”

  The lumbering carrier continued on through the windswept desert. Moonlight shone down, casting an unearthly silver cloak over the rocky wadi. Meanwhile, everyone’s eyes were alert. Without ever discussing it, their gazes surveyed all around, watching uneasily for more trouble.

  The ruins were on the north side of the road. From the carrier, Smith studied them. The remnants of stone walls emerged like worn, gray teeth from the desert. Skeletal brush had blown against some, while a clump of thorny tamarisk grew nearby, indicating water flowed somewhere under the salty surface of this forbidding landscape.

  Donoso ordered a man to stand guard in the Russian BMP, and the rest of the crew settled against the walls, wrapped in lightweight blankets to wait out the starry night. The dry air smelled of alkali, and everyone was weary. Some fell quickly asleep, their low snores lost in the sound of a whispering wind that rustled the tamarisk and kicked up little tornadoes among the loose particles on the desert floor. Neither Randi nor Jon was among the sleepers.

  He was studying her where she lay in shadows against the old wall. His head resting on a rock, he watched emotion play her face as if it were a musical instrument. He remembered that about Sophia, too. What she felt, she showed. Not a particularly demonstrative man, he had enjoyed that gift. Randi was more guarded than Sophia, but then Randi was a professional operative. She had been trained into sanity-saving unemotionality in her job. But not tonight. Tonight he could tell she was feeling the burning loss of her sister, and he felt deeply for her.

  Grieving, Randi closed her eyes, overwhelmed by sorrow. In her mind, she could see her older sister clearly—the slender face, the softly pointed chin, and the long, satin hair pulled back into a ponytail. When the image of Sophia smiled, Randi fought back tears and hugged herself. I’m so sorry, Sophia. So sorry I wasn’t there.

  But suddenly a treasure trove of memories appeared from the past, and Randi went eagerly toward them, hoping for solace: Breakfasts were the best. She could smell again the comforting aroma of Maxwell House coffee and hear the cheerful chatter of their parents as she and Sophia ran downstairs to join them. Evenings brought picnics and panoramic sunsets across the Pacific Ocean so brilliant they pierced the soul. She remembered the fun of hopscotch and Barbie dolls, their father’s silly jokes, and their mother’s kind hands.

  But what had dominated their childhoods had been the sisters’ uncanny resemblance. From their earliest years, people remarked on it, while she and Sophia had taken it all for granted. They had been blessed with an unusual combination of genetic factors that had resulted in both being not blue-eyed, but brown-eyed blondes. Very dark brown eyes, almost black. Their mother had found it fascinating. So her daughters could view a parallel to their unusual coloring in nature, she had planted black-eyed Susans along the front of their hacienda in Santa Barbara, California. Every summer the cream-colored petals with the rich dark centers had erupted in fragrant color.

  All of that had ignited Sophia’s first interest in science, while the hacienda’s breathtaking views of the Channel Islands and the immense Pacific had awakened in Randi a hunger to know what lay beyond the horizon. Her family had two homes—the one in Santa Barbara and another on Chesapeake Bay in Maryland. A marine biologist, their father had traveled back and forth regularly, and she, her sister, and their mother had occasionally accompanied him.

  Who knew at what point other lives became important? For Randi, it began with the constant feeling of being new herself, not only during the trips from coast to coast but to the Sea of Cortés, the Mediterranean, and the other distant locations that attracted her father’s excited attention. Soon she grew comfortable exploring the unknown and meeting unfamiliar people. Then she enjoyed it. Finally she craved it.

  A gift for languages had sent her on full scholarship to Harvard for bachelor’s degrees in Spanish and government and then to Columbia for a master’s in international relations. Everywhere she went, she took additional language courses until she was fluent in seven. It was at Columbia that the CIA recruited her. She had been a natural—the tweed and contacts of an Ivy League education plus the wanderlust of a gypsy. But she had turned out to be a lackadaisical operative, doing only an adequate job while avoiding the tough assignments … until Mike died in Somalia.

  Untouched by bullet or knife, an invisible virus had felled him in an ugly, painful end. Even now it brought a catch to her throat and a searing regret for what might have been.

  That was when the inequities of life began to strangle her. Everywhere she looked, people were hungry, imperiled, lied to, or repressed. It outraged her. She had turned inward, and her work became the center of her life. Once she no longer had Mike, the only thing that mattered was making the world a better, safer place.

  But she had not made the world safer for Sophia.

  She inhaled, trying to calm her emotions. She forced herself to focus. She had a goal. She knew she would never be able to like Smith and probably never to really trust him, but that no longer mattered.

  She needed him.

  She rose quietly, her blanket wrapped around her. She gazed around at the sleeping men.
Carrying her Uzi, she crept across to where Jon lay. She stretched out beside him. He turned his head to look at her.

  “You all right?” he asked quietly.

  She ignored the kindness in his voice. She whispered, “Let’s get one thing straight. I understand intellectually you didn’t mean to kill Mike. Lassa is hard to tell from malaria at first, and it could’ve killed him anyway. But it might not have if you’d diagnosed it in time and gotten help.”

  “Randi!”

  “Shhh. I don’t know that I’ll ever be able to forgive you. You were too cavalier. Presumptuous. You thought you knew it all.”

  “I was arrogant, yes. But I was mostly ignorant. So are most army doctors when it comes to rare tropical diseases.” He sighed wearily. “I was wrong. Fatally wrong. But it wasn’t from not caring or being careless. I just didn’t know. It’s not an excuse, it’s an explanation. Lassa is still mistaken for malaria. I tried to tell you Mike’s death was the reason I transferred to USAMRIID, so I could become an authority on infectious diseases. It was the only way I could make up for what had happened—make sure it never happened again to another army doctor. I’m so sorry he died, and I deeply regret the role I played in it.” He gazed at her. “Death is damnably final, isn’t it?”

  She heard the pain in his voice and knew he must be thinking about Sophia again. Part of her wanted to forgive him and put it all behind her, but she could not. Despite his contrition and efforts to make amends, he could still be the same old cowboy, galloping heedlessly through life as he pursued his private interests.

  But right now that was irrelevant. “I have a proposition for you.”

  He crossed his arms over his blanket and frowned. “Okay. Let’s hear it.”

  “You want to find out who killed Sophia, and so do I. I need your scientific knowledge to help me track the people behind the virus. You need my contacts and other abilities. Together we make a good team.”

  He studied her face, so like Sophia’s. Her voice was Sophia’s voice, but her toughness was her own. To work with her was appealing … and dangerous. He could not look at her without remembering Sophia and feeling a raw rush of pain. He knew he had to go on with his life, but with Randi around, would he be able to? She looked so much like her sister, they could have been identical twins. He had loved Sophia. He did not love Randi. And to work with her could cause him endless grief.

  So he said, “There’s nothing you can do for me. This isn’t a good idea. Thanks, but no thanks.”

  She said roughly, “This isn’t about you or me. This is about Sophia and all the millions of people out there who are going to die.”

  “It is about you and me,” he corrected her. “If we can’t work together, neither of us will accomplish a damn thing. Whatever chance I have of getting to the bottom of this will evaporate in arguments and hard feelings.” His voice lowered and he growled. “Understand this. I don’t give a flying leap what you think of me. All I care about is Sophia and stopping her killers. You can continue on the rest of your life still hauling around your precious load of anger if that’s what you want. I don’t have time. I’ve got something far more important to do. I’m going to stop this scourge, and I don’t need you to help me do it.”

  He had taken her breath away. She was silent, stunned that her rage at him showed so much. Also, she felt guilty, which she was not ready to admit. “I could turn you in. Right now, I could go to Donoso, whisper in his ear, and he’d have the military police waiting for you when we land in Turkey. Don’t look at me like that, Jon. I’m just laying out the alternatives. You say you don’t need me, and I say you do. But the truth is, I don’t play dirty with people I respect, and I respect you for everything I’ve seen in Iraq. Which means even if you and I can’t work out something, I’ll say nothing to Donoso.” She hesitated. “Sophia loved you. That’s important, too. I may never get over Mike’s death, but that won’t stop me from working cooperatively with you. For instance, do you have any idea what you’re going to do once I get us into the United States?”

  Smith scratched his chin. All of a sudden the potential had shifted. “You can get me into the United States?”

  “Sure. No problem. I’ll be offered a transport or some other military flight back home. I’ll take you with me. Those U.N. credentials are perfect.”

  He nodded. “You think you can get your hands on a computer with a modem, too, before we arrive?”

  “Depends. For how long?”

  “With luck, a half hour. There’s a Web site I need to check to find out where to meet my friends. They’ve been investigating certain aspects of the situation while I’ve been gone. Assuming they survived, of course.

  “Of course.”

  She stared at him, relieved and surprised at his pragmatism. He was a lot more complicated than she had suspected. Also a lot more decisive.

  She was almost ready to apologize when he said, “You’re tired. I can see it in your face. Get some sleep. We’ve got a busy day tomorrow.”

  He had ice in his veins. But that was what she needed. Without ever saying so, he had agreed to work with her. As she turned away and closed her eyes, she said a silent prayer that they would succeed.

  PART FOUR

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  5:32 P.M., Wednesday, October 22

  Washington, D.C.

  At last count, nearly a million had died worldwide. Tragically, hundreds of millions were ill with the symptoms of a heavy cold that could be the first onslaught of the deadly virus no one had a scientific name for yet. Hysteria swept across the hemispheres like the four horsemen of the Apocalypse. In the United States, hospitals were flooded with the ill and the frightened, and the loss of confidence over the past few days had driven down the stock market by a shocking fifty percent.

  In President Castilla’s private office in the White House Treaty Room, a row of colorful Kachina dolls with feather headdresses and leather loincloths stood on the marble mantelpiece. As he studied them, he could almost hear the heavy, rhythmic stamp of Indian feet and the hortatory medicine chants to save the world.

  He had left the frantic West Wing to find respite in his home office so he could polish an important speech he was scheduled to deliver to a dinner of Midwest party leaders in Chicago next week. But he could not write. The words seemed trivial.

  Would any of them even be alive next week?

  He answered his own question: Not unless some miracle stopped the raging pestilence that had been loosed upon the world, and that would take more than the dances and chants of Kachinas, real or imaginary.

  He pushed the legal pad and its offending words away. He was about to stand and leave the room when a heavy knock sounded on the closed door.

  Samuel Adams Castilla stared at it. For a second, he held his breath. “Come in.”

  Surgeon General Jesse Oxnard entered, not running but walking very fast. Behind him, HHS Secretary Nancy Petrelli trotted to keep up. White House Chief of Staff Charles Ouray strode in after her. Bringing up the rear was Secretary of State Norman Knight, who carried his metal-rimmed reading glasses as if he had just pulled them from his nose. He looked solemn and uneasy.

  But Surgeon General Oxnard’s heavy jowls quivered with excitement. “They’re out of danger, sir!” His thick mustache pumped up and down as he continued, “The volunteer virus victims … Blanchard’s serum cured them. Every last one!”

  Nancy Petrelli was triumphant in a baby-blue knit suit: “They’re recovering rapidly, sir. All of them.” She nodded her silver head. “It’s like a miracle.”

  “Thank God.” The president slumped back into his chair as if he had suddenly gone weak. “You’re absolutely sure, Jesse? Nancy?”

  “Yessir,” Nancy Petrelli assured him.

  “Absolutely,” the surgeon general enthused.

  “What’s the status at Blanchard?”

  “Victor Tremont is waiting to be told to start shipping the serum.”

  Charles Ouray explained, “He’s waiti
ng for the FDA to approve it.” The White House chief of staff’s voice had an ominous tone. He crossed thick arms over his round paunch. “Director Cormano over there says that’ll take at least three months.”

  “Three months? God in heaven.” The president reached for his phone. “Zora, get me Henry Cormano over at the FDA. Right now!” He returned the handset to its cradle. He stared at it, outraged. “Are we all to perish under our own stupidity?”

  The secretary of state cleared his throat. “The FDA is there to protect us from the mistakes of overeagerness and fear, Mr. President. That’s why we have the agency.”

  The president’s lips turned down with irritation. “There’s a time to know when the fear is so big and so real that the protection is irrelevant, Norm. When the caution is more dangerous than the possible mistake.”

  The phone buzzed, and President Castilla snatched it.

  “Cormano—” he began and then sat in smoldering silence, foot tapping impatiently, as the FDA director stated his case. At last the president snapped, “Okay, Cormano, hold it. What can happen that’s worse than what is happening? Uh-huh. Dammit, it’s horrible now.” He listened for another angry minute. “Henry, listen to me. Really listen. The rest of the world will approve this serum now that it’s cured victims of a virus you scientists can’t even tell me where it came from. You want Americans to be the only ones continuing to die while you ‘protect’ them? Yes, I know that’s unfair, but it’s what they’ll say and it’s true. Approve the serum, Henry. Then you can write a long memo blasting me with why you didn’t want to and what a goddamned ogre I am.” He paused to listen, gave up, and shouted, “No! Do it now!”

  Castilla slammed the phone into its cradle and glared at everyone in the Treaty Room until his gaze settled on the surgeon general.