"Good. Come on."
"Can't. They chained me to the wall." Forlornly, Marty held up his hands and shook his right leg. Thin, strong chains were attached to brackets on the wall. Each was secured by a powerful padlock.
"I should've suspected something like this when they didn't leave someone behind to guard you."
"It's been unpleasant," Marty admitted.
"I'll bet." He got out his picklocks once more and quickly opened the padlocks.
As Marty rubbed his wrists and ankles, Griffin whistled low for the Doberman.
The dog padded toward them, his back nose high and sniffing.
"Friend," Griffin said to the dog and touched Marty. "Good. Protect."
With amazing patience, the usually nervous Marty swung his legs off the cot and sat quietly as the powerful Doberman smelled his clothes, his hands, and his feet.
As the big animal stepped back, Marty asked, "Does he have a name?"
"Samson."
"Suits him," Marty decided. "A big bruiser of a dog."
"That he is." Griffin ordered, "Scout."
Samson trotted out into the corridor, looked both ways, and angled off toward the stairs.
"Come on," Griffin said.
Griffin helped Marty until he was out of the room, and then Marty shook him off. With Griffin in the lead and Marty half-running in his usual rolling gate, they moved quickly up the stairs and through the deserted corridors to the rear door where Griffin had parked his car. Marty's brain was working at full speed now, and his emotions were ratcheted to a fine pitch. He had mixed emotions about Bill Griffin, but at least Griffin had gotten him out of that disgusting dungeon.
As Griffin paused at the door, Marty grabbed his arm and whispered, "Look. A moving shadow." He pointed out the small side window.
The Doberman's head was up, alert, his ears rotating as he listened. Griffin gave a hand signal that told the Doberman to stay. At the same time, he pulled Marty down. They hunched together on the floor.
Griffin spoke in a husky whisper. "It's just one of the security guards. He was clocking in at a key station. He'll be gone in three minutes. Okay?"
"You don't have to ask my permission, if that's what you mean," Marty said tartly. He was definitely feeling better.
Griffin raised his eyebrows. He pulled himself up and looked out the window. He nodded to Marty. "Let's go." As soon as Marty was on his feet, Griffin pushed him outside. The Doberman ran ahead toward the red Jeep Cherokee. Bill pulled open the door, and Samson leaped in. Marty clambered aboard while Griffin slid behind the steering wheel.
As Griffin turned on the motor, he ordered, "Get down on the floor."
Marty had been through enough emergencies in the past week that he no longer objected when someone who understood the unfathomable world of violence told him what to do. He crouched on the floor in the back. Samson sat above him on the seat. Marty reached out a tentative hand. When the muscular dog dipped his head and slid his nose under it, Marty smiled and patted the warm muzzle.
"Nice doggie," he cooed.
Griffin drove swiftly away, breathing deeply with relief. Another security guard waved as he sped out of the compound, and he waved back. It had been less than twenty minutes since he had returned, and he felt confident no one would remember his earlier departure. Now he concentrated on one goal: reaching Jon before Randi Russell could kill him.
"Okay, we're out. Now where do we go?"
"Syracuse. I'll tell the rest when we get there."
Griffin nodded. "We'll have to fly. Rent a car there."
But in his haste and relief, he had forgotten about the vital third guard, who had been hidden in a stand of poplars. As the guard watched the Cherokee disappear down the road, he spoke quietly into a cellphone. "Mr. Tremont? He's taken the bait. He's busted that Zellerbach guy out, and they're driving out of here. Yes, sir. We planted the tracking device, we've got the airport covered, and Chet's waiting at the country road."
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CHAPTER
FORTY TWO
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1:02 P.M.
Syracuse, New York
"Dammit all!" Peter Howell's wiry frame was bent over his computer as he stared in frustration at the glowing monitor. "There's precious little in Blanchard company's files about the veterinarian serum or the monkey virus. What there is looks bloody completely on the up-and-up." As the wind blew through the RV's broken windows, he ran his gnarled brown hand through his gray hair in disgust.
"Nothing about tests on humans?" Smith was sitting on the sofa nearby, his arms crossed over his chest, his legs extended. He had been dozing as Peter had searched for information. The Beretta was tucked into his belt, easily reachable.
"Or Iraq?" Beside him, Randi stretched. She had been sleeping, too, until Peter's loud curse had jerked her awake. Suddenly she was aware of Jon and how closely they were sitting together. She adjusted her weight, tactfully putting more space between them. Her Uzi was beneath the sofa, just behind her heels. When she tapped back, she could feel its comforting hardness.
"Not a syllable," Peter growled as he continued to stare intently at the screen. "I suppose it's possible we're on the wrong track--- that Blanchard's clean as a boatswain's whistle and they don't have the virus. That their serum is simply what it looks like--- a fortuitous coincidence."
"Oh, please." Randi shook her head in disbelief.
"That doesn't explain the initial twelve human test subjects," Jon said. "Whoever set that experiment in motion ten years ago had the virus then and the serum last year to cure the Iraqis and then, last week, the three Americans."
They considered some other explanation for the experiment.
"There must be another set of records." Peter rotated in his chair. He gave them a baleful look and scratched his leathery cheek.
"Unless they just didn't keep written records," Randi suggested.
"Impossible," Smith disagreed. "Research scientists have to keep notes, results, speculations, every piece of paper, each bit of an idea, or they can't move forward in their work. Besides, their supervisors have to monitor progress, set goals, and go after funding, and their bookkeepers have to keep accurate financial accountings."
"But scientists don't have to put everything on a computer," Randi said. "They could do it by hand, too."
Jon shook his head. "Not today. Computers have become a research tool in themselves. For projections, for simulated reactions, for statistical analysis... everything would take years otherwise. No, there have to be real records on a computer somewhere."
"I'm convinced," Peter agreed, "but where, eh?"
"We need Marty." It was Smith's turn to swear. His navy blue eyes were dark with frustration.
Randi said reasonably, "We can try other ways. Let's drive to Blanchard, break in, and search their files on site. If there's anyone around, we'll `convince' them to talk nicely with us, too."
"Great," Jon began, "I'm sure we haven't broken every law yet. There must be some we've missed."
Suddenly there was frantic knocking on the RV door. The vehicle shuddered with it.
"Must be getting old." Peter snapped up his H&K MP5. "Missed hearing anyone approach."
Instantly Randi and Jon became a blur of movement as they pulled out their weapons.
"Jon!" The voice outside was thin, familiar, and commanding. "Jon! Open the darn door. It's me."
"Marty!" Smith jumped to the entryway and cracked open the door.
For the moment, Marty's round, chubby body was athletic. He pushed the door back, leaped inside, and grabbed Jon by both arms. "Jon! At last." He hugged him and stepped quickly back, embarrassed. "I was beginning to think I'd never see you again. Where in heaven's name have you been? Are you uninjured? Bill rescued me, so I decided it was safe to bring him to you. Is that okay?"
"Trap," Peter barked. He swung the MP5 around so it pointed at Griffin, who had stepped quietly inside.
The ex-FBI man stood alo
ne with his back against the closed door in his windbreaker and trousers, his arms hanging loosely from his broad shoulders. His hands were empty, but his stocky body was rigid and alert. His long brown hair was greasy, as if he had not washed it in days, and his brown eyes had an empty look that chilled Jon.
Randi instantly backed Peter with her Uzi.
"No!" Smith yelled, stepping in front of Griffin. "Hold it, both of you. Marty's right. This is Bill Griffin. Put down the guns." He swung around to face Griffin. "You alone?"
"We're alone," Marty assured them. "Bill says he has to warn you, Jon. You're in bigger danger than ever."
"What danger?"
Randi and Peter, still watchful, had slowly lowered their weapons.
The moment their weapons were down, Bill Griffin dipped his hand inside his jacket pocket and pulled out a 9mm Glock.
"Her." Griffin pointed the deadly instrument at Randi's heart, his hollow eyes focused on her. "She's CIA. Sent by General Nelson Caspar to assassinate you, Jon."
"What?" Randi's pale brows arched in outrage. Her blond head whipsawed from Griffin to Smith. "That's a lie!" Then she glared at Griffin. "How dare you? You're working for them, but you come in here and accuse me?"
Jon held up his hand. "Why would the exec of the chairman of the Joint Chiefs want me killed?"
"Because he's working for the same people I am."
"Tremont and Blanchard Pharmaceuticals?"
Bill nodded. "It's what I was warning you about back in Rock Creek park."
Jon stared at him. "But you didn't warn anyone else." His highplaned face radiated rage. "So they killed Sophia."
"That's the world we live in," Griffin said bitterly. "There are no good guys. No one believes in right and wrong anymore. It's get what you can for yourself. So now I'm going to get mine. I'm owed that much."
Jon looked away, forcing himself to remain composed. Sophia was dead. He couldn't bring her back. He would always carry the pain, but maybe he could learn to live with it better. He made his voice quiet. "No one's owed anything, Bill. And you're wrong about Randi. She couldn't have been sent to kill me. Impossible, considering the circumstances of how we met. In fact, she saved my life." He shot her a smile and was surprised to see her Ice Queen face soften. "She wants to stop what Tremont is doing as much as I. Who told you Caspar sent her to kill me?"
As Bill Griffin listened to Jon, he had a strange feeling. Almost as if he had missed some important piece in the puzzle of life. He was not sure exactly what it was, only that for a few lucid moments he recognized the loss and that he had never been able to find the directions that would lead him back to what was gone. So now as he studied Jon, saw him shudder for control as he was reminded again of Sophia's death, he felt loneliness and regret. Perhaps he had been too hasty in taking care of himself. Maybe he should have warned Sophia. He could have warned others, too---
And then he stopped himself. How far could he go? Certainly he was not prepared to save the world. But maybe this one last time he could do something for Jon to make up for what had happened to his fiancée.
So he told him, "Victor Tremont is behind everything. His numberone gun is Nadal al-Hassan. They---" But as he said the names, a warning bell rang loudly inside his head. He thought about Tremont's lodge and how empty--- and safe--- it had been when he had broken in to find Marty. How conveniently they had escaped.
How easily he had passed the sentries.
His gaze moved quickly to Marty. "Did Tremont or any of the others give you something to carry?" he growled. "Think! Any buttons, coins, pens, maybe a comb?"
Jon turned on Griffin. "You're thinking---?"
Bill ordered Marty, "Search your pockets. Maybe they slipped you something without your even knowing it. It could've been any of them. Maybe Maddux?"
At first Marty had not realized what they were asking, and then it became clear. "You're worried they bugged me!" Instantly he turned his pockets inside-out onto the coffee table in the living room. "I don't remember anything, but I was unconscious after the pockmarked man hit me."
His plump hands, which were so naturally agile on a keyboard and clumsy almost everywhere else, worked with speed. The former FBI agent watched with an itching urgency that made him want to rip every piece of clothing off Marty so he could make certain he was clean.
Instead, he ordered, "Take off your belt, Marty. Quick."
Jon added, "Your shoes, too."
As Marty stripped off his belt and threw it at Jon to examine, fury rose in a red tide from Bill Griffin's throat to his neutral face. "They told me a lie they knew I'd have to try to warn you about, Jon. Then they let me break Marty out, so he'd take me to you because they didn't learn anything from him. Two birds with one stone. They must've suspected me since Rock Creek park. I should've---"
The sharp bark of a dog carried from outside the RV. A single bark and no more.
Bill froze. His face went slack. "They're outside. Al-Hassan and his men.
"How do you know?" Randi slid along the wall to the, corner of a front window with its glass still intact. She peered carefully around.
"The dog," Jon realized. "The Doberman you had in the park."
Bill nodded. "Samson. He's trained for attack, scouting, sentry duty, you name it."
"I see them," Randi whispered. "Looks like four. They're hiding among the row of RVs in front of us. One's a tall Arab."
"Al-Hassan," Bill said. His voice was deathly quiet.
Peter made a clucking sound with his tongue against the roof of his mouth. He murmured, "Here's how they got to us." He held up a tiny tracking transmitter he had taken from the hollowed-out heel of Marty's shoe. "Darling little bug, isn't it?" He shook his head with disgust, flung the device out the back window, and snapped up his submachine gun.
Randi was still on watch at the window. "I don't see any police or military."
"What does it matter?" Bill said harshly. "I led them here, and they've got you. Stupid. I was stupid!"
"Hardly," the Englishman said calmly. "It's going to take a lot more bloody work than they've put out to get us." He reached for the light fixture on the wall over the kitchen table, pressed a button on its side, and there was a popping sound as four vinyl squares, indistinguishable from the others covering the floor, lifted up in the middle of the living room. His wiry frame moved lightning-fast across the floor to the exit. "Never leave a single way out, friends. Jon, would you do the honors?"
Jon raised the trapdoor and dropped through.
"You next, my boy," the Englishman told Marty.
Marty nodded glumly, peered down at the asphalt, and let his feet fall through. The big Doberman was lying quietly under the RV, his large dark eyes scanning the open area and the woods behind where the RV was parked. In the deep shadow beneath the vehicle, Marty crawled quickly out of the way as Randi Russell, Bill Griffin, and Peter Howell landed, one after the other. The watchful Doberman raised his nose at Marty, and Marty slid closer. As Samson resumed his sentry duty, Marty crouched next to him and ran his hand over the handsome animal's sleek back. Strangely, he felt no fear. Then he raised his gaze to look around at the wheels of other RVs and the thick tree trunks of the forest. He saw no feet, and for a wild moment he had the hope that maybe al-Hassan and his killers had given up and gone home.
Bill Griffin called the dog and spoke softly. "Friends, Samson. Friends."
He had the dog smell each of them.
Then, with Jon in the lead, they crawled to the end of the RV that was closest to the woods. There were only about fifteen feet between them and safety.
"That's it." Peter nodded toward the trees. "We can hide there and figure out what to do next. When I say `go,' jump up and run as if the hounds of hell are on your tails. I'll cover you." He patted his H&K.
But then shapes moved out from the forest line.
"Flatten!" Smith growled and dropped onto his face.
As the four others fell, a fusillade swept across the open area, whining and r
icocheting off the side of the RV. They scrambled back, searching for cover behind the tires.
Bill Griffin raised his voice. "How many?"
"Two." The Englishman's eyes were narrow slits as he searched the woods. "Or three," Jon countered, breathing hard.
"Two or three," Randi echoed, "which means one or two are still in front."
"Yeah." Bill Griffin looked around at their tension and fear and at the brave lights in their eyes. It was true even of Marty with his odd condition and even odder mind. Marty was not the same prissy, whiny nuisance he remembered. Marty had grown up. As he thought that, he felt a terrible tear rip through something old and painful inside. At the same time, he felt a shift. Maybe it was the sourness from all the years of working for men with pinched minds. Or perhaps it was simply that he had never fit into this world which made so much sense to others. But probably the truth was he did not care a damn about anything or anyone anymore, not even himself.
Robert Ludlum - CO 1 - The Hades Factor Page 38
