The Hades Factor c-1

by Robert Ludlum

  Smith slid back into the gazebo.

  One… two minutes.

  The more cautious of the pair materialized in a patch of moonlight between the gazebo and the fallen man. He had had the sense to circle his partner out of sight. But that was where his imagination ended, and he hurried to kneel over the fallen man.

  “Jerry? Jesus, what―” Smith's appropriated Beretta smashed across the back of the bent head.

  Smith dragged both unconscious men into the gazebo. Crouched over them, he panted as he listened to the night. The only distinctive sound was of a distant car heading south. With relief, he left the gazebo and loped through the shadows of houses and trees back the way he had come. As he neared the intersection where he had been attacked, he slowed and listened again. The only noise was what sounded like the same car driving in the opposite direction, this time north.

  On elbows and knees, a pistol in each hand, he crawled to within a front yard of the intersection. The sprinkling of parked cars on either side had not changed, and his Triumph still waited at the curb where he had left it to go to the aid of the fake victim. No one was in sight.

  There was no way the six-wheeler truck could have found him first on Wisconsin Avenue and then here. No one had that kind of luck. Yet the truck, the car, and the “drunk” had created a diversion, intending his death.

  They had to have known exactly where he was.

  He waited as the moon went down. The night grew darker, a large owl hunted through the trees, and the distant car continued to drive south, then north, then south again, slowly making its way closer to the intersection.

  Satisfied that no one was lurking there, Smith jumped up and ran to his Triumph. He took a small flashlight from the glove compartment and slid under the car's rear. And there it was. No imagination, no originality. The bright funnel of his flashlight revealed a transmitter no larger than his thumbnail attached to the car's undercarriage by a powerful mini-magnet. The tracking device's reader was probably in the truck or with the short, heavy leader.

  He flicked off the flashlight, slipped it into his pocket, and removed the tracking device. He admired the creativity that had manufactured such delicate engineering. As he crawled out from under the Triumph, he noticed the car he had been monitoring was almost at the intersection. He knelt beside the Triumph, watching. The car was moving slowly as the driver pitched newspapers from his rolled-down window onto the lawns and driveways of the neighborhood.

  The driver made a U-turn.

  Smith stood up and whistled. As the car slowed in the intersection, he ran toward the open window. “Can I buy a paper from you?”

  “Yeah, sure. I've got some extras.”

  Smith reached into his pocket for change. He dropped a coin, bent to pick it up, and with a cool smile he stuck the microtransmitter to the car's undercarriage.

  Straightening, he took the newspaper and nodded. “Thanks. I appreciate it.”'

  The car drove on, and Smith jumped into the Triumph. He peeled away, hoping his trick would occupy his assailants long enough for him to reach Sophia. But if these attacks where part of what Bill Griffin had warned him would happen, they knew who he was and where to find, him. And where to find Sophia.

  4:07 A.M.

  Fort Detrick, Maryland

  The report from the Prince Leopold Institute of Tropical Medicine in Belgium was the third Sophia read after plunging back into work, the last scientist still there. She was too worried to sleep. If the damned general was right that Jon was off on one of his enthusiasms over some medical development, she would be furious. Still, she hoped Kielburger was right, as that would mean she had no reason to be concerned.

  She continued studying the latest reports, but not until she reached the one from the Prince Leopold lab did something finally offer hope: Dr. Rene Giscours recalled a field report he had read years ago while doing a stint at a jungle hospital far upriver in Bolivian Amazonia. He had been preoccupied at the time battling what appeared to be a new outbreak of Machupo fever, not far from the river town of San Joaquin where Karl Johnson, Kuns, and MacKenzie had first found the deadly virus many years before. He had had no time for even thinking about an unconfirmed rumor from far-off Peru, so he had made a note and forgotten about it.

  But the new virus had jogged his memory. He had checked through his papers and found his original note ― but not the actual report. Still, the note to himself back then had emphasized an apparent combination of hantavirus and hemorrhagic fever symptoms, as well as some connection to monkeys.

  A surge of angry justification rushed through Sophia. Yes! After Victor Tremont had been unable to help her, she had doubted herself. Now Giscours's report confirmed her recollection. What contact did USAMRIID have down there? If she was right, there had been no major or even minor outbreaks of that virus since. Which meant it must still be confined to the narrow, deep jungle in a remote part of Peru.

  In her daily logbook, she described her reaction to the Prince Leopold report, and she summarized what she recalled of the strange virus and her two conversations with Victor Tremont, since they might be relevant now. She also wrote some speculations about how a Peruvian virus could have been transmitted beyond the jungle.

  As she was writing, she heard the door to her office open. Who ―? Hope filled her.

  Excited, she spun her chair around. “Jon? Darling. Where the hell―”

  In the instant before her head exploded in violent pain and color, she had a glimpse of four men surrounding her. None was Jon. Then darkness.

  * * *

  Nadal al-Hassan, disguised from head to foot in lab scrubs, methodically searched the female scientist's office desk. He read each document, report, notebook, and memo. He studied every file. The task was offensive, even though he was protected by surgical gloves. He knew such modern blasphemies occurred in his own country as well as many. other Islamic, even Arab, nations, but he made no secret of his distaste. Allowing females to study and work beside men was not only heresy, it defiled both the dignity of the men and the chastity of the women. Touching what the woman had touched defiled him.

  But the search was necessary, so he performed it meticulously, leaving nothing unexamined. He found the two damaging documents almost at once. One was the only report open on her desk ― from the Prince Leopold Institute, by a Dr. Rene Giscours. The other was her handwritten phone record of outgoing calls that the USAMRIID director apparently required all personnel to complete each month.

  Then he found her logbook musings about the Belgian report. Fortunately, it filled an entire page, beginning at the top and ending at the bottom. From a small leather case, he took out a pen-shaped, razorsharp draftsman's blade. With care and delicacy, he excised the page. He examined the cut to be certain it was invisible, then hid the page in his scrubs. After that he found nothing more of importance.

  His three men, dressed in identical scrubs, were completing their search of the rows of file cabinets.

  One said, “Got a new memo in a file 'bout Peru.”

  Another said, “Couple of old files talked about stuff down in South America.”

  The third just shook his head.

  “You read every document?” al-Hassan snapped. “Every file? Looked in every drawer?”

  “Like you told us.”

  “Under everything? Behind anything that moved?”

  “Hey, we ain't stupid.”

  Al-Hassan had strong doubts about that. He found most Westerners lazy and incompetent. But from the mess in the office, he decided they had been thorough this time.

  “Very well. You will now erase any indications of a search. Everything is to be as it was.”

  While they grumbled and returned to work, al-Hassan slipped on a second, thicker pair of white rubber gloves. He took a small refrigerated metal container from a leather case, released a pressure seal, and extracted a glass vial. He carefully removed a hypodermic syringe from the case, filled it from the sealed vial, and injected Sophia in the vein
of her left ankle.

  At the prick of the needle, she stirred and moaned.

  The three men heard. They turned to look, and their faces went ashen.

  “Complete your tasks,” al-Hassan said harshly.

  The men dropped their gazes. As they finished straightening the office, al-Hassan put the used syringe inside a plastic container, sealed it, and returned it to the leather case. His men indicated they were finished. Al-Hassan inspected the office once more. Satisfied, he ordered them to leave. He gave one final glance at the now-motionless Sophia and saw the sweat that had beaded up on her face. When she groaned, he smiled and followed them out.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  4:14 A.M.

  Thurmont, Maryland

  A light wind rustled through bushes and trees, carrying the stink of apples rotting on the ground. Jon Smith's three-story, saltbox-style house was set back into the looming shoulder of Catoctin Mountain. The place was dark, not even a porch light to welcome him home, which made him think Sophia must still be at the lab. But he had to be sure.

  He was a block away, crouched behind an SUV, as he studied his house, yard, and street. He saw telltale signs: The trunk of the old apple tree was too thick where someone stood behind it, watching. Farther up the block, almost hidden by two tall oak trees, the hood of a black Mercedes protruded from a driveway of neighbors Smith knew owned only a 2000 Buick Le Sabre, which they always parked in the garage.

  Considering how quickly he had driven home from Georgetown on the almost-deserted highway and roads, there was no way the pair waiting here could have arrived first. Which meant this was a second surveillance team, and that alarmed him.

  The sentry in front could see the driveway and garage doors. There was probably a man in back, too, to cover the rear of the house and garage. But Smith could see no reason to waste a man on the side of the garage away from the house.

  He felt the familiar hollow of fear in his stomach every soldier knows, but also the hot rush of adrenaline. He slipped down an alley and sprinted behind the houses until past his street. Then he recrossed out of sight of the hunters. Beginning to sweat again, he worked through a stand of sycamores to the near side of his garage and slithered the last, five yards on his elbows and belly.

  He listened. There was no sound behind the house. He raised up to peer inside the garage.

  And sighed with relief. It was empty. Sophia's old green Dodge was gone. She must have been at Fort Detrick all this time. If so, she had never received his message, and that explained the lack of a porch light. He breathed deeply, instantly feeling better.

  Retracing his path, he hurried back to his Triumph and drove to a phone booth a quarter mile away. He could not wait to hear her voice. He dialed her work number. After four rings, the machine picked up. “I'm out of my office or in the lab. Please leave a message. I'll return your call as soon as possible. Thank you.”

  The bright sound of her strong voice gave him a sharp pang and another feeling he could not explain. Loneliness?

  He dialed again. The voice that answered was all business, which was reassuring, particularly considering the circumstances: “United States Army, Fort Detrick. Security.”

  “This is Lt. Col. Jonathan Smith, USAMRIID.”

  “Base ID, Colonel?”

  He gave his number.

  There was a pause. “Thank you, Colonel. How can we help you?”

  “Connect me to the desk guard at USAMRIID.”

  Clicks, beeps, and a new voice. “USAMRIID. Security. Grasso.”

  “Grasso, Jon Smith. Listen―”

  “Hey, Colonel, you're back. Everything okay? Doc Russell's been askin'―”

  “I'm fine, Grasso. It's Dr. Russell I'm calling about. She's not answering her phone. You know where she is?”

  “She's on the night list I got when I came on, and I ain't seen her leave.”

  “What time did you come on?”

  “Midnight. She's probably in the lab and not hearing nothing.”

  Smith glanced at his watch: 4:42 A.M.

  “Could you go up and check?”

  “Sure, Colonel. Call you back.”

  Smith recited the phone number. Every second seemed like a minute, and every minute it was harder to breathe. The cool night seemed stifling. The phone booth suffocated him.

  When the phone rang at last, he almost jumped. “Yes?”

  “Not there, Colonel. Office and lab are both closed up.”

  “Any sign of trouble?”

  “Nope. Everything's packed away and covered up.” Grasso sounded a little defensive. “Damned if I know how I missed her. I guess she could've gone out one of the other exits. You could check with the gate guard.”

  “Thanks, Grasso. You want to transfer me?”

  “Hold on, Doc.”

  A different and very sleepy voice spoke: “Fort Detrick. Gate. Schroeder.” “This is Lt. Col. Jonathan Smith, USAMRIID. Did Dr. Sophia Russell leave the base tonight, Schroeder?”

  “Don't know, Colonel. Don't know Dr. Russell. Try the guy at USAMRIID.”

  Smith swore under his breath. The civilian security guards were always changing, and they worked longer shifts than MPs. It was not unknown for them to doze in the gate kiosk. The barrier would stop any cars trying to enter, and if it did not, the noise would certainly wake them up. But no barrier stopped cars leaving.

  He hung up. It sounded as if she could have been too tired to drive all the way to Thurmont. Which meant she was likely at her old condo in Frederick, which she had just sold but had not yet fully moved out of. He could call the condo, but that would tell him nothing. When they worked around the clock, they always turned off their phone's ringer to get a few hours sleep.

  As he sped the car away, his mind raced. She had been so tired she left the lab through one of the side doors, not wanting to run into anyone. That was logical. Just what she would have done. The gate guard had missed her, probably asleep. She would go to her condo. He would slip into bed beside her. She would sense his presence without waking up. She would smile in her sleep, murmur, and move close to touch him. Her hip would press warm against him. He would smile, kiss her shoulder lightly, watch her sleep before he fell asleep himself. He would.

  * * *

  Few guidebooks listed Fort Detrick as one of the attractions to the historic City of Frederick. With its chain-link fence and guard post at the entrance, Detrick was a medium-secure army base set in the middle of a residential area. Sophia's condo was five blocks away. Parked up the street again, Smith saw no signs of anyone watching here. He stepped from the Triumph, closed the door softly, and listened. He heard the distant coughs of sleepers. The occasional laughter or a voice raised in drunken anger. A solitary car squealing around a turn. The constant low hum that was the city itself.

  But no clandestine sounds or movements he could identify as threatening.

  He used his key to the lobby of the three-story condo building and strode across the exposed expanse of the tile and carpet to the elevators. All were empty at this hour.

  On the third floor, the Glock in his hand, he stepped off warily. The corridor echoed to his footfalls like the empty rooms of an ancient tomb. When he reached her door, he listened again. He heard nothing from inside. He turned the key, the quiet tumblers clicking in his mind loud as explosions.

  Silently he pulled open the door and dropped flat to the carpeting inside.

  The apartment was dark. Nothing stirred. His hand felt a film of dust covering the side table near the door.

  He stood and glided through the shadowy living room to the short corridor that led to the two bedrooms. Both were empty, the beds made, and unused. The kitchen showed no sign that anyone had eaten a meal or prepared even a cup of coffee. The sink was dry. The refrigerator was silent, turned off weeks ago.

  She had not been here.

  Feeling numb, Smith walked like a robot back into the living room. He turned on lights. He inspected for signs of an attack, an injury, even a
search.

  Nothing. The condo was as clean and undisturbed as an exhibit in a museum.

  If they had killed or kidnapped her, it had not been here.

  She was not at the lab. She was not at the house in Thurmont. She was not here. And he had no indications that anything had happened to her at any of those places.

  He needed help, and he knew it.

  The first step was to call the base and alert them to her disappearance. Then the police. FBI. He grabbed the portable telephone to dial Detrick.

  His hand froze midair. Outside in the corridor, footsteps echoed along the walls.

  He switched off the lights and set the phone on the table. He dropped to one knee behind the couch, the Glock in his hand trained on the door.

  Someone advanced haltingly toward Sophia's condo, bumping into walls, progressing in fits and starts. A drunk staggering home?

  The steps stopped with a hard thump against Sophia's door. There was ragged breathing. A key probed for the lock.

  He tensed. The door swung open as if flung.

  In the shaft of light, Sophia swayed. Her clothes were torn and stained as if she had been crawling in a gutter.

  Smith leaped forward. “Sophia!”

  She staggered in, and he caught her before she collapsed. She gasped, battled for breath. Her face burned with fever.

  Her black eyes stared up at him, tried to smile. “You're. back, darling. Where. where were you?”

  “I'm so sorry, Soph. I had an extra day, I wanted…”

  Her hand reached up to interrupt him. Her voice sounded delirious. “…lab…at the lab…someone…hit…”

  She fell back in his arms, unconscious. Her skin was pasty. Two bright fevered spots glowed on her cheeks. Her beautiful face was pinched with pain. She was terribly ill. What had happened to her? This was not just simple exhaustion.

  “Soph? Soph! Oh my God, Soph?”

  There was no response. She was limp, unconscious.