The Hades Factor c-1

by Robert Ludlum

  But just as an idea began to form, he jumped, startled. His computer radiated a high-pitched tone and flashed a dazzling red signal:

  INTRUDERS! INTRUDERS! INTRUDERS!

  More excited than nervous, Marty pressed a key. This could be amusing. The screen revealed:

  LOCATIONS A AND X

  Eagerly he tapped a button, and two high-resolution monitors came to life on the wall above. At Location A, which was behind the bungalow, two men searched for a way to squeeze through the thick hedge. But it was too dense to be penetrated and too high to climb over. Marty watched their feeble attempts and hooted.

  But Location X was another matter. He swallowed hard and stared: An unmarked gray van had stopped in his hidden driveway. Two muscled strangers stepped from it, both holding large semi-automatic pistols as their gazes swept his property. With a jolt of terror, Marty's catalog brain identified one gun as an old Colt.45 1911, while the other was a l0mm Browning of the type used now by the FBI. These intruders were not going to be easily scared off.

  Marty's short, stubby body shuddered. He hated strangers and violence of any kind. His round face, so bright and excited seconds ago, was now pale and trembling. He studied the screen as the mechanical voice challenged the men in the front yard.

  Just as he suspected, they decided to ignore the warning. They ran toward the front steps ― an assault.

  In an instant, Marty's mood improved. At least he could have fun for a little while. He snapped his fingers and bounced up and down in his chair as his automatic security system released a cloud of eye-stinging gas. The two men grabbed their faces. They jumped back, coughing and swearing.

  Marty laughed. “Next time, listen when someone gives you good advice!”

  In the rear, the second pair of strangers had stacked garbage cans from the neighbor's yard to climb up over the hedge. Marty watched intently. At just the right moment… just as they reached the top of the hedge… he tapped a key.

  A barrage of heavy rubber bullets knocked them off. They fell hard, flat onto their backs in the neighbor's yard.

  Marty had time only to chuckle, because the two in front had recovered enough to stumble through the gas and reach the front door.

  “Ah, the pièce de résistance!” Marty promised.

  He watched eagerly as a stream of Mace from the ports over the door sent the men staggering and howling back again. He clapped his hands. The short, burly one who seemed to be the leader recovered enough to lurch for the doorknob.

  Marty leaned forward eagerly. The knob held a stun device. It sent a shock into the guy's hand. He screamed and jumped.

  Marty chortled and spun in his chair to check the other pair. The two in the backyard showed resourcefulness. They had rammed their car through the hedge and were on their feet and moving forward again, crawling under the sweep of lasers.

  Marty grinned as he thought about what waited for them: stun devices in the other doors and windows, and cages that would trap them if they got inside.

  But all the defenses, diabolical though they were, were not lethal. Marty was a nonviolent man who had never had reason to expect serious danger. His security was aimed at pranksters, trespassers, and tormenters ― against outsiders invading his peaceful isolation. He had constructed, invented, bought, and built a child's game of brilliant comic-strip mayhem and secret escape routes.

  But none would, in the end, stop determined killers in a real world.

  Clammy fear gripped his chest. His heart pounded. But being a genius had its advantages. He had designed a plan a dozen years ago for just this sort of emergency. He grabbed the remote control and the printouts for Jon, and then he rushed into the bathroom. He pressed a button on the remote, and the bathtub reared up against the wall. Another touch of the remote opened a trapdoor hidden under the tub. His chest tight with fear, he climbed down the ladder past the house's crawl space and into a well-lighted tunnel. With two clicks of his remote, the door closed above him and, out of his view, the tub lowered back into place.

  Marty inhaled, relieved. In his rolling gait, he swayed and bumped along to another trapdoor overhead.

  Seconds later he emerged in a nearly identical bungalow he also owned on the next street. This one was unmodified and empty. It was a deserted house with a perpetual FOR SALE sign and nothing in it except a telephone. Behind him, across the hedge between the bungalows, he could hear curses and yelps of pain. But he also heard the telltale noise of glass shattering, and he knew the attackers would soon be inside his house, searching for his escape route.

  Afraid, he grabbed the phone and dialed.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  11:07 A.M.

  Washington, D.C.

  Georgetown University was founded by Jesuits in 1789, the first Roman Catholic university in the United States. Handsome eighteenth- and nineteenth-century buildings stood among the trees and cobbled lanes, reminders of a time when science knew little of viruses, but education was beginning to be seen as a solution to the violent problems of modern society. Through the window of Georgetown's faculty lounge, Smith thought about this as he admired the old campus under the big trees.

  He said, “So you're on the faculty here?”

  “Associate professor of history.” Marjorie Griffin shrugged sadly. “I suppose Bill never told you what I did. I was at NYU when we met. Then I applied down here.”

  “He never talked much about his private life,” Smith admitted. “Mostly our work and shared past. The old days.”

  Absentmindedly she stirred her tea. “The few times we saw each other recently, it wasn't even that much. Something's happened to Bill over the last few years. He's become silent, moody.”

  “When did you last get together, Marjorie?”

  “Twice in just the past few days. On Tuesday morning he appeared on my doorstep. And then again last night.” She drank tea. “He was nervous, edgy. He seemed worried about you. When he came inside, the first thing he did was go to the front windows and watch the street. I asked him what he was looking for, but he didn't answer. Suggested a cup of tea instead. He had brought a bag of croissants from the French bakery on M Street.”

  “A spur-of-the-moment visit,” Smith guessed. “Why?”

  Marjorie Griffin did not answer at once. Her face seemed to sag as she studied the parade of students outside the windows on the cobbled lane. “Touching base, maybe. I hate to think he was saying good-bye. But that could've been it.” She looked up at Smith. “I'd hoped you'd know.”

  She was, Smith realized almost with a shock, a beautiful woman. Not like Sophia, no. A calm beauty. A certain serenity in herself and in who she was. Not passive, exactly, but not restlessly seeking either. She had dark gray eyes and black hair caught in a French knot at the nape of her neck. An easy style. Good cheekbones and a strong jawline. A body between thin and heavy. Smith felt a stirring, an attraction, and then it was gone. It died before it could do more than appear in a flash, unexpected and unwanted, immediately followed by a sharp stab of sorrow. A throb of anguish that was Sophia.

  “Two days ago, almost three now,” he told her, “he warned me I was in danger.” He described the meeting in Rock Creek park, the attacks on him, the virus, and the death of Sophia. “Someone has the live virus, Marjorie, and they killed Sophia, Kielburger, and his secretary with it.”

  “Good God.” Her fine face redrew itself in lines of horror.

  “I don't know who or why, and they're trying to stop me from finding out. Bill's working with them.”

  She covered her mouth with her hand. “No! That's not possible!”

  “It's the only way he could've known to warn me. What I'm trying to figure out is whether he's undercover or with them on his own.” He hesitated. “His closest friend in the FBI says he isn't undercover.”

  “Lonny Forbes. I always liked Lonny.” She pressed her lips together and shook her head sadly. “Bill's grown harder. More cynical. The last two times I saw him, something was really bothering him. It seemed
to me it was about something he's not proud of but won't stop doing because of the way the world is.” She picked up her teacup, found it empty, and stared into it. “I'm just guessing about him, of course. I'll never marry again. I see a nice man now and then, but that's all it'll ever be. Bill was my great love. But his great love was his work, and somehow it failed him. What I do know is he feels betrayed. He's lost his faith, you could say.”

  Smith understood. “In a world with no values except money, he wants his share. It's happened to others. Scientists who sell out for big bucks. Put a monetary value on eradicating disease, curing ills, saving lives. Unconscionable.”

  “But he can't betray you,” Marjorie said. “So he's torn apart by the conflict.”

  “He's already betrayed me. Sophia's dead.”

  As she opened her mouth to protest, Smith's cell phone rang. Throughout the faculty lounge, annoyed heads turned.

  Smith grabbed the phone from his pocket. “Yes?”

  It was Marty, and he sounded both excited and terrified. “Jon, I always said the world was unsafe.” He paused and gasped. “Now I've proved it. Personally. There's a whole group of intruders. Well, four actually. They've broken into my house. If they find me, they'll kill me. This is your area of expertise. You've got to save me!”

  Smith kept his voice low. “Where are you?”

  “At my other house.” He gave the address. Suddenly his voice broke. It shook with terror. “Hurry!”

  “I'm on my way.”

  Smith apologized to Marjorie Griffin, scribbled his cell phone number for her, and asked her to call if Bill turned up again. He ran out of the lounge.

  * * *

  As Smith drove worriedly past Marty's house, he saw a gray van parked in the driveway. No one appeared to be in the van, and the high hedge and curtains hid the house's interior. He surveyed all around and saw nothing suspicious. There were the usual traffic noises. Smith scanned constantly for trouble as he continued on around the block and pulled into the driveway of a bungalow that was directly behind Marty's. In the front lawn stood a white metal FOR SALE sign rusting around the edges.

  From the house's front window, a shade peeled upward, and Marty's frightened face peeked out just above the sill.

  Smith ran to the front door.

  Marty opened it, clutching a sheaf of papers and a remote control to his chest. “Come in. Hurry. Hurry.” He stared fearfully past. “If you were Florence Nightingale, I'd be dead by now. What took you so long?”

  “If I were Florence Nightingale, I wouldn't be here. We'd be in different centuries.” Smith locked the door and scanned the empty room as Marty checked the front window. “Fill me in. Tell me everything that happened.”

  Marty dropped the window shade and described the four strangers, their weapons, and their attempts to break in. Meanwhile, Smith strode through the house, checking locks on doors and windows, and Marty followed in his rolling gait. The drapes and curtains were drawn, and the rooms were shadowy with sunlight and dust motes. The place was empty, and as secure as any ordinary house could be. Which was not very.

  At last Marty finished his story with a stream of speculations.

  “You're right,” Smith said soberly, “they'll start searching the neighborhood soon.”

  “Swell. Just what I wanted to hear.” Marty grinned weakly. It came out as a macabre grimace, but it was a brave try.

  Smith squeezed his friend's shoulder, trying to keep the urgency from his voice. “How did they know about us, Marty? Did you tell anyone?”

  “Not in a quadrillion years.”

  “Then they had to have followed me, but I don't see how.” He quickly went through all the precautions he had taken to shake pursuit since he had left Frederick. “They couldn't have put a transmitter on the Triumph this time.”

  That was when he heard it… a noise that rose above the ambient sounds of the city. At first he could not place it. Then he knew what it was, and how they had followed him. His throat tightened. He strode to the front window, raised the shade, and looked out and up.

  “Damn!” He slammed his fist against the wall.

  Marty joined him, staring up at the helicopter hovering low to the south on a straight line with the pair of bungalows. As they watched, it banked in a sweeping turn north and came back around toward the house where he and Marty hid. Smith remembered hearing a chopper earlier when he had driven away from Marty's house.

  He cursed and slammed the wall again. That was the answer ― the Triumph. He knew he had shaken them before he pulled off the Interstate at Gaithersburg ― there had been no way they could have bugged the Triumph that time. But how many restored ― but battered from last night ― '68 Triumphs could there be in the area? Not many, and probably not another on the interstate from Frederick to Washington early this morning. One of those choppers he had seen while eating breakfast in Gaithersburg that he had thought was monitoring traffic could have easily been something else entirely. All they had had to do was guess he would go into Washington and watch the Interstate for a Triumph. A license check would confirm it.

  Pick him up at Gaithersburg. Follow him into Washington.

  His Triumph had nailed him. Dammit!

  Marty's voice was severe. “Okay, Jon. We don't have time for your bouts of anger. Besides, I don't want any holes in my walls unless I put them there. Tell me what you've figured out. Maybe I can help.”

  “No time. This is my area of expertise, right? You used to have a car. Do you still have it?” He had been falsely secure in his Triumph. Now his enemies would be falsely secure in relying on it to track him. Everyone had blind spots.

  Marty nodded. “I keep it at a garage near Massachusetts Avenue. But Jon, you know I never go out anymore.” He wandered into the next room and looked nervously out the window. He still carried his remote and the sheaf of papers as if they were talismans against danger.

  “You do now,” Smith told him firmly. “We're going to go out of here the front way, and―”

  “J-J-Jon! Look!” Marty jabbed the remote like a pointer out the back window.

  Instantly Smith was beside him, his Beretta in his hand. Two of the strangers had come through the hedge and now trotted toward the bungalow where Marty and Smith hid. The men were low to the ground, running with the careful urgency of men on the attack. And they were armed. Smith's pulse pounded. Beside him, Marty was rigid with fear. He put a hand on Marty's shoulder and squeezed as he crouched beside the window.

  He let the pair get within fifteen feet. He slid up the window, aimed carefully, and fired the Beretta at each man's legs. His brain was rusty with years of inaction, but his muscle memory overcame the rust as smoothly as an oiled machine.

  The two pitched forward onto their faces, moaning with pain and shock. As they crawled for the cover of a pair of old buckeye trees, Smith hurried to the living room.

  “Come on, Marty.”

  Marty followed close behind, and they both looked out the window. As Smith had feared, the second pair was in front. One was the same burly man who had led the ambush two days ago in Georgetown. They had heard the shots, and the burly man had dived to the grass and pulled a Glock from his jacket. He landed hard on his chest, but held on to the Glock. The other man's reaction was thirty seconds too slow. He still stood on the brick path, his big old U.S. Army Colt.45 halfway up toward the house.

  Smith missed his leg. But before the man could stumble back for the safety of the street, Smith's second shot drew blood from his shoulder and sent him sprawling.

  Marty watched worriedly. “Good shooting, Jon.”

  Smith thought fast. His unexpected shots had put the two in the backyard out of action. But in the front, the leader was uninjured, and the second man had been only nicked. They would be careful now that they knew they faced lethal opposition, but they would not go away.

  And the helicopter would send reinforcements.

  His voice tense, Smith asked quickly, “Does your tunnel work from this end?”


  Marty looked up. He nodded, understanding. “Yes, Jon. It'd be illogical if it didn't.”

  “Let's go!”

  In the bedroom, Marty pressed his remote control. The box bed swung silently out of the way, exposing the trapdoor. Another electronic command opened it.

  “Follow me.” Holding his papers and the remote tightly, Marty slid into the brightly lighted shaft with its ladder that went through a crawl space and down into the concrete underground tunnel. As soon as he landed, he lurched out of the way.

  A few seconds later, Smith's feet touched down next to him. “Impressive, Mart.”

  “Useful, too.” He pressed a button on his remote. “This closes the trapdoor and puts everything back the way it was.”

  The two moved quickly along the bright tunnel. Finally they reached the other end, and Smith insisted on going up first. As he emerged into the small bathroom of Marty's home bungalow, he had a shock: A fifth man was crossing the hall into the living room.

  Smith's pulse hammered. He listened. Then he realized the man was heading toward the bathroom.

  He dropped back into the shaft. “Close it up!”

  His round face anxious, Marty electronically closed the trap and lowered the bathtub. Seconds later they heard the man enter the bathroom, followed by the sound of a stream falling into the toilet.

  Smith quietly told Marty what he wanted him to do.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Beretta ready, Smith climbed up to wait on the top rung of the metal ladder. He took a deep breath as the trapdoor unlocked. But it was still weighted in place by the tub. As he raised his Beretta, the tub swung up against the wall, the trap sprang open, and the entire bathroom plus a section of the hall and living room came into view. Smith repressed a grim smile. The situation was better than he had hoped.

  Ahead was the back of the man at the toilet. The guy's jaw dropped. Staring into the mirror, he had seen the bathtub rise like a white apparition into the air behind. The guy was not only stunned, he was exposed. He did not even have time to zip.