“If it makes you feel better.” Smith came out of the bathroom, drying his face. “Let's get to bed.”
When Smith slid under the covers, Marty lay down fully dressed on the twin. He stared up at the ceiling, his eyes wide open. Suddenly he looked to Smith. “Why are we in California?”
Smith turned off the bedside light. “To meet a man who can help us. He lives in the Sierras near Yosemite.”
“That's right. The Sierras. Modoc country! You know the story of Captain Jack and the Lava Beds? He was a brilliant Modoc leader, and the Modocs were put on the same reservation as their arch enemies, the Klamaths.” In the dim room, Marty launched into the excited reverie of his unleashed mind. “In the end, the Modocs killed some whites, so the army came after them with cannon! Maybe ten of them against a whole regiment. And…”
He related every detail of the injustice done by the army to the innocent Modoc leader. From there he described the saga of Chief Joseph and his Nez Percé in Washington and Idaho and their mad dash for freedom against half the army of the United States. Before he had finished reciting Joseph's heartrending final speech, his head jerked around toward the door.
“They're in the corridor! I hear them! Get your gun, Jon!”
Smith leaped up, grabbed the Beretta, and tried to speed quietly through the rumpled newspapers, which was impossible. He listened at the door. His heart was thundering.
He listened for five minutes. “Not a sound. Are you sure you heard something, Marty?”
“Absolutely. Positively.” His hands flapped in the air. He was sitting upright, his back rigid, his round face quivering.
Smith crouched, trying to relieve his weary body. He continued to listen for another half hour. People came and went outside. There was conversation and occasional laughter. Finally he shook his head. “Not a thing. Get some sleep.” He moved through the noisy newspapers to his bed.
Marty was chastened and silent. He lay back. Ten minutes later he enthusiastically began the chronological history of every Indian War since King Philip's in the 1600s.
Then he heard steps again. “There's someone at the door, Jon! Shoot them. Shoot them! Before they break in! Shoot them!”
Jon sped to the door. But there was no sound beyond it. For Smith, it was the final straw. Marty would be inventing wild dangers and relating more stories about early America all night. He was reaching warp speed, and the longer he was off his medication, the worse it would be for both of them.
Smith got up again. “Okay, Marty, you'd better take your last dose.” He smiled kindly. “We'll just have to trust we can get you more when we get to Peter Howell's place tomorrow. Meanwhile, you've got to sleep, and so do I.”
Marty's mind buzzed and flashed. Words and images whipped through with incredible speed. He heard Jon's voice as if at a great distance, almost as if a continent separated them. Then he saw his old friend and the smile. Jon wanted him to take his drug, but everything within him railed against it. He hated to leave this thrilling world where life happened quickly and with great drama.
“Marty, here's, your medicine.” Jon stood beside him with a glass of water in one hand and the dreaded pill in the other.
“I'd rather ride a camel across the starry sky and drink blue lemonade. Wouldn't you? Wouldn't you like to listen to fairies playing their golden harps? Wouldn't you rather talk to Newton and Galileo?”
“Mart? Are you listening? Please take your meds.”
Marty looked down at Jon, who was crouching in front of him now, his face earnest and worried. He liked Jon for many reasons, none of which seemed relevant now.
Jon said, “I know you trust me, Marty. You've got to believe me when I tell you we let you stay off your medication too long. It's time for you to come back.”
Marty spoke in an unhappy rush. “I don't like the pills. When I take them, I'm not me. I'm not there anymore! I can't think because there's no `I' to think!”
“It's rough, I know,” Smith said sympathetically. “But we don't want you to cross the line. When you're off them too long, you go a little nuts.”
Marty shook his head angrily. “They tried to teach me how to be `normal' with other people the way they teach someone to play a piano! Memorize normality! `Look him in the eye, but don't stare.' `Put out your hand when it's a man, but let a woman put out her hand first.' Imbecilic! I read about a guy who said it just right: `We can learn to pretend to act like everyone else, but we really don't get the point.' I don't get the point, Jon. I don't want to be normal!”
“I don't want you to be `normal' either. I like your wildness and brilliance. You wouldn't be the Marty I know without that. But we've got to keep you balanced, too, so you don't go so far out into the stratosphere we can't bring you back. After we get to Peter's tomorrow, you can slide off the pills again.”
Marty stared. His mind did cartwheels of numbers and algorithms. He craved the freedom of his unfettered thoughts, but he knew Jon was right. He was still in control, but just barely. He did not want to risk dropping off the edge.
Marty sighed. “Jon, you're a champ. I apologize. Give me the darn pill.”
Twenty-five minutes later, both men were sound asleep.
12:06 A.M., Saturday, October 18
San Francisco International Airport
Nadal al-Hassan strode off the DC-10 red-eye from New York into the main concourse. The overweight man in the shabby suit who greeted him had never met him, but there was no one else on the New York flight who fit the description he had been given.
“You al-Hassan?”
Al-Hassan eyed the shabby man with distaste. “You are from the detective agency?”
“You got that right.”
“What do you have to report?”
“FBI beat us to the drugstore guy, but all he knows anyways is there was two of 'em, an' when they left they took a taxi. We're checking the cab companies, an' so's the local cops and the FBI. Hotels, motels, roomin' houses, car rentals, an' other drugstores, too. So far nothin'. An' the cops an' FBI ain't doin' no better.”
“I will be at the Hotel Monaco near Union Square. Call me the instant you find anything.”
“You want us checkin' all night?”
“Until you find them, or the police do.”
The slovenly man shrugged. “It's your money.”
Al-Hassan caught a taxi to the newly renovated downtown San Francisco hotel with its small, elegant lobby and dining room decorated to look like a continental city in the 1920s. As soon as he was alone in his room, he phoned New York and reported everything the sloppy man had told him.
Al-Hassan said, “He cannot use army resources. We are covering all Smith's and Zellerbach's friends as well as everyone connected to the virus victims.”
“Hire another detective agency if you have to,” Victor Tremont ordered from his New York hotel room. “Xavier's found what this Zellerbach person was doing for him.” He recited the discoveries in Marty's computer logs. “Apparently, Zellerbach found the Giscours memo, and he uncovered reports about the virus in Iraq. Smith has probably figured out we have the virus, and now he wants to know what we're going to do with it. He's no longer a potential threat, he's a menace!”
Al-Hassan's voice was a promise. “Not for much longer.”
“Keep in touch with Xavier. This Zellerbach person tried to trace the Russell woman's phone call to me. We expect he'll try again. Xavier is monitoring Zellerbach's computer. If he uses it, Xavier will keep him online long enough to initiate a phone trace through our local police in Long Lake.”
“I will call Washington and give him my cell phone number.”
“Have you located Bill Griffin?”
AI-Hassan was quiet, embarrassed. “He has contacted no one since we assigned him to kill Smith.”
Tremont's voice cracked like a whip. “You still don't know where Griffin is? Incredible! How could you lose one of your own people!”
Al-Hassan kept his voice low, respectful. Victor Tremont was one
of the few heathens in this godless country he respected, and Tremont was right. He should have kept a closer eye on the ex-FBI man. “We are working to find Griffin. It is a point of pride with me that we find him quickly.”
Tremont was silent, calming himself. At last he said, “Xavier tells me Martin Zellerbach was also looking for Griffin's most recent address, obviously for Smith. As you suggested, there is a connection somewhere. Now we have evidence of it.”
“It is interesting that Bill Griffin has made no attempt to contact or approach Jon Smith. On the other hand, Smith visited Griffin's ex-wife yesterday in Georgetown.”
Tremont considered. “Perhaps Griffin is playing both sides. Bill Griffin could turn out to be our most dangerous enemy, or our most useful weapon. Find him!”
7:00 A.M.
San Francisco Mission District
Marty and Smith were awake and checked out by 7:00 A.M. By 8:00 they had driven across San Francisco's glistening bay and were heading east on I-580. After Lathrop, they crossed to 99 and 120 and headed south through fertile inland farmlands to Merced, where they stopped to eat a late breakfast. Then they turned east again, straight toward Yosemite on 140. The day was cool but sunny, Marty was still calm, and as they reached the higher elevations the sky seemed to grow a translucent blue.
They climbed steadily to the three-thousand-foot Mid Pines Summit, picked up the rushing Merced River, and entered the park at El Portal. Marty had been watching quietly out the window. As they climbed two thousand feet beside the rapidly falling river and into the famed valley, his gaze continued to drink in the stunning mountain scenery.
“I think I've missed getting out,” he decided. “Indescribably beautiful.”
“And few people to interfere with the view.”
“Jon, you know me too well.”
They drove past the towering stream of Bridal Veil Falls, wreathed in its own rising mists, and the sheer cliffs of El Capitan. In the distance was legendary Half Dome and Yosemite Falls. They turned sharply onto the north fork of the valley drive and continued on Big Oak Flat Road to its junction with high-elevation Tioga Road, which was closed to all traffic from November to May and often far into June. They continued east through patches of snow and the magnificent scenery of the high country of the untamed Sierras. At last they headed down the eastern slope, the land growing drier and less lush.
As they descended, Marty began singing old cowboy tunes. The meds were wearing off. A few miles before Tioga Road reached Highway 395 and the town of Lee Vining, Smith turned onto a narrow blacktop road. On either side were parched, grassy open slopes with barbed-wire fences marking property lines. Cattle and horses grazed under trees whose black silhouettes stood stark against the gold-velvet mountains.
Marty burst into song: “Home, home on the range, where the deer and the antelope play! Where seldom is heard a discouraging word and the skies are not cloudy all day!”
Smith drove the car up dizzying switchbacks, crossed several streams on rickety wood bridges, and ended at the edge of a deep ravine with a broad creek roaring below. A narrow steel footbridge crossed the ravine to a clearing and a log cabin hidden among towering ponderosa pine and incense cedar. The snow-capped peak of thirteen-thousand-foot Mount Dana towered like a sentinel in the distance.
As Smith parked, Marty continued to fly through his mind, stimulated by the remarkable range of scenery ― from ocean to mountains to cattle land. But now he realized they must be near their destination, and he would be expected to stay here. Sleep here. Maybe live here quite a while.
Smith came around and opened his door, and he climbed reluctantly out. He shrank from the footbridge, which swayed slightly in the wind. The ravine it crossed plunged thirty feet.
He announced, “I'm not putting a toe on that flimsy contraption.”
“Don't look down. Come on, over you go.” Smith pushed.
Marty clutched the handrails all the way. “What are we doing in this wasteland anyway? There's only that old shack over there.”
As they started up the dirt trail toward it, Jon said, “Our man lives there.”
Marty stopped. “That's our destination? I will not stay five seconds in anything so primitive. I doubt it has indoor plumbing. It certainly has no electricity, which means no computer. I must have a computer!”
“It also has no killers,” Smith pointed out, “and don't judge a book by its cover.”
Marty snorted. “That's a cliché.”
“On with you.”
When they reached the ponderosas, they plunged into the gloom under the thick branches that towered high above. The aroma of pine filled the air. Ahead through the tall trees the shack stood silent. Every time Marty looked at it, he shook his head in dismay.
Suddenly a high-pitched snarl froze them in their tracks.
A full-grown mountain lion sprang from a tree ahead and crouched ten feet away. Its long tail whipped, and its yellow eyes glared.
“Jon!” Marty cried and turned to run.
Smith grabbed his arm. “Wait.”
A voice with an English accent spoke from somewhere ahead. “Stand quite still, gentlemen. Don't raise a weapon, and he won't hurt you. And perhaps neither will I”
CHAPTER TWENTY TWO
1:47 P.M.
Near Lee Vining,
High Sierras, California
From the low-roofed porch of the cabin, a lean man of medium build stepped out of the shadows holding a British Enfield bullpup automatic rifle. His words were addressed to Smith, but his gaze was fixed on Marty Zellerbach. “You said nothing about bringing anyone with you, Jon. I don't like surprises.”
Marty whispered, “I'd be happy to leave, Jon.”
Smith ignored him. Peter Howell was not Marty Zellerbach. His defenses were lethal, and you took them seriously. Smith spoke quietly to the man with the gun. “Whistle up the cat, Peter, and put down the armament. I've known Marty a lot longer than I've known you, and right now I need you both.”
“But I don't know him,” the wiry man said just as quietly. “There's the rub, eh? Are you saying you know all there is to know about him and that he's clean?”
“Nobody cleaner, Peter.”
Howell studied Marty for a long minute, his pale blue eyes cool, clear, and as penetrating as an X-ray machine. Finally he gave a harsh sound somewhere between blowing air and clearing his throat. “Ouish, Stanley,” he said softly. “Good cat. Go on with you.”
The mountain lion turned and padded away behind the cabin, glancing back occasionally over his shoulder as if he hoped he would be called upon to pounce.
The lean man lowered the assault rifle.
Marty's eyes were bright as he watched the big cat move off. “I've never heard of a trained mountain lion. How did you do it? He even has a name. How deliciously wonderful! Did you know African kings used to train leopards to hunt? And in India, they trained cheetahs―”
Howell stopped him. “We should have our talk inside, you see. Never know whose ears are listening.” He motioned with the Enfield and stood aside to let them precede him into the cabin. As Smith passed, the Englishman raised an eyebrow and nodded to Marty's back. Smith nodded affirmatively in return.
Inside, the cabin was larger than it appeared from the front and belied its rustic appearance. They stood in a well-appointed living room with nothing of the Western lodge about it except the enormous fieldstone fireplace. The furniture was comfortable English country-house antiques mixed with men's-club leather chairs and military mementoes from most wars of the twentieth century. The wall space not taken up by guns, regimental flags, and framed photos of soldiers displayed several giant abstract expressionist paintings ― de Kooning, Newman, and Rothko. Originals worth a fortune.
The room occupied the entire width of the cabin, but a wing, hidden from the front, extended at the left rear deep into the tall pines. The cabin was actually built in an L-shape, with most of it in the stem of the L. The first door off the hallway behind the living ro
om proved to be a study with an up-to-date PC computer.
Marty let out a cry of joy. Peter Howell watched him dash for the computer, oblivious to anyone.
Howell quietly asked, “What is it?”
“Asperger's syndrome,” Smith told him. “He's a genius, especially with electronics, but being around people is hell for him.”
“He's off his medicines now?”
Smith nodded. “We had to leave Washington in a hurry. Give me a minute, then we'll talk.”
Without a word, Howell returned to the living room. Smith Joined Marty at the computer.
Marty looked up at him reproachfully. “Why didn't you tell me he had a generator?”
“The lion sort of took it out of my mind.”
Marty nodded, understanding. “Stan-the-cat is a mountain lion. Did you know that in China they trained Siberian tigers to―”
“Let's talk about it later.” Smith was not as confident of their safety as he had told Marty. “Can you try again to find out whether Sophia made or received special phone calls? And also locate Bill Griffin?”
“Precisely what I intended. All I need do is tie into my own mainframe and software. If your friend's equipment isn't as primitive as his choice of location, I'll be up and running in minutes.”
“No one can do it better.” Smith patted his shoulder and backed away, watching him hunch farther and farther over the keyboard as he entered the computer world that was all his own.
Marty muttered to himself, “How could this pipsqueak machine have so much power? Well, no matter. Things are surely looking up.”
Smith found Peter Howell sitting before a fireplace, cleaning a black metal submachine gun. Beside him, a roaring fire licked and spat orange flames. It was a homey picture, except for the military weapon in the Englishman's hands.
Howell spoke without looking up. “Take a chair. That old leather one is comfortable. Bought it from my club when I saw I'd become something of a liability at home and that it might be wise to do a bunk to where I was less known and could watch my back better.”
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