The Hades Factor c-1

by Robert Ludlum

  Binoculars dangled from Peter's neck. He held his cleaned H&K MP5 in one hand, and with the other he tossed Jon the bullpup Enfield. His lined, perpetually tanned face had some kind of strange inner glow, as if who he really was ― what he really liked, what made his blood course ― had suddenly come alive.

  Jon inhaled and felt the buzz of excitement and fear that he used to crave. Perhaps the killers had arrived. And he was ready to meet them. In fact, eager.

  With Peter in the lead, they loped through the house and out onto the front porch. They stayed hidden behind bushes that rimmed the porch as they studied the steel footbridge that crossed the deep ravine and the five figures on the far side, who were investigating Jon's rental car.

  Peter watched through binoculars. “Three are sheriff's deputies from the county. Two are wearing dark suits and hats and appear to be running the show.”

  “They don't sound like our killers.” Jon took the glasses and focused. Three definitely were uniformed police of some kind, and the other two were doing the ordering. The two in suits stood apart talking to each other as if the police weren't there. One pointed at the cabin.

  “FBI,” Jon guessed. “They won't come over shooting. I'm just AWOL.”

  “Unless they're in cahoots with your villains, or unless the situation has changed. Best we take no chances. Let's give them something to think about.”

  Peter left Jon and disappeared back into the house. Jon continued to focus on the FBI men, who were instructing the deputies to stay back as they advanced. All five took out their weapons and, with the FBI in the lead, approached the bridge. The first FBI man carried an electric bullhorn.

  They were only steps from the bridge when the five men came to an abrupt, astonished halt. Jon blinked, unsure himself. One second the footbridge had been there. The next, it vanished.

  There was a slapping sound, and dust rose from the ravine in a hazy brown-and-white cloud.

  The intruders' mouths fell open. They looked down, then up and across. The two cops ambled forward. Through the binoculars, Jon watched them grin and peer appreciatively down into the steep ravine again. It was a joke on the FBI. The men laughed.

  Peter returned to crouch beside Jon. “Surprise them a trifle?”

  “I'd say. What happened?”

  “Electric legerdemain. The bridge has deucedly massive hinges on this side. When I release the gadgets that attach it at the far side, it swings down into the ravine, bounces against the wall, and comes to rest hanging straight down. A job putting it back, but a crew from Lee Vining will do that when I need them.” He stood. “Anyway, that should hold them a half hour or so. It's a nasty climb down and up. Come on.”

  Jon chuckled as they trotted back through the house and into the garage, where Marty now sat on the RV steps looking tired and rueful. “Hi, Jon. Was I trouble?” His words were slow.

  “You were brilliant as usual, but we're going to have to abandon our clothes again. The FBI's found us. They've got our car, and we're leaving fast.”

  “What can I do?”

  “Get back inside and wait.”

  Jon stepped out back again. He found the Brit sitting cross-legged in the pine-needle duff under the trees. Sunlight shone through the pine branches, making intricate patterns on the Englishman and the golden mountain lion sitting on its haunches, facing him.

  Peter spoke quietly. “Sorry, Stanley, but I'm off again. A nuisance, I know. So it's back to the missus and fend for yourself for a bit, I'm afraid. Hold the fort until I return, and I'll be back before you can say Bob's your uncle.”

  The big solemn cat, his tail lying quiet, had fixed its yellow eyes on Peter. It almost seemed to Jon the cat actually understood the words. Whatever it was-words or tone or body language-the cougar stepped close, reached out its neck, and gently nudged Peter on the nose.

  “Good-bye, boy.” Peter nudged back.

  He stood. They exchanged a look, and the cat turned and bounded lightly off into the trees. Peter headed toward Jon.

  “Will he be okay?” Jon wondered. “Can he survive alone?”

  “Stan's only partly trained, Jon. Not tame. I'm not sure any cat is actually tame, but that's a different discussion. Stanley will tolerate and protect me and the cabin, but he actually lives something of a double life. He's got his territory, hunts as usual, mates, and has cubs, but for some reason has accepted me and my spread as part of his responsibility. He eats the food I give him as compensation for taking time off from the hunt, I think, not because he needs it. He'll be fine.”

  “He won't try to attack those cops out there?”

  “Only if I told him to. Otherwise he'll avoid humans, as any lion will unless he's threatened. But he'll protect the place against other animals ― bears, for example, who'd destroy it.” Suddenly he raised his head, cocked an ear. “Right! They're in the ravine and starting up. Time to dust.”

  * * *

  Moments later, loaded and electrically charged, the RV was bouncing away down the mountainside among the tall pines and cedars and the occasional black oak. Behind them, a series of muffled explosions sounded inside the cabin.

  “J-o-n! What's that?” Marty's head swiveled.

  “They're in the house!” Jon swore. “Damn.”

  “Hardly,” Peter told them. “A little self-destruct device. Can't leave the control and computer room for them, can we? It's imploding now. Everything in there will be destroyed, but the rest of the house will be fine. Untouched. Clever, eh? Work of an old sapper I know gone electronic.”

  With winter late in the Sierras, white patches from early snowfalls sparkled among the trees. Exposed rocks and ruts from past rains jarred the RV. They made decent time as they swayed, dipped, and jounced down serpentine switchbacks.

  Jon hung on. “Did you get me set up for Iraq?”

  Peter reached into the pocket of the bush jacket he had put on over his flannel shirt. He handed Jon an envelope. “Printout's inside. Follow the instructions to the letter, or the trip will be over long before you know it. To the letter.”

  “I understand.”

  Peter glanced sideways. “There was talk of a task for me.”

  “What about me, Jon?” Marty asked from behind.

  “You know what we have to do,” Jon told them. “Find where the virus came from, how to treat it, who has it, what they plan to do with it, and who killed Sophia.”

  “And how to stop them,” Peter said grimly.

  “Especially how to stop them.” Jon hung on as a deep pothole hurled them off their seats, shaking their bones. “Every Bio-Level Three and Four lab around the globe is working on the treatment, so we've got help there. But that still leaves the other questions. In reality, it's all one big one: Who has it? But information about any one of the others could lead to the final answer. I'm counting on Iraq as the best chance to discover where it came from and what they're planning to do with it.”

  “And the answer to who killed Sophia could also tell us the rest, too,” Peter decided. “My assignment, right?”

  “Yes. Yours and Marty's.” He looked back. “You keep trying to pull up any missing phone calls, Mart, and locate Griffin. But hit and run this time. Don't stay on the same line long. Switch routes. Those are two important assignments.”

  Marty's face was guilty. “I'm sorry, Jon.”

  “I know.” Jon paused. “We've got to have some way to stay in touch.”

  “The Internet,” Marty said promptly. “But not regular E-mail.”

  “Right you are,” Peter agreed. “But perhaps there's somewhere we can leave a message.”

  Jon smiled. “I know ― right under their noses, where they'll never see it. We can use the Asperger's syndrome Web site.”

  Marty nodded enthusiastically. “That's great, Jon. Perfect.”

  They continued to discuss the site's Web ring and what kind of coded messages to leave until Peter suddenly shouted: “Hold fast! Bogies at ten o'clock!”

  The RV gave a wild lurch to
the right, swaying so far over for a second it rode on two wheels. A volley of shots exploded from the forest. Glass flew and metal ripped at the back of the RV. Marty cried out.

  “Mart?” Jon looked back.

  Marty sat huddled on the floor of the careening RV, clutching his left leg and trying not to be flung from side to side like a sack of flour. A bloody sack of flour. Jon could see a spreading pool of red on Marty's trouser leg, but Marty grinned feebly and said in a shaky voice, “I'm all right, Jon.”

  “Get a towel,” Jon called back, “fold it and press it hard against the wound. If the bleeding doesn't stop soon, yell out.”

  He needed to stay in the cab where he could use Peter's Enfield if any of the attackers cut them off.

  Peter was too busy to use a weapon as he turned the wheel with a vise grip, his pale eyes cool. The unwieldy vehicle bounced off the road through the trees and brush, miraculously hitting nothing as Peter guided it with the precision of an astronaut docking at a space station. Twice he plunged the massive vehicle through streams, kicking up sheets of water and tilting dangerously on rocks hidden beneath the surfaces.

  On the road, two men ran with rifles trying to get a clear shot at the RV, but the bone-jarring, unpredictable lurches and bounces of the vehicle frustrated them. They dodged branches and leaped over rocks. Behind them, a gray SUV battled to turn on the narrow road so it could join the pursuit.

  As the runners fell farther behind, Jon spotted a deep ravine looming straight ahead. “Peter! Careful!”

  “Got it!” Peter slammed the brakes and pivoted in a half J-turn. The top-heavy vehicle threatened to flip over as it skidded sideways, sideswiped two giant boulders, and finally came to a shuddering stop barely feet from the chasm.

  On the road, the runners were far back but closing in again. In the distance, the SUV had almost succeeded in turning.

  Tension in the RV was thick. Jon stared down at the deep ravine and wiped sweat from his face.

  “Here we go.” Peter gunned the engine, and the big vehicle leaped ahead parallel to the ravine and straight toward the road.

  Jon watched the two pursuing attackers, who were trying to shortcut the road by sprinting among the trees. “They're getting close!”

  Peter gave the running men a quick glance. The ravine made a sudden sharp turn away, and he angled the RV out of the trees and onto the road once more. With a relieved grin, he jerked the clumsy vehicle around and roared away down the dirt road, kicking up clouds of dust.

  A final fusillade rang out, and bullets slashed through the trees around the fleeing vehicle. Jon forced himself to take a long breath and relax his hands on his weapon. He checked the side-view mirror: The two men had been joined by a third, and they stood angry and frustrated, their weapons dangling at their sides, in the center of the dusty road.

  Jon recognized the short, burly man who had joined the first two.

  “It's them,” he said angrily. “The people who've been trying to kill me.” He looked at Peter. “There'll be more of them somewhere.”

  “Of course.” Peter studied the rough road as the vehicle continued to shake and bounce. “Evasive strategy, I should say. Knowledge of the terrain. Trust the enemy to overrate the element of surprise.”

  Jon climbed back to Marty, hanging on to anything he could hold. But this time Marty was right ― the flesh wound in his left leg was superficial. Jon applied antibiotic and a bandage. One of the RV's windows had been shot out and the outer shell ripped with bullet holes in three places, but nothing had penetrated, and nothing important was damaged, especially not the computer that was part of Peter's standard equipment.

  He rejoined Peter up front, and five minutes later heard the sound of traffic.

  “What do you think?” He scrutinized the dirt road ahead as it wound down among the trees. “Will they be waiting where we join the highway?”

  “Or sooner. Let's disappoint them.” Peter smiled his almost dreamy smile.

  Ahead was a track that led off from the road to the left. Even narrower than the road they traveled, even more deeply rutted, it was only inches wider than the RV. But it was a road, not a trail.

  Peter explained, “Fire road. Forest's full of them. Unmarked on any maps but the forestry service's and the fire district's.”

  “We're taking it?” Jon asked.

  “The scenic route.” With a short smile, Peter swung the RV onto it.

  Pine branches brushed and scraped against the RV's metal sides. The noise was endless and unnerving, like fingers on a chalkboard. Fifteen minutes later, just as Jon was beginning to think he was going to lose his mind, he saw the end of the road.

  “This it?” he asked Peter hopefully.

  “What? Stop this lovely jaunt?” Peter turned the vehicle onto another fire road. “We're going downhill now, notice? Won't be long,” he said cheerfully. “Buck up, lad.”

  This fire road was an equally tight squeeze. Overhanging branches continued to scratch the sides as Peter pressed the RV onward. Jon closed his eyes and sighed, trying to keep his skin from crawling. At least Marty was not complaining from the back. But then, Marty was on his meds. Thank God for at least that.

  When they finally reached the highway, Jon sat up alertly. Peter paused the RV among the trees at the blacktop's edge. The horrible scratching and groaning stopped, and only the sound of the engine and the traffic marred the quiet beauty of the forest.

  Jon peered around. “Any sign of them?” Traffic on the wide two-lane road in front of them was heavier than he'd expected. “This isn't I20.”

  “U.S. 395. The big one on this side. Should do. See anyone lurking?”

  Jon surveyed both directions. “No one.”

  “Good. Neither do I. Which way?”

  “Which way gets us to San Francisco faster?”

  “To the right, and back on I20 through Yosemite.”

  “To the right then, and I20.”

  Peter's pale eyes twinkled. “Cheeky of you.”

  “Going back the way we came should be the last thing they'd expect us to do, and all RVs look alike anyway.”

  “Unless the ambushers read our plate.”

  “Take the plates off.”

  “Dammit, my boy. Should've thought of that.” Peter pulled a screwdriver and a set of Montana license plates from the glove compartment and jumped out.

  Jon grabbed his Beretta and followed. He stood watch as Peter lifted off the old one and screwed on a license from Montana. In the tranquil forest, birds sang and insects buzzed.

  Minutes later, both men returned inside.

  Marty was sitting at the computer. He looked up. “Everything okay?”

  “Absolutely,” Jon reassured him.

  Peter put the RV into gear and said enthusiastically, “Let's bell the cat.”

  He rolled the lumbering vehicle onto the highway heading south. When the I20 intersection appeared, he turned onto it, and they climbed back uphill. A quarter of a mile later they passed two SUVs parked along the dense forest, one on each side of the dirt road that led from the back of Peter's property.

  At one of the SUVs, a tall, pockmarked man with hooded dark eyes and wearing a black suit spoke into a walkie-talkie. He seemed agitated, and he stared up the mountainside in frustration. He hardly glanced at the battered RV with the Montana plates as it climbed up the highway toward Yosemite.

  “Arab,” Peter said. “Looks dangerous.”

  “My conclusion, too.” Jon stared at the highway traffic. His voice was grave. “Let's hope I can find some answers in Iraq, and that you'll be able to track Bill Griffin and find out more about Sophia's death. Those erased phone calls could be critical.”

  They drove on. Peter turned on the radio. It droned news of an unknowing world, while the approaching darkness cast its long, ominous shadows over the white peaks of the high Sierras ahead.

  PART THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE

  8:00 P.M., Tuesday, October 21

  The White
House, Washington, D.C.

  Like an accusation, the front page of The Washington Post lay on the big Cabinet Room oval table where the president had left it. Although none of the solemn cabinet chiefs who sat around the polished table and none of their assistants who packed the walls looked at the newspaper with its banner headline, everyone was painfully aware of it. They had awakened to find their own copies lying on their doorsteps, just as hundreds of millions of Americans had discovered similar terrifying headlines awaiting them. All day long the news had blared from their radios. On television, little else was discussed.

  For days scientists and the military had kept the president and high officials informed, but not until now, when the so-called civilized world seemed to erupt with the news, had the full force of the growing epidemic hit home.

  DEADLY PANDEMIC OF UNKNOWN VIRUS SWEEPS GLOBE

  In the packed cabinet room, Secretary of State Norman Knight pushed his metal-rimmed glasses up on his long nose. His voice was sober. “Twenty-seven nations have reported fatalities due to the virus, a total so far of more than a half million. All began with symptoms of a heavy cold or mild flu for some two weeks, then it'd suddenly escalate into acute respiratory distress syndrome and death within hours, sometimes less.” He sighed unhappily. “Forty-two nations are reporting sudden cases of what appears to be a mild flu. We don't know yet whether that's the virus, too. We've barely started counting those victims, but they're in the high millions.”

  A shocked hush greeted the secretary's figures. The packed room seemed to grow rigid.

  President Samuel Adams Castilla's penetrating gaze traveled slowly over their faces. He was looking for clues into the minds of his cabinet chiefs. He had to know on whom he could count to remain steady and bring knowledge, wisdom, and the will to act. Who would panic? Who would be shocked into paralysis? Knowledge without the will to act was impotent. Will to act without knowledge was blind and reckless. And anyone with neither to offer needed to be dismissed.

  Finally he spoke, keeping his voice composed. “All right, Norm. How many in the United States?”