The Hades Factor c-1

by Robert Ludlum

  The secretary of state's long face was topped by an unruly shock of thick white hair. “Beyond the nine cases early last week, the CDC reports some fifty more deaths and at least a thousand flulike cases that they're testing for the new virus right now.”

  “It looks like we're getting off light,” said Admiral Stevens Brose, chairman of the Joint Chiefs. His voice was cautiously hopeful.

  Too cautious and too hopeful, President Castilla reflected. It was strange, but he had noticed that military men were often the least willing to act on the instant. But then, they had seen the deadly consequences of ill-considered action more than most.

  “That's so far,” Nancy Petrelli, secretary of Health and Human Services, pointed out ominously. “Which doesn't mean we won't be devastated tomorrow.”

  “No, I suppose it doesn't,” the president agreed, a little surprised by the HHS secretary's negative tone. He had always found her to be the optimistic type. Probably a measure of the terror this virus was instilling in people and governments. That alone emphasized the need for action ― considered and meaningful action, yes, but some action, to mitigate the sense of helpless panic that could freeze everyone in its grip.

  He turned to the surgeon general. “Anything new on where those six original cases contracted the virus, Jesse? A connection among them?”

  “Aside from the fact that all were either in Desert Storm or related to someone who was, neither the CDC nor USAMRIID has been able to find anything.”

  "Overseas?

  “The same,” Surgeon General Jesse Oxnard admitted. “All the scientists agree they're stumped. They can see it in their electron microscopes, but the DNA sequence information so far doesn't offer any useful clues. It matches no known virus exactly, so they can only guess how to deal with it. They have no idea where it came from and nothing that'll cure or stop it. All they can suggest are the usual methods for treating any viral fever and then hope the mortality rate is no worse than the fifty percent we had in the first six cases.”

  “At least that's something,” the president decided. “We can mobilize every medical resource in the advanced industrialized countries and send them all over the world. Medicines, too. Everything anyone needs or thinks they need.” The president nodded to Anson McCoy, secretary of defense. “You put the whole armed forces at Jesse's disposal, Anse, everything ― transports, troops, ships, whatever it takes.”

  “Yessir,” Anson McCoy agreed.

  “Within reason, sir,” Admiral Brose warned. “There are some nations that might try to take advantage if we put too many resources into this. We could leave ourselves open to attack.”

  “The way it's going, Stevens,” the president said dryly, “there might not be much left to attack or defend anywhere. It's a time for new thinking, people. The old answers aren't working. Lincoln said something like that in a crisis a long time ago, and we may damn well be approaching the same kind of crisis now. Kenny and Norman have been trying to tell us that for years. Right, Kenny?”

  Secretary of the Interior Kenneth Dahlberg nodded. “Global warming. Environmental degradation. Destruction of the rain forests. Migration from rural areas all across the Third World. Overpopulation. It's all leading to the emergence of new diseases everywhere. That means a lot of deaths. This epidemic may be only the tip of the iceberg.”

  “Which means we've got to put everything into stopping it,” the president said. “As must every industrialized country.” Out of the corners of his eyes he saw Nancy Petrelli open her mouth as if to object. “And don't tell me how much it's going to cost, Nancy. That doesn't matter at this point.”

  “I agree, sir. I was going to offer an idea.”

  “Okay.” The president tried to control his impatience. In his mind he was gearing up for action. “Tell us what's on your mind.”

  “I disagree that all scientists have nothing to suggest. My office had a call not an hour ago from a Dr. Victor Tremont, chairman and CEO of Blanchard Pharmaceuticals. He said he couldn't be absolutely certain, having never tested it against the new virus, but the description he's heard of the virus and its symptoms seems to closely match a monkey virus his company's been working with for some years.” She paused for effect. “They have developed a serum that cures it most of the time.”

  There was a stunned moment. Excitement exploded in a cacophony of conflicting voices. They bombarded the HHS secretary with questions. They objected to the possibility. They thrilled at a cure.

  Finally the president slammed his fist onto the table. “Hold it, dammit! All of you, shut up!”

  The cabinet room almost vibrated with the abrupt silence. The president glared at each of them, allowing time for the room to calm. Tension was palpable, and the ticking of the clock on the mantel seemed as loud as thunder.

  Finally, President Castilla returned his hard gaze to the HHS secretary. “Let's hear that again straight out and in fewer words, Nancy. Someone thinks they have a cure for this thing? Where? How?”

  Nancy Petrelli glanced with considerable animosity toward her fellow cabinet members and the other advisers who were ready to jump on her again. “As I said, sir, his name is Victor Tremont. He's CEO and chairman of Blanchard Pharmaceuticals, a large international biomedical company. He says a team at Blanchard has developed a cure against a virus found in monkeys from South America. Animal testing has been highly positive, a veterinary use patent has been granted, and everything's under review by the FDA.”

  Surgeon General Oxnard frowned. “It hasn't been approved by the FDA even for animals?”

  “Or ever tested on humans?” Secretary of Defense McCoy demanded.

  “No,” the HHS secretary said, “they had no intention of using it on humans. Dr. Tremont thinks this unknown virus may be the same monkey virus but contracted now by humans, and I'd say ― considering the circumstances ― we'd be idiots not to investigate further.”

  “Why would anyone develop a cure for a monkey virus?” the secretary of commerce wanted to know.

  “To learn how to combat viruses in general. To develop mass production techniques for the future,” Nancy Petrelli told them. “You've just heard Ken and Norman say emerging viruses are an increasing danger to the world with all the access to what were once remote areas. Today's monkey virus can be tomorrow's human epidemic. I'd say we can all appreciate that now, can't we? Maybe we should consider the possibility that a monkey-virus cure just might cure humans, too.”

  The hubbub erupted again.

  “Too damn dangerous.”

  “I think Nancy's right. We don't have a choice.”

  “FDA would never allow it.”

  “What do we have to lose?”

  “A lot. It could be worse than the disease.”

  And: “Does it sound a little funny to anyone else? I mean, a cure for an unknown disease just appearing out of nowhere?”

  “Come on, Sam, they've obviously been working on it for years.”

  “A lot of pure research doesn't have a practical use at first, then suddenly it does.”

  Until the president again banged the table.

  “All right! All right! We'll discuss it. I'll listen to any and all objections. But right now, I want Nancy and Jesse to go to this Blanchard Pharmaceuticals and check it out. We have a disaster on our hands, and we certainly don't want to make it any worse. At the same time, we could use a miracle right about now. Let's all hope to hell this Tremont knows what he's talking about. Let's do more. Let's pray he's right before half the world is wiped out.” He stood up. “All right, that's it. We all know what we have to do. Let's do it.”

  He strode from the room with a far more positive stride and manner than he felt. He had young children of his own, and he was frightened.

  * * *

  In the soundproof backseat of her long black limousine, Nancy Petrelli spoke into her cell phone. “I waited until the situation appeared to be as grim as possible, as you suggested, Victor. When I saw that everyone was ready to concede all we c
ould do was put on Band-Aids and hand out a lot of TLC, I dropped our bombshell. There was a lot of gnashing of teeth, but in the end I'd say the president's position is, basically, he's ready to take any help he can get.”

  “Good. Intelligent.” Far away in the Adirondacks, Tremont smiled in his office above the placid and peaceful lake. “How is Castilla going to handle it?”

  “He's sending me and the surgeon general up to talk to you and report back.”

  “Even better. We'll put on a science-and-humility show for Jesse Oxnard.”

  “Be careful about it, Victor. Oxnard and a few others are suspicious. With the president looking for anything positive, they won't do more than mutter, but give them any suggestion that something isn't right and they'll pounce.”

  “They'll find nothing, Nancy. Trust me.”

  “What about our colonel Jon Smith? Is he out of the picture?”

  “You can count on it.”

  “I hope so, Victor. I really hope so.”

  She clicked off and sat in the dark limo, her manicured fingers tapping rapidly against the armrest. She was excited and afraid. Excited that everything appeared to be going exactly as planned, and afraid that something… some small chink they had forgotten or ignored or had not dealt with… could go wrong.

  In his office, Victor Tremont looked out at the distant dark shadows of the high Adirondacks. He had reassured Nancy Petrelli, but he was having a harder time reassuring himself. After al-Hassan missed Smith and his two friends in the Sierras, all three had vanished. What he hoped was that they had gone into hiding and posed no further threat that they were hunkered down, afraid for their lives.

  But Tremont could take no chances. Besides, from every piece of information he had been able to learn about Smith, it seemed obvious to him that Smith was not the type to give up. Tremont would continue to keep everyone watching for him. Smith's chances of doing damage, or even surviving, were not good. Tremont shook his head. For a moment he felt a chill. A not-good chance with a man like Smith was not the same as no chance at all.

  CHAPTER TWENTY SIX

  8:02 A.M., Wednesday, October 22

  Baghdad, Iraq

  Once considered the cradle of civilization, the city of Baghdad sprawled on a dry plain between the Tigris and Euphrates Rivers. A metropolis of contrasts, it seemed to shudder in the morning light. From turquoise-tiled domes and minarets, muezzin wailed across the rooftops of the exotic city, calling the faithful to prayer. Women dressed in long abayas glided like black pyramids through the narrow byways of the old suq and toward the glassy, modern high-rises of the new city.

  This ancient city of myth and legend had been invaded many times across the millennia ― by Hittites and Arabs, Mongols and the British ― and each time it had survived and triumphed. But after a decade of U.S.-led sanctions, that long history seemed irrelevant. Life in Saddam Hussein's shabby Baghdad was a day-to-day struggle for the basics ― food, clean water, and medicine. Vehicles lumbered along palm-lined boulevards. Smog stank the sweet desert air.

  Jon Smith had been thinking about all this as the taxicab had rushed him through the gray city streets. Now as he paid off the driver, he looked carefully around at a once-expensive neighborhood. No one appeared too curious. But then, he was dressed as a U.N. worker with an official U.N. armband and a plastic identification badge snapped to his jacket. Also, taxis were everywhere in this grim, embattled city. Driving a cab was one of the few occupations most middle-class Iraqis were already prepared to do: They still had at least one operating family car, and Saddam Hussein kept the price of gas low, less than ten U.S. cents a liter.

  As the driver sped away, Smith surveyed the street again and warily strode across to what had once been the American embassy. The windows were shuttered, and the building and grounds were in disrepair. There was a sense of abandonment about the compound, but Jon pushed on through. He rang the bell.

  The United States still had a man in Baghdad, but he was Polish. In 1991, at the end of the Gulf War, Poland assumed control of the imposing American embassy on P Street Northwest. Since then, even when U.S. bombs and missiles fell, Polish diplomats held forth from the embassy, representing not only their nation's interests in Iraq, but America's. From the great shuttered embassy, they handled passport questions, reported on local media, and occasionally passed sub-rosa messages between Washington and Baghdad. As in all wars, there were times when even enemies needed to communicate, which was the only reason Saddam Hussein tolerated the Poles. At any moment, the mercurial Hussein could change his mind and imprison them all.

  The embassy's front door swung open to show a big man with a snub nose, thick gray hair, and shaggy eyebrows that were lowered over intelligent brown eyes.

  He fit the description Peter had given Jon. “Jerzy Domalewski?”

  “The same. You must be Peter's friend.” The door swung open wider, and the diplomat's gaze took in the tall American with one savvy glance. In his midforties, he wore a brown suit that sagged as if it had gone too long between cleanings. He spoke in Polish-accented English. “Come in. No point in making ourselves into bigger targets than we already are.” He closed the door behind Jon and led him across a marble foyer into a large office. “You are sure no one followed you?” He liked the level look in the stranger's dark blue eyes and the sense of physical power he radiated. He would need both attributes in perilous Baghdad.

  Instantly Smith caught the whiff of fear. “MI6 knows what it's doing. I won't bore you with the circuitous route they used to get me into the country.”

  “Good. Do not tell me.” Domalewski nodded as he closed the office door. “There are secrets no one should know. Not even me.” He gave a small, wry smile. “Take a chair. You must be weary. That one with the arms is comfortable. Still has its springs.” As Jon sat, the diplomat continued on to the window where he cracked open the shutter and stared outside at the morning. “We must be so careful.”

  Jon crossed his legs. Domalewski was correct: He was tired. But he also felt a pounding need to get on with his investigation. Sophia's beautiful face and the agony of her death haunted him.

  Three days ago, he had arrived at London's Heathrow airport in the early hours of the morning dressed in new civilian clothes he had bought in San Francisco. It was the beginning of a long, grueling journey. At Heathrow, an MI6 agent sneaked him into a military ambulance that had whisked him to some RAF base in East Anglia. From there he had been flown to a desert airstrip in Saudi Arabia and picked up by a nameless and taciturn British SAS corporal dressed in long Bedouin robes who spoke perfect Arabic.

  “Put these on.” He tossed Jon robes identical to his. “We're going to take advantage of a little-known prewar agreement.” It turned out he was talking about the Iraqi-Saudi Arabian Neutral Zone, which the two nations still maintained so their nomadic Bedouins could continue their historic trade routes.

  In the sweltering robes, Jon and the corporal were handed from Bedouin camp to Bedouin camp by the Iraqi underground until on the outskirts of Baghdad the corporal surprised him with fake identity papers. Iraqi dinars, Western clothing, and a badge and armband for a U.N. worker from Belize. Jon's cover name was Mark Bonnet.

  He had shaken his head, amazed at MI6's thoroughness. “You've been holding out.”

  “Hell, no,” the corporal said indignantly. “Didn't know whether you'd make it. No point wasting good ID on a bloody corpse.” He pumped Jon's hand in farewell. “If you ever see that arse Peter Howell again, tell him he owes us all a whopper.”

  Now Jon sat in the former American embassy, dressed like a typical U.N. worker in his brown cotton slacks, short-sleeved shirt, zippered jacket, and the all-important U.N. armband and badge. He had money and additional identification in his pocket.

  “Do not take our concern personally,” Domalewski was saying as he continued to study the street. “You cannot blame us for not being especially enthusiastic about helping you.”

  “Of course. But be assured ― th
is may be the most crucial risk you've ever taken.”

  Domalewski nodded his shaggy head. “That was in the message from Peter. He also gave me a list of doctors and hospitals you wished to visit.” The Pole turned from the window, his thick eyebrows raised. Again he considered the American. His old friend Peter Howell had said this man was a medical doctor. But could he handle himself if violence struck? It was true that from his high-planed face to his broad shoulders and trim waist, he looked more like a sniper than a healer. Domalewski considered himself an apt judge of people, and from everything he could see about this undercover American, perhaps Peter had been right.

  Jon asked, “You've arranged meetings?”

  “Of course. I will drive myself to some. Others you must handle yourself.” The diplomat's voice became a warning: “But remember your U.N. credentials will be useless if you fall into the government's hands. This is a police state. Many citizens are armed, and anyone can be a spy. Hussein's private police force ― the Republican Guard ― is as brutal and powerful as the SS and Gestapo combined. They're always sniffing for enemies of the state, dissenters, or simply someone whose looks they do not like.”

  “I understand they can be random.”

  “Ah, so you do know something about Iraq.”

  “A bit.” Smith nodded grimly.

  Domalewski cocked his head, continuing to appraise the American. He went behind his desk and pulled out a drawer. “Sometimes the greatest danger is the very arbitrariness of it all. Violence here erupts in a heartbeat, often for no logical reason. Peter said you should have this.”

  He sat in an armchair next to Jon and held out another U.S. Army Beretta.

  Smith took it eagerly. “He thinks of everything.”

  “As my father and I both found in our time.”

  “Then you've worked with him before.”

  "More than once. Which is why I am doing him the favor of helping you.

  He had wondered why Domalewski had agreed. “Thanks to both of you.”