The Hades Factor c-1

by Robert Ludlum

  Marty brightened, raised his hands above his head, and snapped his fingers as if they were castanets. “You have but to ask!” Moving with great speed, he tapped keys, watched the monitor, and minutes later sat back, crossed his arms, and shot a Cheshire-cat smile at Peter. “Tadah! Personnel file for Sophia Lilian Russell, Ph.D. Got it!”

  Peter had been watching from the shadows, worrying as soon as Marty began talking in exclamation points. Thin and wiry, he slid across the RV's living room to lean over the computer monitor.

  He said quietly, “Jon thinks there was something in the deleted report you recovered from the Prince Leopold Institute that Sophia considered important. That's why the report was erased and the page of her comments cut from her logbook.” He looked into Marty's shining green eyes. “What we need is anything that could tie into that report.”

  Marty bounced up and down on his chair. “Not a problem! I'll print out the entire file.” Electric energy seemed to shoot from his pores, and a self-satisfied smile wreathed his face. “Got it! Got it!”

  Peter clamped a hand on his shoulder. “Better take your Mideral pill, too. Sorry. Know you don't like 'em. Buck up, though. What we're about to do is a task for the boring part of both of our brains. At least you can medicate yours.”

  * * *

  With Sophia's file in front of them, Peter read the Prince Leopold report aloud as Marty checked it against the personnel file. Marty moved line by line, his mind working methodically, while Peter read and reread the report. The Mideral was a wonder drug, and its quick-acting effect had slowed Marty's speech and enabled him to sit quietly through the onerous task. He was acting like a courtly but gloomy gentleman.

  As dawn approached, they had still found no link between Sophia's past activities and current contacts at USAMRIID.

  “Right,” Peter acknowledged. “Take a step back. Where did she do her postdoc work?”

  Marty peered at the file. “University of California.”

  “Which one?”

  If Marty had been off his meds, he would have thrown up his hands in despair at how poorly Peter was informed. Instead he simply gave a shake of his head. “Berkeley, of course.”

  “Ah, yes. And they say we Brits are snobs. Can you crack that august institution, or do we have to drive all the way back to the West Coast?”

  Marty raised his brows at Peter's idea of levity. He said in a measured, irritatingly slow voice, “Tell me, Peter, do we dislike each other as much when I'm off my meds?”

  “Yes, my boy. We certainly do.”

  With dignity, Marty inclined his head. “Thought so.” He sat at his computer, and ten minutes later Sophia's transcript at Berkeley was in his hands.

  Peter read aloud the Prince Leopold report again.

  Marty checked the transcript. “No names that match. No fieldwork. Her entire program was in human genetics, not virology.” He sat back, and the transcript slid off his knee. “It's hopeless.”

  “Nonsense. As we Brits say, `We've not yet begun to fight.' ”

  Marty frowned. “That was John Paul Jones against the British.”

  “Ah, but technically he was still a Brit when he said it.”

  Marty gave a gimlet smile. “You're still trying to hold on to the colonies?”

  “Always did hate to give up a good investment. Very well, where did she do her doctoral studies?”

  “Princeton.”

  “Crack away.”

  But the transcript of her doctoral studies showed her work to be far too extensive and lacking in detail to help. Her dissertation had no connection to viruses. Instead, she had researched the gene cluster that held the genetic mutation responsible for the missing tails of Manx cats.

  Marty pointed out, “She took extensive field trips. That could be useful.”

  “Agreed. Is a graduate adviser listed?”

  “Dr. Benjamin Liu. Emeritus. He still teaches an occasional course, and he lives in Princeton.”

  “Right,” Peter said. “I'll crank up this heap. We're off.”

  8:14 A.M.

  Princeton, New Jersey

  Sunrise illuminated the autumn colors of trees and bushes as Peter and Marty drove north. They traded off driving to sleep and crossed the Delaware Memorial Bridge south of Wilmington and sped up the Jersey Turnpike past the bustling metropolises of Philadelphia and Trenton. When they entered Princeton, the sun was bright, and the tree leaves were vibrant shades of red, gold, and tangerine.

  It was an old town, Princeton, a scene of battle during the Revolutionary War when the British headquartered here. It still retained the tree-lined streets and grassy meadows, the old houses and classic university buildings, and the elegant and peaceful atmosphere in which high learning and tranquil lifestyles were most comfortably pursued. The famed university and the historic town were symbionts, neither succeeding fully without the other.

  Dr. Benjamin Liu lived on a side street heavily planted in maple trees whose leaves burned flame red, as if on fire. The sedate, three-story frame structure was shingled in that eastern seaboard wood color that is neither dark brown nor dark gray but somewhere in between, earned by years of bravely facing the elements.

  Dr. Liu himself had a well-weathered face. Far from the cliché of an inscrutable Chinese courtier, he was tall and muscular, with the eyes and white drooping mustache of an ascetic Mandarin but the jutting chin, full cheeks, and ruddy complexion of a New England whaling captain. He was a fine blend of Chinese and Caucasian, and the walls of his study helped to show why. Hanging there were two portraits that appeared to be his parents. One was a tall, athletic, blond woman wearing a yachting cap and carrying a fishing rod, while the other showed a distinguished gentleman in the traditional robes of a Mandarin Chinese elder seated on the bow of a ship. On one side of the photographs hung mounted game fish, while on the other were displayed historic Chinese court badges of rank.

  Dr. Liu had just finished his breakfast. He waved them to seats in the study. “So how can I help you? You spoke on the phone of Sophia Russell. I remember her well. A great student. Not to mention a hell of a looker. She was the only time I was tempted to dare the fates with a teacher-student affair.” He sank into a wing-back chair. “How is she, anyway?”

  On his meds, Marty began one of his slow, methodical answers. “Well, Sophia Russell is―”

  Peter gave in to impatience. “Right, Marty. My job here.” He focused on the retired professor. “She's dead, Doctor Liu. Sorry to be so blunt, but we're hoping you can help. She died from the new virus.”

  “Dead?” Dr. Liu was shocked. “When? I mean, is it possible?” He looked from Peter to Marty and back to Peter. He shook his head, slowly at first, then vigorously. “But she was so… young.” He hesitated as if seeing Sophia's vitality. Then the rest of what Peter had said penetrated. “The new virus? It's a global disaster! I have grandchildren, and I'm frightened to death. It could wipe out half the species. What are we doing to stop it? Can anyone tell me?”

  Peter's voice was reassuring. “Everyone's working around the clock, Professor. It's what Dr. Russell was researching.”

  “Researching? So that's how she got the virus?”

  “Perhaps. It's one of the things we're trying to ascertain.”

  The professor's face was set in grim lines. “I can't imagine I can be of any help, but I'll try. Tell me what you want.”

  Peter handed the one-page report to the professor. “This is from the Prince Leopold Institute of Tropical Diseases. Please read it and tell us if anything in there ties in with Dr. Russell's studies at Princeton. Classes, field trips, research, friends, any bloody thing that occurs to you.”

  Professor Liu nodded. He took his time reading. He stopped often to think and remember. An old clock on the mantel of the study ticked loudly. He read the report again. And again.

  Finally, he shook his head. “I see nothing here that strikes me as relating to Sophia's work or studies. She concentrated on genetics and, as far as I know, never
took a field trip to anywhere in South America. Giscours didn't study at Princeton, and Sophia didn't study in Europe. I see no way they could've met.” He pursed his lips and glanced down at the report again. He raised his head. “But you know, I do recall… yes, a trip. In her undergraduate years. Not viruses, though.” He hesitated. “Damn, it's only something she mentioned in passing at an informal gathering.” He sighed. “I'm not going to be able to tell you more than that.”

  Marty had been listening closely. Even when he was on his medication and his brilliant mind was tethered, he still tested smarter than ninety-eight percent of the human populace. Which increased his annoyance with Peter Howell. So just to prove he could, he forced himself to ask quickly: “Where was she an undergraduate?”

  The professor looked at him. “Syracuse. But she wasn't studying biology then. So I don't see how that trip could possibly relate to Giscours and his report.”

  Peter opened his mouth to speak, but Marty jumped in: “Something had better.” He felt a sudden chill and looked at Peter.

  Peter gave a grimace of understanding. “It's our last chance.”

  * * *

  Specialist Four Adele Schweik sat in her small Honda watching the house. The heavy man, Maddux, sat in the passenger seat beside her. She had spotted the black-clothed intruder leave Fort Detrick and get into the RV parked on the street, and then she had followed them to Princeton. Now she needed to get back to her post at USAMRIID.

  She told Maddux, “That's his RV over there. He looks and acts dangerous. Be careful. He's with another man who should give you no trouble. You can pick them up when they come out.”

  “You reported to Mr. al-Hassan?”

  “There wasn't time.”

  Maddux nodded. “Okay, go. We'll take over.”

  He stepped out of the car and hurried to his van. Schweik drove away without another glance at him or the RV.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  9:14 A.M.

  Long Lake Village, New York

  The Adirondack mountain air was sweet and fresh, and the sun that morning cast long, damp shadows from the tall pines onto Blanchard Pharmaceuticals' sprawling complex. Inside the brick headquarters, Surgeon General Jesse Oxnard was impressed. He and HHS secretary Nancy Petrelli had finished a tour of Blanchard's labs and production facilities, conducted personally by Victor Tremont himself. The surgeon general had known of the company, of course, but it had always maintained a quiet profile, and he had had no idea of its great size or worldwide presence.

  The two government officials met with senior staff over coffee and then rejoined Tremont in his grand, half-timbered office. A wall of windows overlooked the forested lake that gave the town its name. They settled into chairs beside Tremont's fireplace where wood burned in a comforting glow, and they listened attentively as Tremont enthusiastically described the origin of the promising experimental serum.

  “…our microbiology people came to me with the proposal more than a decade ago, because at the time I was in charge of R&D. They predicted more and more diseases would emerge as Third World nations became more accessible and their populations burgeoned. In other words, fewer locations would be remote enough to confine deadly outbreaks. The industrial world would have no defenses against these plagues, which could be even more devastating than HIV-AIDS. My people hoped by working with some of the more obscure ones we'd learn not only valuable science but develop serums for hitherto incurable diseases. One of the viruses they concentrated on was fatal to a certain species of monkey that was an especially close genetic relative to humans. We developed a recombinant antiserum cocktail against that virus, and developed the biotechnology to produce the antibodies in bulk as a feasibility study on mass production techniques for the future.” He gazed earnestly at the pair. “It's the study I phoned you about, Secretary Petrelli. Now maybe that effort may help the world. At least, I certainly hope so.”

  Jesse Oxnard was not sure. He was a big, robust man with heavy jowls and a thick mustache. He frowned. “But this development… this serum… is still essentially in the research stage. Isn't that so?”

  An understanding smile spread across Tremont's tanned, aristocratic face. The firelight reflected in his iron-gray hair as he shook his head. “We're past both the animal-testing and the primate-testing stages. In fact, we've shown the serum cures the virus in affected monkeys. And, as I said, purely as a scientific study, we developed the facilities and techniques to produce it in bulk. In fact we have millions of doses already on hand. That's what prompted us to get the patent and apply for FDA approval for veterinary use.”

  Nancy Petrelli watched the effect all this was having on the surgeon general, while at the same time she marveled at Victor Tremont's smooth telling of the concocted story. She almost believed it herself. Which reminded her to cover her back when dealing with Victor. She never let herself think he was her friend. At first he had needed her initial investment, and later he wanted her influence as a congresswoman and then as secretary of HHS. That was as warm and fuzzy as it got with Victor.

  Nancy was a realist. She wore her silver hair short and efficient. She dressed in feminine but businesslike St. John's knits. And she never gambled unless she figured the odds were greatly in her favor. She was backing Victor Tremont and his high-class, high-powered con game because she believed he would pull it off. She was also well aware his crimes would be compounded by mass murder if he was caught, so she had decided to distance herself from any hint that she might have known what he was actually doing. At the same time, she fully expected him to triumph and make her rich.

  As much for her own benefit as Oxnard's, she said, “Monkeys aren't people, Dr. Tremont.”

  Victor glanced quizzically at her and agreed: “True. But in this case, they are very close genetically and physiologically.”

  “Let me make certain I understand this.” Surgeon General Oxnard stroked his mustache. “You can't be sure the serum will cure people.”

  Tremont answered solemnly, “Of course not. We won't know until it's actually tested on humans. But considering the situation, I think we need to try.”

  The surgeon general frowned. “That's a huge obstacle. In fact, it's entirely possible we may discover the serum may cause harm.”

  Tremont knit his fingers together and stared down at his hands. When he looked up, he said earnestly, “Well, one thing seems almost certain ― millions will die if we don't find a cure for this horrible virus.” He shook his head as if in an agony of indecision. “Don't you think I've wrestled with this exact problem? It's why I hesitated for two days to come forward. I had to be comfortable in my own mind I was doing the right thing. So the answer is yes, I'm convinced there's a very good chance our serum will cure this terrible epidemic. But how can I guarantee it won't create a greater suffering until it's tested?”

  All three silently contemplated the dilemma. Jesse Oxnard knew he could not possibly recommend Tremont's serum for use without thorough testing, but at the same time he recognized he would look bold and decisive if it saved millions around the globe from certain death.

  Nancy Petrelli continued to concern herself with herself. She knew the serum would work, but she had learned the hard way to never go out on the end of a political limb. She would position herself solidly on the side of caution and join the minority that would, in the end, she was sure, be overruled in Victor's favor.

  Meanwhile Victor Tremont was worrying about Jon Smith and his two friends. He had heard no news about them from al-Hassan since the fiasco in the Sierras. As he thought that, he brought himself back to the present. He had a brave gesture in mind that he hoped would convince the surgeon general and, through him, President Castilla. But he had to time it just so.

  As he looked up at Petrelli and Oxnard and their clouded faces deep in thought, he knew the time had come.

  He must break the impasse. If he could not convince Surgeon General Oxnard, it was possible everything he had striven for over the past dozen years would be lo
st.

  Inwardly he nodded grimly. He would not lose. He could not. “The only way to be sure is to test it on a human.” He leaned toward them, his voice commanding and grave. “We have isolated small quantities of the lethal monkey virus. It's unstable, but it can be preserved for a week or so.” He hesitated as if wrestling with a great moral question. “There's only one way to proceed. And please don't try to stop me ― there's too much at stake. We must think of the greater good, not just what we as individuals risk.” He paused again and inhaled. “I'll inject myself with the monkey virus―”

  Surgeon General Oxnard flinched. “You know that's impossible.”

  Tremont raised a hand. “No, no. Please let me finish. I'll inject myself with the virus, and then I'll take the serum. The monkey virus may not be exactly the same as the one that's spreading, but I believe it's close enough that we'd see any adverse side effects when I self-administer the serum. Then we'll know.”

  “That's absurd!” Nancy Petrelli exclaimed, playing the devil's advocate. “You know we can't possibly allow you to do that.”

  Jesse Oxnard hesitated. “You'd actually do that?”

  “Absolutely.” Tremont nodded vigorously. “If it's the only way to convince everyone that our serum can stop what is rapidly becoming a horrible pandemic.”

  “But―” Nancy Petrelli began, playing out her opposition.

  The surgeon general shook his head. “It's not for us to decide, Nancy. Tremont is making a magnificent humanitarian offer. The least we can do is respect that and put his suggestion before the president.”

  Petrelli frowned. “But, dammit, Jesse, we have no assurance the two viruses and the serum will interact the same way in the human body.” She saw Tremont again frown at her curiously, as if he doubted he had heard her accurately. “If Dr. Tremont is going to offer himself as our guinea pig, he should be infected with the real virus. Or, at least, we should test the two viruses to see if, perhaps, they are identical.”