The Hades Factor c-1

by Robert Ludlum

  He studied her face, so like Sophia's. Her voice was Sophia's voice, but her toughness was her own. To work with her was appealing… and dangerous. He could not look at her without remembering Sophia and feeling a raw rush of pain. He knew he had to go on with his life, but with Randi around, would he be able to? She looked so much like her sister, they could have been identical twins. He had loved Sophia. He did not love Randi. And to work with her could cause him endless grief.

  So he said, “There's nothing you can do for me. This isn't a good idea. Thanks, but no thanks.”

  She said roughly, “This isn't about you or me. This is about Sophia and all the millions of people out there who are going to die.”

  “It is about you and me,” he corrected her. “If we can't work together, neither of us will accomplish a damn thing. Whatever chance I have of getting to the bottom of this will evaporate in arguments and hard feelings.” His voice lowered and he growled. “Understand this. I don't give a flying leap what you think of me. All I care about is Sophia and stopping her killers. You can continue on the rest of your life still hauling around your precious load of anger if that's what you want. I don't have time. I've got something far more important to do. I'm going to stop this scourge, and I don't need you to help me do it.”

  He had taken her breath away. She was silent, stunned that her rage at him showed so much. Also, she felt guilty, which she was not ready to admit. “I could turn you in. Right now, I could go to Donoso, whisper in his ear, and he'd have the military police waiting for you when we land in Turkey. Don't look at me like that, Jon. I'm just laying out the alternatives. You say you don't need me, and I say you do. But the truth is, I don't play dirty with people I respect, and I respect you for everything I've seen in Iraq. Which means even if you and I can't work out something, I'll say nothing to Donoso.” She hesitated. “Sophia loved you. That's important, too. I may never get over Mike's death, but that won't stop me from working cooperatively with you. For instance, do you have any idea what you're going to do once I get us into the United States?”

  Smith scratched his chin. All of a sudden the potential had shifted. “You can get me into the United States?”

  “Sure. No problem. I'll be offered a transport or some other military flight back home. I'll take you with me. Those U.N. credentials are perfect.”

  He nodded. “You think you can get your hands on a computer with a modem, too, before we arrive?”

  “Depends. For how long?”

  "With luck, a half hour. There's a Web site I need to check to find out where to meet my friends. They've been investigating certain aspects of the situation while I've been gone. Assuming they survived, of course.

  “Of course.”

  She stared at him, relieved and surprised at his pragmatism. He was a lot more complicated than she had suspected. Also a lot more decisive.

  She was almost ready to apologize when he said, “You're tired. I can see it in your face. Get some sleep. We've got a busy day tomorrow.”

  He had ice in his veins. But that was what she needed. Without ever saying so, he had agreed to work with her. As she turned away and closed her eyes, she said a silent prayer that they would succeed.

  PART FOUR

  CHAPTER THIRTY EIGHT

  5:32 P.M., Wednesday, October 22

  Washington, D.C.

  At last count, nearly a million had died worldwide. Tragically, hundreds of millions were ill with the symptoms of a heavy cold that could be the first onslaught of the deadly virus no one had a scientific name for yet. Hysteria swept across the hemispheres like the four horsemen of the Apocalypse. In the United States, hospitals were flooded with the ill and the frightened, and the loss of confidence over the past few days had driven down the stock market by a shocking fifty percent.

  In President Castilla's private office in the White House Treaty Room, a row of colorful Kachina dolls with feather headdresses and leather loincloths stood on the marble mantelpiece. As he studied them, he could almost hear the heavy, rhythmic stamp of Indian feet and the hortatory medicine chants to save the world.

  He had left the frantic West Wing to find respite in his home office so he could polish an important speech he was scheduled to deliver to a dinner of Midwest party leaders in Chicago next week. But he could not write. The words seemed trivial.

  Would any of them even be alive next week?

  He answered his own question: Not unless some miracle stopped the raging pestilence that had been loosed upon the world, and that would take more than the dances and chants of Kachinas, real or imaginary.

  He pushed the legal pad and its offending words away. He was about to stand and leave the room when a heavy knock sounded on the closed door.

  Samuel Adams Castilla stared at it. For a second, he held his breath. “Come in.”

  Surgeon General Jesse Oxnard entered, not running but walking very fast. Behind him, HHS Secretary Nancy Petrelli trotted to keep up. White House Chief of Staff Charles Ouray strode in after her. Bringing up the rear was Secretary of State Norman Knight, who carried his metal-rimmed reading glasses as if he had just pulled them from his nose. He looked solemn and uneasy.

  But Surgeon General Oxnard's heavy jowls quivered with excitement. “They're out of danger, sir!” His thick mustache pumped up and down as he continued, “The volunteer virus victims… Blanchard's serum cured them. Every last one!”

  Nancy Petrelli was triumphant in a baby-blue knit suit: “They're recovering rapidly, sir. All of them.” She nodded her silver head. “It's like a miracle.”

  “Thank God.” The president slumped back into his chair as if he had suddenly gone weak. “You're absolutely sure, Jesse? Nancy?”

  “Yessir,” Nancy Petrelli assured him.

  “Absolutely,” the surgeon general enthused.

  “What's the status at Blanchard?”

  “Victor Tremont is waiting to be told to start shipping the serum.”

  Charles Ouray explained, “He's waiting for the FDA to approve it.” The White House chief of staff's voice had an ominous tone. He crossed thick arms over his round paunch. “Director Cormano over there says that'll take at least three months.”

  “Three months? God in heaven.” The president reached for his phone. “Zora, get me Henry Cormano over at the FDA. Right now!” He returned the handset to its cradle. He stared at it, outraged. “Are we all to perish under our own stupidity?”

  The secretary of state cleared his throat. “The FDA is there to protect us from the mistakes of overeagerness and fear, Mr. President. That's why we have the agency.”

  The president's lips turned down with irritation. “There's a time to know when the fear is so big and so real that the protection is irrelevant, Norm. When the caution is more dangerous than the possible mistake.”

  The phone buzzed, and President Castilla snatched it.

  “Cormano―” he began and then sat in smoldering silence, foot tapping impatiently, as the FDA director stated his case. At last the president snapped, “Okay, Cormano, hold it. What can happen that's worse than what is happening? Uh-huh. Dammit, it's horrible now.” He listened for another angry minute. “Henry, listen to rne. Really listen. The rest of the world will approve this serum now that it's cured victims of a virus you scientists can't even tell me where it came from. You want Americans to be the only ones continuing to die while you `protect' them? Yes, I know that's unfair, but it's what they'll say and it's true. Approve the serum, Henry. Then you can write a long memo blasting me with why you didn't want to and what a goddamned ogre I am.” He paused to listen, gave up, and shouted, “No! Do it now!”

  Castilla slammed the phone into its cradle and glared at everyone in the Treaty Room until his gaze settled on the surgeon general.

  He barked, “When can they ship?”

  Jesse Oxnard shot back, “Tomorrow afternoon.”

  “They'll need to pay their costs,” Nancy Petrelli pointed out. “Plus a reasonable return on investment. It's wha
t we agreed to, and it's fair.”

  “Money will be wired tomorrow,” the president decided, “right after the first batch leaves their lab.”

  “What if a nation can't pay?” Nancy Petrelli asked.

  “Advanced nations will have to cover the impoverished nations' costs,” the president told them. “It's been arranged.”

  Secretary of State Knight was shocked. “The pharmaceutical company wants money up front?”

  Chief of Staff Ouray scowled. “I thought this was pro bono.”

  The surgeon general shook his head, chiding them. “No one provides vaccines or serums for nothing, Charlie. You think the flu vaccine we want everyone in the nation to have every winter is free?”

  Nancy Petrelli explained, “Blanchard incurred enormous expense developing the biotechnology and facilities to produce the antiserum in quantity to see if it could be done so we'd have such facilities in the future. They expected to recoup over a long period. But now we need it all and fast. They're way out on a financial limb.”

  “I don't know about this, Mr. President,” Norman Knight worried. “I guess I have some reservations about `miracles.' ”

  “Especially when they don't come cheap,” Ouray added, an edge of sarcasm in his voice.

  The president slammed his fist onto his desk, jumped up, and paced into the center of the room. “Dammit, Charlie, what's the matter with you? Haven't you been listening these last few days?” He prowled back behind his desk and leaned over it, facing them. “Almost one million dead! Untold millions who could be dying any day. And you want to argue about dollars? About a reasonable return for stockholders? In this country? We preach that economic view as the only right and fair way, dammit! We can end the scourge of this awful virus right now. This minute. And it'll be fast and cheap compared to what we spend every year fighting flu, cancer, malaria, and AIDS.” He spun on his heel to peer out the Treaty Room window as if looking out on the entire planet. “It could really be a miracle, people!”

  They waited unspeaking, awed by the righteous rage of their taciturn leader.

  But when he turned to face them again, he had calmed himself. His voice was quiet and compelling. “Call it God's will, if you like. You cynics and secularists are always doubting the unknown, the spiritual. Well, there are more things on heaven and earth, gentlemen and lady, than are dreamed of in your philosophies. If that's too highbrow for you, how about `Don't look a gift horse in the friggin' mouth'?”

  “It doesn't appear it's going to be exactly a gift,” Ouray said.

  “Oh, for God's sake, Charlie. Give it up. It's a miracle. Let's enjoy it. Let's celebrate. We'll have a big ceremony accepting the first shipment up there at Blanchard's headquarters in the Adirondacks. A beautiful setting. I'll fly there, too.” He smiled as the ramifications struck him. At last there was good news, and he knew exactly how to use it. His voice rose again, but this time in excited anticipation. “In fact, let's bring all the world leaders in by closed-circuit TV. I'll give Tremont the Medal of Freedom. We're going to stop this epidemic in its tracks and honor those who've helped us.” He gave a wicked grin. “Of course, it's not too shabby for our political aspirations either. After all, we've got to think of the next election.”

  5:37 P.M.

  Lima, Peru

  Amid the gilt and marble of his office, the deputy minister smiled.

  The important Englishman said, “Everyone who goes into Amazonia needs a permit from your ministry, correct?”

  “Very true,” the deputy minister agreed.

  “Including scientific expeditions?”

  “Especially.”

  “These records are open to the public?”

  “Of course. We are a democracy, yes?”

  “A fine democracy,” the Englishman agreed. “Then I need to examine all the permits granted twelve and thirteen years ago. If it's not too much trouble.”

  “It is no trouble at all,” the deputy minister said cooperatively and smiled again. “But, alas, the records from those years were destroyed during the time of a different government.”

  “Destroyed? How?”

  “I am not certain.” The deputy minister spread his hands in apology. “It was a long time ago. There was much turmoil from unimportant factions that wished a coup. Sendero Luminoso and others. You understand.”

  “I'm not certain I do.” The important Englishman smiled, too.

  “Ah?”

  “I don't recall an attack on the interior ministry.”

  “Perhaps when they were being photocopied.”

  “You should have a record of that.”

  The deputy minister was unperturbed. “As I said, a different government.”

  “I will speak with the minister himself, if I may.”

  “Of course, but, alas, he is out of the city.”

  “Really? That's odd, since I saw him only last night at a concert.”

  “You are mistaken. He is on vacation. In Japan, I believe.”

  “It must have been someone else I saw.”

  “The minister is unremarkable in appearance.”

  “There you are, then.” The Englishman smiled as he stood and bowed slightly to the deputy minister, who returned a pleasant nod. The Englishman left.

  Outside on the wide boulevard of the elegant old city famed for its colonial architecture, the Englishman, whose name was Carter Letissier, flagged down a taxi and gave the address of his Miraflores house. In the taxi, his smile evaporated. He sat back and swore.

  The bastard had been bought. And recently, too. Otherwise, the minister would have allowed Letissier to waste his time in the files only to discover the records really were missing. Instead, the records must not have been destroyed yet. But Letissier also knew they would be gone by the time he could get an appointment with the minister. He glanced at his watch. The ministry was closing. Given the normal lazy habits of Peruvian deputy ministers, the records would not actually disappear until tomorrow morning at the earliest.

  * * *

  Three hours later, the grand offices of the Ministry of the Interior were dark. Armed with his 10mm Browning semiautomatic, Carter Letissier broke in dressed completely in black and wearing the black boots and antiflash hood with respirator of the British SAS counterterrorist commando. At one time he had been a captain of the 22nd SAS Regiment, a proud and memorable period in his life.

  He went directly to the filing cabinet he had learned contained Amazonian documents, found the section on permits, and extracted the folders for the two years he needed. He erected and flicked on the minute lamp he had brought with him. Under it, he opened the folders and photographed the pages with his minicamera. As soon as he had finished, he returned everything to where it belonged, collapsed his light, and slipped back out into the night.

  In his private darkroom in the Miraflores house, Letissier, now a wellknown importer of cameras and equipment to Peru, developed the film. When the negatives were dry, he made large prints.

  Grinning, he dialed a long series of numbers and waited. “Letissier here. I have the names of those who led scientific teams to the location you wished in the years you wished. You have paper and pencil ready, Peter?”

  CHAPTER THIRTY NINE

  10:01 A.M., Thursday, October 23

  Syracuse, New York

  The old industrial city of Syracuse was nestled in the autumn-colored hills of central New York state, a land of rolling farmland, ample rivers, and independent-minded people who enjoyed the great outdoors from the safety of their sprawling lakeside metropolis. Jonathan Smith knew all this because his grandparents had lived here, and he had visited them yearly. A decade ago, they had retired to Florida, where they had fished, surfed, and happily gambled until first his grandmother had died of a heart attack, and then within three months his grandfather had followed, too lonely to go on.

  Jon gazed out the window of the rented Oldsmobile that Randi was driving. As they sped along, she shifted lanes, preparing to leave Interstate 81 go
ing south to join Route 5 east toward where they hoped to find Marty. From here he could see familiar landmarks in the central city ― the historic brick Armory, the Weighlock Building, and Syracuse University's recent Carrier Dome. He was glad the old buildings were still standing, an affirmation that there was some sort of continuity in this precarious world.

  He was tired and tense. It had been a long trip from the Iraqi desert to Syracuse, New York. As Gabriel Donoso had promised, a Harrier jet had picked them up and flown them to Incirlik Air Base in Turkey. There Randi had finessed a ride on a C-17 cargo jet. Once aloft, she had sweet-talked the copilot out of his notebook computer, and Jon had tapped into the Internet to search OASIS, the Asperger's syndrome Web site. Finally he had found Marty's message on the ABCs of Parenting page, part of the Web site's extended Web ring:

  Coughing Wolf,

  A riddle: Who is attacked, separated, stays home with Hart's erroneous comedy 5 ways east, is colored lake green or thereabouts, and whose letter is stolen?

  Edgar A.

  “That's the message?” Randi had read it over his shoulder skeptically. “Your name's not even on it. And there sure as hell isn't any `Zellerbach' mentioned.”

  “I'm Coughing,” he explained. “Think: Smith Brothers cough drops. My uncle who treated Marty swore by them. Marty and I joked about it all the time. Horrible-tasting black things. And what does a wolf do?”

  “Howls.” She rolled her eyes. “Howell. Unbelievable. That's really stretching it.”

  He smiled. “That's why we agreed to address our messages to each other that way. We figured they'd expect us to use E-mail to communicate, but going through the Asperger's site gave us a place to hide out, as long as we came up with some kind of personal code. For Marty and me, since we grew up together, it's no problem. We have a lot of shared history to draw on.”