The Hades Factor c-1

by Robert Ludlum

  Marty sang loudly. He barely noticed when al-Hassan untied one of his hands and gave him a pill and a glass of water. He stopped to swallow the pill then resumed singing as al-Hassan tied him again.

  Victor Tremont and the Arab watched as his vocalizing slowly faded, his arrogant pose slumped against the ropes, and his feverishly bright eyes turned quiet.

  “I think you can question him now,” Tremont said.

  Al-Hassan smiled his wolf smile and walked around to face Marty. “So, let us begin again, Mr. Zellerbach, eh?”

  Marty looked up at the lean, dour Arab. He cowered on the chair. The man was too close, and he looked evil. The other man ― the tall one ― stood on Marty's other side. He was too close as well, and too menacing. Marty could smell them. Strangers. He could barely breathe. He wanted to make them go away. Leave him alone.

  “Where is your friend Jon Smith?”

  Marty quavered in the chair. “Ir-Iraq.”

  “Good. He was in Iraq. But he is now back in America. Where will he go now?”

  Marty blinked up at them as they leaned closer, eager. He remembered posting the message to Jon on the Web site. Maybe Jon had already found it and was heading toward the RV. He fervently hoped so.

  He felt his teeth grind. No! No, he would not tell them. “I ― I don't know.”

  The Arab muttered another curse and swung his fist. Marty screamed with fear.

  Pain exploded in his head, and a great wave of black rolled over him.

  “Damn.” Victor Tremont knotted his fists. “He's unconscious.”

  “But I did not strike him with that much force,” al-Hassan protested.

  Tremont scowled with disgust. “We'll have to wait until he comes to and try something less physical.”

  “There are ways.”

  “But with him, it will be tricky not to kill him. You saw how excitable he is.”

  They stared in frustration at the silent Marty, whose head hung limply forward, his body lashed to the chair.

  “Or,” Victor Tremont began to smile. He paused as his shrewd mind worked on an idea. “I have a much better way to find what we need to know.” He nodded. “Yes, a much better idea.”

  10:35 A.M.

  Syracuse, New York

  Peter Howell peeled off his trench coat to reveal his black commando suit. His pale gaze surveyed the bullet-spattered interior of his high-tech RV. Brief sadness showed on his lined face, and then it was gone, overtaken by complete concentration as he walked rapidly through it, checking.

  “What happened to Marty?” Jon stared at the Englishman's back as he turned from the driver's seat. “Do you know where they've taken him?”

  “Spotted him at a chemist's a few blocks from here. Pharmacy to you Yanks. There were three.” Peter's wiry body bristled with energy as he strode toward them. “The leader was that short, heavy fellow we saw back at the ambush on the dirt road in the Sierras.”

  Randi said, “That means the people with the virus have him?”

  Jon grimaced. “That's what it means. Poor Mart.”

  “Will he talk?” Randi asked.

  “If he had, I'd think they'd be here by now,” Peter said.

  “But he will?”

  “He's not strong,” Smith admitted. He described Asperger's syndrome.

  “That little fellow is a lot tougher and shrewder than one would imagine, Jon,” Peter decided. “He'll find a way not to crack.”

  “Not forever. Not many can. We've got to get him out of there.”

  “Do we know where he is?” Randi asked Peter.

  Peter shook his head. “Unfortunately, I was on foot and unable to follow the car they took him away in.”

  “How did you figure out where to find him?” Jon asked.

  “Located the RV from his message about an hour ago.” Peter reported how he had found the RV empty, just as they had. But he had also found drafts of a fake doctor's prescription printed out from the computer. “Marty must've forged a prescription for his Mideral. He was almost out of his pills last night when we separated.” He described the gunfight in the park.

  Jon shook his head. “How do you think they found you?”

  “I figure they must've been tailing us all the way from Detrick just looking for the most agreeable moment to attack. I thought I'd shaken any possible pursuit, but it would seem they're quite good.” His gaze settled on bullet holes that had pocked a map of Third World countries and shook his head. “I went looking for the closest chemist's shops. I got to the third one just as Marty came out and those three seized him.”

  “No indication on the car who they were?”

  “None, I'm afraid.”

  “Then the only way we're going to find him is to find them.”

  “Right. A serious problem. I may have a solution, but first fill me in quickly about Iraq.”

  Smith hit the high points of his investigation in Baghdad until the Republican Guards' attack in the tire shop.

  The Englishman's wrinkles expanded in a wide grin at Randi. His gaze swept over her in appreciation. “The CIA is improving the quality of its agents, miss. You're a welcome change over the usual sobersides in their three-piece suits. Just a garrulous old man's opinion, mind you.”

  “Thanks. You're not so bad yourself.” Randi smiled back. “I'll be sure to pass on your recommendation to the director.”

  “You do that.” Peter turned to Jon. “What happened next?” His face went quickly sober again as he listened to what they had learned from Dr. Mahuk in the pediatric hospital, and how they had been captured by the Baghdad police who had apparently been in the pay of whoever was behind the virus.

  “So three victims were cured in Iraq, too?” The Englishman swore. “A diabolical experiment. Don't like to think about the money and power that can actually accomplish anything in that closed-off country. Of course your trip confirmed the virus's roots in the Gulf War.” He paused. “My turn. Got a little piece of news that blows the lid off this whole nasty business. I believe I know what Sophia discovered that was so important in Giscours's report from the Prince Leopold Institute.”

  Jon inhaled, excited. “What?”

  “Peru. It was Peru all along.” He described Sophia's field trip there twelve years before as an anthropology student from Syracuse. With that small piece of information, he had contacted a former associate in Lima, who had secured a list of scientists who had trekked into the Peruvian Amazonia that same year.

  Smith asked instantly, “You have the list?”

  A grin of satisfaction spread across Peter's brown, leathery face. “Does a fox find the heather? Come, children.”

  As he stalked to the kitchen table, he pulled out two folded sheets of paper from somewhere inside his black commando outfit. He lay them out, flicked on the overhead light, and the three of them bent over, quickly reading the names.

  Peter explained, “There were a lot more in Amazonia that year, but not at the same times as Sophia.”

  The fourteenth leaped out at both Jon and Randi.

  “That's it!” Randi said. “Victor Tremont.”

  Smith nodded grimly. “CEO and chairman of Blanchard Pharmaceutical. The president's going to give him a medal today for saving the world with his serum. The great humanitarian, working his company around the clock to produce it while he sells it only at cost.”

  “Bloody hell.” Peter shook his head. “Believe that, and you'll believe we Brits acquired our empire to bring civilization to the natives.”

  “We already knew Blanchard had the serum,” Randi said, thinking about the newspaper story. “Now it seems Tremont himself brought the virus from Peru.”

  Jon nodded. “And because he's a scientist, he could've recognized the potential of a serum for such a deadly virus and somehow managed to infect a few people during Desert Storm. He must've known it wasn't very contagious and that it was slow-acting, lying in the body for years like HIV.”

  “Good God,” Peter breathed. “So he started his secre
t testing on humans in Iraq ten years ago, when he had no guarantee he'd ever develop a serum to cure them when the virus went into its last fatal stages? He's a monster!”

  “Maybe it's worse than that. It's very convenient for the virus to break out now.” Jon's eyes were icy blue. “Somehow he made the pandemic start so he could cure it and make a fortune in the process.”

  Shocked silence filled the RV. Smith had spoken the words they had not wanted to hear. But it was the truth, and the implications hung in the air like a sharp ax waiting to fall.

  Randi finally said, “How?”

  “I don't know,” Jon admitted. “We've got to check Blanchard's records. Damn, I wish Marty were here.”

  “Perhaps I can substitute,” Peter said. “I'm pretty fair with a computer, and I've been watching him use his own special programs for days.”

  “I tried, but he was using a password.”

  Peter gave a grim smile. “That I know, too. Typical of Marty's odd sense of humor. The password is Stanley the Cat.”

  10:58 A.M.

  Long Lake Village, New York

  In the deep recesses of whatever honesty and integrity he had left, Mercer Haldane had suspected what Victor Tremont had never admitted: Somehow Victor had caused the pandemic that was sweeping the world. Now, as he looked down through his office window at the platform and giant TV screen that were being assembled for this afternoon's ceremony, he could keep silent no more. God in heaven, the president himself was coming to send off the first official batch of serum as if Blanchard and Victor were Mother Teresa, Gandhi, and Einstein rolled up into one.

  For days the moral battle had raged inside him.

  Once he had been an honorable man and had taken great pride in his integrity. But somewhere along the line of building Blanchard into a world-class pharmaceutical giant, he realized now he had lost his way. The result was that Victor Tremont was to receive America's revered Medal of Freedom for what could be the most despicable act the globe had ever seen.

  Mercer Haldane could not tolerate that. No matter what would happen to him… even though he would probably have to take the blame… so be it. He had to stop this tragic farce. Some things were more important than money or success.

  He reached for his phone. “Mrs. Pendragon? Please get the surgeon general's office in Washington. I believe you have the number.”

  “Of course, sir. I'll put the call through immediately.”

  Mercer Haldane leaned back in his executive desk chair to wait. He rested his neck against the cool leather and put his hands over his eyes.

  But another wave of doubt assaulted him. With a shock, he remembered again he could go to prison.

  Lose his family, his position, his fortune. He grimaced.

  On the other hand, if he said nothing, Victor would make a great deal of money for all of them. He knew that.

  He shook his white head. He was being a fool. Worse, a sentimental old fool. What did all those faceless millions really matter? They would die one way or another anyway, and the way life was, most would not expire from natural causes but from disease, hunger, war, revolution, earthquake, typhoon, accident, or an angry lover. There were too many people anyway, especially in the Third World, and the overpopulation increased geometrically every year.

  The result was nature would strike back anyway, as it always did, with famines, plagues, wars, and cosmic disasters.

  What did it matter if he and Victor and the company grew wealthy on the deaths of millions?

  He sighed, because the truth was. it mattered to him.

  A person controlled his fate. He remembered what the Prussians said: A man's worth began only when he was willing to die for his principles.

  Mercer Haldane had been trained on principles. At one time, he had cherished them. If he still had a soul to save, the only way he could do it was to stop Victor Tremont.

  Inwardly he continued his war, his eyes closed, his neck against the chair pillow. As the conflict raged on, he felt ever more weak and miserable. But in the end, he knew he was going to tell the surgeon general everything. He had to. He would pay any cost to know he had done the right thing.

  When he heard the door open, he uncovered his eyes and swung around in the chair. “Is something wrong with the connection, Mrs. Pendragon?”

  “Lost your nerve, Mercer?”

  Victor Tremont stood in the office. He was a towering figure in his expensive business suit and polished kid shoes. His thick, iron-gray hair glowed in the overhead lights, and his distinctive face with its aquiline features and faintly haughty expression glowered down on Haldane. He radiated the kind of self-assurance that commanded boardrooms with the ease of a great maestro before a world-class orchestra.

  Haldane lifted his old eyes to gaze at his former protégé. He said evenly, “Found my conscience, Victor. It's not too late for you to rediscover yours. Let my call to the surgeon general go through.”

  Tremont laughed. “I believe it was Shakespeare who wrote a conscience was a luxury that made cowards of us all. But he was wrong. It makes us victims, Mercer. Losers. And I have no intention of being either.” He paused and scowled. “A man is either the wolf or the deer, and I plan to do the eating.”

  Haldane raised his hands, palms up. “For God's sake, Victor, we help people. Our goal is to relieve suffering. `First, do no harm.' We're in the healing business.”

  “The hell we are,” Tremont said harshly. “We're in the money business. Profits. That's what counts.”

  Haldane could contain himself no longer. “You're an egotistical freak, Victor!” he exploded. “A fiend! I'll tell the surgeon general everything…. I'll―”

  “You'll do nothing,” Tremont snapped. “That call's never going to go through. Mrs. Pendragon knows a winner when she sees one.” He slid his hand inside his jacket and withdrew a dark, lethal Glock 9mm pistol. “Nadal!”

  Mercer Haldane's old heart pounded. Sweat suddenly bathed him as a tall, pockmarked Arab entered the room. He, too, carried a large pistol.

  Paralyzed with fear, Mercer stared from one to the other, speechless.

  CHAPTER FORTY ONE

  11:02 A.M.

  Lake Magua, New York

  The Christmaslike odor of pine needles permeated the spacious living room of Victor Tremont's lodge. Through the windows, the lake reflected crystalline blue surrounded by the thick green forest. Near the giant fireplace where flames licked high, Bill Griffin sat in a leather club chair. His stocky body gave every appearance of being relaxed. As usual, his brown hair hung limp and unruly to his jacket collar. He crossed his legs and lighted a cigarette.

  He smiled a slow smile at Victor Tremont and Nadal al-Hassan and explained calmly, “The trouble was, all of us were working at cross-purposes. Ever since you gave me the order to eliminate Jon Smith, I've been watching three places at once ― his house in Thurmont, the Russell woman's condo in Frederick, and Fort Detrick. No wonder you had a hard time contacting me.”

  It was all a lie. He had been hiding in a walk-up apartment in Greenwich Village that belonged to a woman friend from the old days in New York. But when he had seen the news story about the president's honoring Blanchard Pharmaceuticals and the orders that were rolling in for the serum, he had known he had to return to make certain he received his fair share.

  And there was still the issue of Smith. “I'd expected to take out Smith when he left Detrick,” he explained, “but I couldn't get a decent opportunity, and after that night he never showed up again at any of the other places. He vanished into thin air. Maybe he gave up or took leave. Or went somewhere to grieve for the woman.” He hoped that was true, but knowing Jon, he doubted it.

  Victor Tremont stood looking out the picture window at the trees as the sun reflected scattered bursts of light on the lake's surface. His voice was thoughtful. “No. He hasn't taken leave to mourn.”

  Nadal al-Hassan sat one hip of his emaciated frame onto the arm of the high sofa that faced the fireplace. “In any case, i
t is irrelevant now. We know where he is, and he will soon be no more problem.”

  Griffin's cheeks widened in another smile. “Hell, that's a relief.” He added almost as an afterthought, “Maddux on him?”

  Tremont left the window and bent to his humidor to extract a cigar. He offered the humidor to Griffin, who lifted his cigarette and shook his head. Nadal al-Hassan, as a strict Muslim, did not smoke.

  As Tremont lighted the cigar, he spoke over his hands and the rising smoke and aroma: “Actually, Maddux has captured one of Smith's friends. A computer geek named Martin Zellerbach. We'll soon make Zellerbach divulge where Smith is hiding in Syracuse.”

  “Smith is in Syracuse?” Griffin seemed alarmed. He gazed accusingly at al-Hassan. “That close to us? How the hell did he get so near?”

  Al-Hassan's voice was mild. “By checking back through Russell's life and education. She did her undergraduate work at Syracuse.”

  “Where she was studying when she went on the trip to Peru?”

  “I'm afraid so.”

  “Then he knows about us!”

  “I don't think so. At least, not yet.”

  Griffin's voice rose. “But, dammit, he will. I'll stop him. This time, I'll―”

  Tremont interrupted, “You needn't worry about Smith. I have another job for you. Jack McGraw is up to his nostrils preparing security for the president. The ceremony this afternoon is, of course, a great honor, but it was a last-minute decision. Everyone's scrambling. Plus there are all the media people to deal with. We don't want any interlopers crashing the party. You have FBI experience, so you should be the one to coordinate with the Secret Service.”

  Griffin was puzzled. “Of course. You're the boss. But if you're still worried about Smith, then I think―”

  “That won't be necessary.” Al-Hassan's voice was definite. “We have it taken care of.”

  “How? Who?” Griffin glanced doubtfully at the Arab while inwardly he worried.

  “General Caspar has managed to plant a CIA agent with Colonel Smith. She is Russell's sister, and she has a strong personal hatred for him from some old insult. She has been told Smith is a grave danger to the country. She will have no qualms about eliminating him.” AlHassan studied Griffin. “I think we should consider the task completed. For us, Smith is dead.”