Bill Griffin's face remained unchanged. He took a long drag on his cigarette.
Then he nodded, feigning satisfaction tinged with doubt to be consistent with the stance he had taken since he had discovered Smith was a target. They had suspected him since the night he had warned Jon. His failure to kill him had deepened their distrust. Now they had captured Zellerbach, whom he remembered from high school as a genius, but also as weak and easily frightened. Sooner or later, Marty would break and betray Jon. Plus they had planted Sophia Russell's sister, Randi. That was especially bad. He had heard Jon speak about how much the woman hated him. She would be capable of killing. Any CIA field agent had to be.
With Marty's capture and the infiltration of Randi Russell, Tremont and al-Hassan had their problems under control. Or so they thought.
Griffin stood up, a stocky man with a bland face. “Sounds like the perfect assignment for me. I'll get right on it.”
“Good.” Tremont gave him a dismissive nod of the head. “Use the Cherokee. Nadal and I'll take the Land Rover after we finish our business here. Thanks for coming in, Bill. We were worried about you. Always a pleasure to see you.”
But as Griffin exited, Tremont's expression changed. His gaze cold, he watched the traitor disappear out the door.
* * *
Bill Griffin drove the Jeep Cherokee off the road and parked in a dense stand of oaks and birch trees. As he pulled brush around the Cherokee to camouflage it from the road, his mind was a maelstrom of conflict. Somehow he must reach Jon and warn him about Randi and Marty. But at the same time, he did not want to lose everything he had worked for since he had met Victor Tremont and joined the Hades Project two years ago. He was entitled to his share of the good things along with all the other thieving bastards who ran this world. More than entitled after his years of service to the goddamn ungrateful cheats and liars who ran the Bureau and the country.
But he would not let them kill Jon. That far he would not go.
He waited among the trees, watching the rustic lodge and the matching outbuildings. Insects buzzed. The aroma of sun-warmed forest duff scented the air. His pulse began to race.
After fifteen minutes, he heard the Land Rover. With relief, he watched it pass where he hid and disappear southeast among the trees. Tremont and al-Hassan would reach the main country road after a few more miles and drive on into Long Lake village to prepare for the ceremony. That did not give him much time.
Urgency swept through him as he drove back to the lodge, parked behind the staff wing, and hurried to a cyclone-fenced enclosure at the edge of the woods, out of sight of the lodge. He unlocked the gate and whistled softly. The large Doberman appeared silently from inside a wood doghouse. His brown coat shone in the mountain light. His sharply pointed ears periscoped forward as his intelligent eyes never strayed from Griffin.
Griffin stroked the dog behind his ears and spoke quietly. “Ready, boy? Time to go to work.”
He headed out of the enclosure, the big dog trotting softly behind. He relocked the gate, and they moved swiftly toward the lodge. He watched everywhere. The three-man outside security team should be no problem, since they knew him. Still, he would rather not take the chance. At a side door of the lodge, he breathed deeply and gazed around one more time. Then he opened the door, and he and the Doberman entered. The house was eerily quiet, a massive wood coffin. Almost everyone had left for the celebration at Blanchard headquarters in Long Lake village, with the exception of a few technicians in the big lab on the second floor. Tremont would not stash a prisoner on the lab floor.
The rest of the lodge should be empty, except for Marty and perhaps an armed guard to watch him. He bent to the Doberman. “Sweep the area, boy.”
The Doberman vanished among the corridors, as silent as fog rolling across a moor. Griffin waited, listening to the relaxed chatter of two of the security men who had paused outside a window as they made their individual rounds.
Two minutes passed, and then the Doberman was back, circling and eager to lead Griffin to what he had found. Griffin followed the pacing animal along a hallway lined with doors to guest rooms that had once been the retreats of the nineteenth-century wealthy, who had played here at returning to nature. But the dog stopped at none. Instead, he continued on past the gleaming kitchen, strangely silent and empty because the cooks and scullery staff had been given the afternoon off to attend the festivities in Long Lake village.
At last the dog stopped before a closed door. Griffin tried the knob. It was locked.
His skin prickled with nerves. The enormous empty house was enough to make anyone edgy, but now Griffin was about to open a door he had never seen beyond. Glancing right and left, he drew a small case from his jacket pocket and extracted a set of narrow picklocks. He worked skillfully through three of them. Finally the fourth opened the lock with a quiet click.
Griffin pulled out his pistol and turned the knob. The door swung open silently, its hinges well oiled. Inside was a faint smell of mold. He felt around the wall until he found a light switch. He flicked it on, and an overhead lamp illuminated stairs that disappeared down into a cellar. Griffin gave a hand signal and closed the door. The Doberman raced down to continue its mission, nails tapping on the wood stairs.
As Griffin waited, he stared uneasily down into the darkness. The dog was back in seconds, indicating for Griffin to follow.
Griffin found another light switch midway down. This turned on a series of overhead lights that illuminated a large cellar with open storage rooms filled with cardboard banker's boxes. Each box was neatly labeled with the names of files, sources, dates ― the history of a scientist and businessman. But the dog's interest was at the only closed door. He circled warily in front of it.
His gun ready, Griffin pressed his ear against the door. When he heard nothing, he looked down at the dog. “A mystery, eh, boy?”
The dog lifted his muzzle as if in agreement. Right now the animal was merely watchful and alert, but if Griffin should need him, he would instantly turn into a killer.
Using his tools again, Griffin unlocked the door, but he did not open it. The basement area seemed like a sepulchre. It increased his disquiet. His veins rushed with an urgency that he act, but prudence had taught him long ago to never expect the expected. He did not know what waited on the other side of the door ― whether it was an armed squad, a madman, or simply nothing. Whatever it was, he would damn well be prepared.
Again he listened. Finally he put the picklocks away, gripped his weapon firmly, and pressed open the door.
The room was a dark, shadowy cell with no windows. A rectangle of light spilled in from the hallway. Ahead, a mounded figure lay on the only piece of furniture ― a narrow cot shoved against the far wall. There was an open pot on the floor, and the unpleasant odor of urine rose from it. The whole place gave off an air of danger and sadness. Griffin quickly signaled the Doberman to guard the doorway and sped softly to the bed. A small, rotund man was sleeping under a wool blanket.
He whispered, “Zellerbach?”
Marty opened his eyes. “What? Who?” His speech was slow; his movements stiff.
“Are you all right? Are you injured?” Griffin supported his shoulders until Marty was sitting upright. For a moment, he thought Marty had been hurt and then that he was disoriented by sleep. But as the fellow shook his head and rubbed his eyes, Griffin remembered the Marty Zellerbach he had known in high school. He was Jon's other close friend ― the crazy, supercilious bastard who was always getting Jon into fights and arguments. Not crazy or arrogant, they found out later, but sick. Some kind of autism.
He swore silently. Could the guy tell him what he needed to know?
He tried, “Bill Griffin, Marty. Remember me?”
Marty stiffened in the shadows. The cot creaked. “Griffin? Where have you been? I've been searching for you everywhere. Jon wants to speak to you.”
“And I want to speak with him. How long have you been here?”
“I d
on't know. It seems like a long time.”
“What did you tell them?”
“Tell?” Marty remembered all the questions. The blow to his head and the blackness. “It was terrible. Those men are deviants. They enjoy other people's pain. I was… unconscious.” His heart thundered as he thought back to the wretched experience. It seemed to have happened only minutes before, as fresh in his mind as an open wound. But the events were muddy, too. Confused. He shook his head, trying to clear it. He knew a lot of the problem was he had been on his meds. “I don't think I told them anything.”
Griffin nodded. “I don't think you did either.” If he had, they would have captured or killed Jon by now. But then, the Russell woman could have killed Jon already, too. “I'm going to get you out of here, Marty. Then you can take me to Jon.”
Marty's round face was anguished as he admitted, “I'm not sure where he is.”
Griffin swore. “Wait. Okay, think. Where could he be? You must've arranged somewhere to meet. You're some kind of genius. Geniuses always think of things like that.”
Marty was suddenly suspicious. “How did you find me?” He had never liked Bill Griffin. Bill had been a loudmouth and know-it-all back when they had been in school together, even though ― at least in Marty's opinion ― Bill was really just above average. Plus, Bill had vied with Marty for Jon's attention. Marty cringed back against the wall. “You could be one of them!”
“I am one of them. By now, Jon knows it, too. But he's in a lot more danger than he thinks, and I don't want him killed. I've got to help him.”
Marty wanted to help Jon, too, which made him want to trust Griffin. But could he? How could he be sure?
Griffin studied Marty. “Look, I'm going to get you out of here safely. Will you believe me then and tell me where you were supposed to meet Jon? We'll go there together.”
Marty cocked his head. His gaze grew sharp and analytical. “All right.” It was a simple matter, he told himself. If he decided he did not trust Griffin, he would simply lie.
“Good. Come on.”
“Can't. They chained me to the wall.” Forlornly, Marty held up his hands and shook his right leg. Thin, strong chains were attached to brackets on the wall. Each was secured by a powerful padlock.
“I should've suspected something like this when they didn't leave someone behind to guard you.”
“It's been unpleasant,” Marty admitted.
“I'll bet.” He got out his picklocks once more and quickly opened the padlocks.
As Marty rubbed his wrists and ankles, Griffin whistled low for the Doberman.
The dog padded toward them, his back nose high and sniffing.
“Friend,” Griffin said to the dog and touched Marty. “Good. Protect.”
With amazing patience, the usually nervous Marty swung his legs off the cot and sat quietly as the powerful Doberman smelled his clothes, his hands, and his feet.
As the big animal stepped back, Marty asked, “Does he have a name?”
“Samson.”
“Suits him,” Marty decided. “A big bruiser of a dog.”
“That he is.” Griffin ordered, “Scout.”
Samson trotted out into the corridor, looked both ways, and angled off toward the stairs.
“Come on,” Griffin said.
Griffin helped Marty until he was out of the room, and then Marty shook him off. With Griffin in the lead and Marty half-running in his usual rolling gate, they moved quickly up the stairs and through the deserted corridors to the rear door where Griffin had parked his car. Marty's brain was working at full speed now, and his emotions were ratcheted to a fine pitch. He had mixed emotions about Bill Griffin, but at least Griffin had gotten him out of that disgusting dungeon.
As Griffin paused at the door, Marty grabbed his arm and whispered, “Look. A moving shadow.” He pointed out the small side window.
The Doberman's head was up, alert, his ears rotating as he listened. Griffin gave a hand signal that told the Doberman to stay. At the same time, he pulled Marty down. They hunched together on the floor.
Griffin spoke in a husky whisper. “It's just one of the security guards. He was clocking in at a key station. He'll be gone in three minutes. Okay?”
“You don't have to ask my permission, if that's what you mean,” Marty said tartly. He was definitely feeling better.
Griffin raised his eyebrows. He pulled himself up and looked out the window. He nodded to Marty. “Let's go.” As soon as Marty was on his feet, Griffin pushed him outside. The Doberman ran ahead toward the red Jeep Cherokee. Bill pulled open the door, and Samson leaped in. Marty clambered aboard while Griffin slid behind the steering wheel.
As Griffin turned on the motor, he ordered, “Get down on the floor.”
Marty had been through enough emergencies in the past week that he no longer objected when someone who understood the unfathomable world of violence told him what to do. He crouched on the floor in the back. Samson sat above him on the seat. Marty reached out a tentative hand. When the muscular dog dipped his head and slid his nose under it, Marty smiled and patted the warm muzzle.
“Nice doggie,” he cooed.
Griffin drove swiftly away, breathing deeply with relief. Another security guard waved as he sped out of the compound, and he waved back. It had been less than twenty minutes since he had returned, and he felt confident no one would remember his earlier departure. Now he concentrated on one goal: reaching Jon before Randi Russell could kill him.
“Okay, we're out. Now where do we go?”
“Syracuse. I'll tell the rest when we get there.”
Griffin nodded. “We'll have to fly. Rent a car there.”
But in his haste and relief, he had forgotten about the vital third guard, who had been hidden in a stand of poplars. As the guard watched the Cherokee disappear down the road, he spoke quietly into a cellphone. “Mr. Tremont? He's taken the bait. He's busted that Zellerbach guy out, and they're driving out of here. Yes, sir. We planted the tracking device, we've got the airport covered, and Chet's waiting at the country road.”
CHAPTER FORTY TWO
1:02 P.M.
Syracuse, New York
“Dammit all!” Peter Howell's wiry frame was bent over his computer as he stared in frustration at the glowing monitor. “There's precious little in Blanchard company's files about the veterinarian serum or the monkey virus. What there is looks bloody completely on the up-and-up.” As the wind blew through the RV's broken windows, he ran his gnarled brown hand through his gray hair in disgust.
“Nothing about tests on humans?” Smith was sitting on the sofa nearby, his arms crossed over his chest, his legs extended. He had been dozing as Peter had searched for information. The Beretta was tucked into his belt, easily reachable.
“Or Iraq?” Beside him, Randi stretched. She had been sleeping, too, until Peter's loud curse had jerked her awake. Suddenly she was aware of Jon and how closely they were sitting together. She adjusted her weight, tactfully putting more space between them. Her Uzi was beneath the sofa, just behind her heels. When she tapped back, she could feel its comforting hardness.
“Not a syllable,” Peter growled as he continued to stare intently at the screen. “I suppose it's possible we're on the wrong track ― that Blanchard's clean as a boatswain's whistle and they don't have the virus. That their serum is simply what it looks like ― a fortuitous coincidence.”
“Oh, please.” Randi shook her head in disbelief.
“That doesn't explain the initial twelve human test subjects,” Jon said. “Whoever set that experiment in motion ten years ago had the virus then and the serum last year to cure the Iraqis and then, last week, the three Americans.”
They considered some other explanation for the experiment.
“There must be another set of records.” Peter rotated in his chair. He gave them a baleful look and scratched his leathery cheek.
“Unless they just didn't keep written records,” Randi suggested.
“Impossible,” Smith disagreed. “Research scientists have to keep notes, results, speculations, every piece of paper, each bit of an idea, or they can't move forward in their work. Besides, their supervisors have to monitor progress, set goals, and go after funding, and their bookkeepers have to keep accurate financial accountings.”
“But scientists don't have to put everything on a computer,” Randi said. “They could do it by hand, too.”
Jon shook his head. “Not today. Computers have become a research tool in themselves. For projections, for simulated reactions, for statistical analysis… everything would take years otherwise. No, there have to be real records on a computer somewhere.”
“I'm convinced,” Peter agreed, “but where, eh?”
“We need Marty.” It was Smith's turn to swear. His navy blue eyes were dark with frustration.
Randi said reasonably, “We can try other ways. Let's drive to Blanchard, break in, and search their files on site. If there's anyone around, we'll `convince' them to talk nicely with us, too.”
“Great,” Jon began, “I'm sure we haven't broken every law yet. There must be some we've missed.”
Suddenly there was frantic knocking on the RV door. The vehicle shuddered with it.
“Must be getting old.” Peter snapped up his H&K MP5. “Missed hearing anyone approach.”
Instantly Randi and Jon became a blur of movement as they pulled out their weapons.
“Jon!” The voice outside was thin, familiar, and commanding. “Jon! Open the darn door. It's me.”
“Marty!” Smith jumped to the entryway and cracked open the door.
For the moment, Marty's round, chubby body was athletic. He pushed the door back, leaped inside, and grabbed Jon by both arms. “Jon! At last.” He hugged him and stepped quickly back, embarrassed. “I was beginning to think I'd never see you again. Where in heaven's name have you been? Are you uninjured? Bill rescued me, so I decided it was safe to bring him to you. Is that okay?”
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