The Hades Factor c-1

by Robert Ludlum

  “Trap,” Peter barked. He swung the MP5 around so it pointed at Griffin, who had stepped quietly inside.

  The ex-FBI man stood alone with his back against the closed door in his windbreaker and trousers, his arms hanging loosely from his broad shoulders. His hands were empty, but his stocky body was rigid and alert. His long brown hair was greasy, as if he had not washed it in days, and his brown eyes had an empty look that chilled Jon.

  Randi instantly backed Peter with her Uzi.

  “No!” Smith yelled, stepping in front of Griffin. “Hold it, both of you. Marty's right. This is Bill Griffin. Put down the guns.” He swung around to face Griffin. “You alone?”

  “We're alone,” Marty assured them. “Bill says he has to warn you, Jon. You're in bigger danger than ever.”

  “What danger?”

  Randi and Peter, still watchful, had slowly lowered their weapons.

  The moment their weapons were down, Bill Griffin dipped his hand inside his jacket pocket and pulled out a 9mm Glock.

  “Her.” Griffin pointed the deadly instrument at Randi's heart, his hollow eyes focused on her. “She's CIA. Sent by General Nelson Caspar to assassinate you, Jon.”

  “What?” Randi's pale brows arched in outrage. Her blond head whipsawed from Griffin to Smith. “That's a lie!” Then she glared at Griffin. “How dare you? You're working for them, but you come in here and accuse me?”

  Jon held up his hand. “Why would the exec of the chairman of the Joint Chiefs want me killed?”

  “Because he's working for the same people I am.”

  “Tremont and Blanchard Pharmaceuticals?”

  Bill nodded. “It's what I was warning you about back in Rock Creek park.”

  Jon stared at him. “But you didn't warn anyone else.” His highplaned face radiated rage. “So they killed Sophia.”

  “That's the world we live in,” Griffin said bitterly. “There are no good guys. No one believes in right and wrong anymore. It's get what you can for yourself. So now I'm going to get mine. I'm owed that much.”

  Jon looked away, forcing himself to remain composed. Sophia was dead. He couldn't bring her back. He would always carry the pain, but maybe he could learn to live with it better. He made his voice quiet. “No one's owed anything, Bill. And you're wrong about Randi. She couldn't have been sent to kill me. Impossible, considering the circumstances of how we met. In fact, she saved my life.” He shot her a smile and was surprised to see her Ice Queen face soften. “She wants to stop what Tremont is doing as much as I. Who told you Caspar sent her to kill me?”

  As Bill Griffin listened to Jon, he had a strange feeling. Almost as if he had missed some important piece in the puzzle of life. He was not sure exactly what it was, only that for a few lucid moments he recognized the loss and that he had never been able to find the directions that would lead him back to what was gone. So now as he studied Jon, saw him shudder for control as he was reminded again of Sophia's death, he felt loneliness and regret. Perhaps he had been too hasty in taking care of himself. Maybe he should have warned Sophia. He could have warned others, too ―

  And then he stopped himself. How far could he go? Certainly he was not prepared to save the world. But maybe this one last time he could do something for Jon to make up for what had happened to his fiancée.

  So he told him, “Victor Tremont is behind everything. His numberone gun is Nadal al-Hassan. They―” But as he said the names, a warning bell rang loudly inside his head. He thought about Tremont's lodge and how empty ― and safe ― it had been when he had broken in to find Marty. How conveniently they had escaped.

  How easily he had passed the sentries.

  His gaze moved quickly to Marty. “Did Tremont or any of the others give you something to carry?” he growled. “Think! Any buttons, coins, pens, maybe a comb?”

  Jon turned on Griffin. “You're thinking ―?”

  Bill ordered Marty, “Search your pockets. Maybe they slipped you something without your even knowing it. It could've been any of them. Maybe Maddux?”

  At first Marty had not realized what they were asking, and then it became clear. “You're worried they bugged me!” Instantly he turned his pockets inside-out onto the coffee table in the living room. “I don't remember anything, but I was unconscious after the pockmarked man hit me.”

  His plump hands, which were so naturally agile on a keyboard and clumsy almost everywhere else, worked with speed. The former FBI agent watched with an itching urgency that made him want to rip every piece of clothing off Marty so he could make certain he was clean.

  Instead, he ordered, “Take off your belt, Marty. Quick.”

  Jon added, “Your shoes, too.”

  As Marty stripped off his belt and threw it at Jon to examine, fury rose in a red tide from Bill Griffin's throat to his neutral face. “They told me a lie they knew I'd have to try to warn you about, Jon. Then they let me break Marty out, so he'd take me to you because they didn't learn anything from him. Two birds with one stone. They must've suspected me since Rock Creek park. I should've―”

  The sharp bark of a dog carried from outside the RV. A single bark and no more.

  Bill froze. His face went slack. "They're outside. Al-Hassan and his men.

  “How do you know?” Randi slid along the wall to the, corner of a front window with its glass still intact. She peered carefully around.

  “The dog,” Jon realized. “The Doberman you had in the park.”

  Bill nodded. “Samson. He's trained for attack, scouting, sentry duty, you name it.”

  “I see them,” Randi whispered. “Looks like four. They're hiding among the row of RVs in front of us. One's a tall Arab.”

  “Al-Hassan,” Bill said. His voice was deathly quiet.

  Peter made a clucking sound with his tongue against the roof of his mouth. He murmured, “Here's how they got to us.” He held up a tiny tracking transmitter he had taken from the hollowed-out heel of Marty's shoe. “Darling little bug, isn't it?” He shook his head with disgust, flung the device out the back window, and snapped up his submachine gun.

  Randi was still on watch at the window. “I don't see any police or military.”

  “What does it matter?” Bill said harshly. “I led them here, and they've got you. Stupid. I was stupid!”

  “Hardly,” the Englishman said calmly. “It's going to take a lot more bloody work than they've put out to get us.” He reached for the light fixture on the wall over the kitchen table, pressed a button on its side, and there was a popping sound as four vinyl squares, indistinguishable from the others covering the floor, lifted up in the middle of the living room. His wiry frame moved lightning-fast across the floor to the exit. “Never leave a single way out, friends. Jon, would you do the honors?”

  Jon raised the trapdoor and dropped through.

  “You next, my boy,” the Englishman told Marty.

  Marty nodded glumly, peered down at the asphalt, and let his feet fall through. The big Doberman was lying quietly under the RV, his large dark eyes scanning the open area and the woods behind where the RV was parked. In the deep shadow beneath the vehicle, Marty crawled quickly out of the way as Randi Russell, Bill Griffin, and Peter Howell landed, one after the other. The watchful Doberman raised his nose at Marty, and Marty slid closer. As Samson resumed his sentry duty, Marty crouched next to him and ran his hand over the handsome animal's sleek back. Strangely, he felt no fear. Then he raised his gaze to look around at the wheels of other RVs and the thick tree trunks of the forest. He saw no feet, and for a wild moment he had the hope that maybe al-Hassan and his killers had given up and gone home.

  Bill Griffin called the dog and spoke softly. “Friends, Samson. Friends.”

  He had the dog smell each of them.

  Then, with Jon in the lead, they crawled to the end of the RV that was closest to the woods. There were only about fifteen feet between them and safety.

  “That's it.” Peter nodded toward the trees. “We can hide there and fig
ure out what to do next. When I say `go,' jump up and run as if the hounds of hell are on your tails. I'll cover you.” He patted his H&K.

  But then shapes moved out from the forest line.

  “Flatten!” Smith growled and dropped onto his face.

  As the four others fell, a fusillade swept across the open area, whining and ricocheting off the side of the RV. They scrambled back, searching for cover behind the tires.

  Bill Griffin raised his voice. “How many?”

  “Two.” The Englishman's eyes were narrow slits as he searched the woods. “Or three,” Jon countered, breathing hard.

  “Two or three,” Randi echoed, “which means one or two are still in front.”

  “Yeah.” Bill Griffin looked around at their tension and fear and at the brave lights in their eyes. It was true even of Marty with his odd condition and even odder mind. Marty was not the same prissy, whiny nuisance he remembered. Marty had grown up. As he thought that, he felt a terrible tear rip through something old and painful inside. At the same time, he felt a shift. Maybe it was the sourness from all the years of working for men with pinched minds. Or perhaps it was simply that he had never fit into this world which made so much sense to others. But probably the truth was he did not care a damn about anything or anyone anymore, not even himself.

  He desperately wanted to care again. Now he saw it ― why he had risked so much to save Jon. By doing that, he had had a hope of saving something good within himself. Thinking that, his blood seemed to course more vigorously. His mind grew incredibly clear. A sense of purpose swept through him as strong as he remembered from the old days when he and Jon were young and the future lay ahead.

  He knew what to do.

  Knew with every fiber in his body. With all his disappointment.

  Exactly what he must do to retrieve himself.

  Without warning, he crawled quickly out from under the RV, surged to his feet, and with a sharp guttural sound charged straight toward where the attackers crouched at the edge of the woods. The Doberman followed.

  “Bill!” Jon shouted. “Don't―”

  But it was too late. The stocky man's legs pumped and his long hair flew behind as he pounded toward the trees, firing his Glock. He was excited and immensely relieved, and he did not give a damn anymore about anything but redeeming himself. With bared fangs, the Doberman sprang toward one of the attackers on Bill's left.

  Jon, Randi, and Peter leaped out with their weapons to follow. It was over in seconds.

  By the time Jon reached him, Bill Griffin lay on his back on dry weeds at the edge of the woods. Blood bubbled up from his chest.

  “Jesus,” Peter breathed as his canny gaze swept the trees and RVs, looking for more trouble.

  Ten feet away the short, heavy man who had led the attack on Jon in Georgetown that first day was crumpled in a lifeless heap. A second man lay dead of a gunshot to his head. A third man had sprawled back, his throat torn open, while the Doberman paced the woods in search of others.

  “No sign of the man Bill called al-Hassan,” Peter noted quickly. “He could still be out front.”

  “If he's alone, he probably won't try anything by himself,” Randi agreed, her Uzi ready. Her voice softened and she looked down. “How is he, Jon?”

  “Help me.”

  As Peter stood watch, his H&K fanning all around, Randi helped Jon carry Griffin into the shelter of the trees, where they laid him on a bed of dry leaves.

  “Hold on, Bill.” His throat tight, Jon crouched down. He tried to smile at his old friend.

  Peter backed up to join them in the forest, holding his position as sentry.

  Jon's voice was gentle. “Bill, you damn fool. What were you thinking? We could've handled them.”

  “You… don't know that for sure.” He tugged Jon down by the collar. “This time… you could've got yourself killed. Al-Hassan is out there… somewhere. Waiting for reinforcements. Leave… get out of here!”

  His grip was strong, but then pink foam appeared on his lips.

  “Take it easy, Bill. I'm just going to take a look at your wounds. We'll be fine―”

  “Bullshit.” Griffin gave a weak smile. “Go to the lodge… Lake Magua. Horrible… horrible―” His eyes closed, and he breathed shallowly.

  “Don't talk,” Jon said anxiously as he ripped open Bill's shirt.

  His eyes opened. “No time… Sorry about Sophia… Sorry for everything.” His eyes widened as if seeing into a vast darkness.

  “Bill? Bill! Don't do this!”

  His neck went limp, and his head dropped back. In death, the bland face seemed suddenly younger, somehow more innocent. The features that had so easily fit into so many different roles smoothed out to show a strong bone structure with definite cheekbones and chin. As Jon looked numbly down, somewhere a bird began to sing. Insects hummed. The sunlight through the trees was warm.

  Smith went into action. He felt the carotid artery. Nothing. Frantically, he put his hand on the bloody chest. But there was not even a whisper of a beat. He sat back, crouching next to his friend. Pain swept through him. First Sophia and now Bill.

  Suddenly the Doberman appeared. He stood over Bill, guarding him. He nudged Bill's head and made what sounded like a low moan in his throat. Marty murmured something and stroked the Doberman's back.

  Smith closed Bill's eyes and looked up. “He's gone.”

  “We've got to leave, Jon.” Peter's voice was kind but definite. He handed him a colored kerchief from one of the webbed belt pouches on his commando uniform.

  As Jon wiped blood from his hand, Randi said, “I'm sorry, Jon. I know he was your friend. But more of them will be here soon.”

  When Smith did not get up immediately, Marty said, “Jon!” His voice was sharp. “Let's go. You're scaring me!”

  Smith stood and gazed around at the battered RV and the dead bodies. He breathed deeply, controlling his grief and rage. He glanced once more at Bill Griffin.

  Victor Tremont had a lot to answer for.

  He moved into the woods. “We'll work our way back to the car through here.”

  “Good idea.” Randi took the lead.

  “Come on, Samson,” Marty called.

  The dog lifted his head. Then he nudged his dead master's shoulder. He made a low sound in his throat again and prodded Bill one last time.

  When there was no response, he gave a final look around as if saying good-bye. He trotted silently into the woods, following.

  Randi's long body angled left. With sure footsteps, she forged a path through the underbrush and around the trees. Jon and Marty came behind with Peter and the Doberman bringing up the rear. Peter's H&K swept from side to side.

  Jon looked at Marty. “You know anything about this `lodge' Bill was talking about? Lake Magua?”

  “It's where they chained me in a room.”

  “You know where it is?”

  “Of course.”

  Suddenly Peter's voice sounded over their conversation. “Bogies at six o'clock. They're coming after us. I'll keep them busy. Go!”

  “Not without you!” Smith refused.

  “Don't be stupid. You've got Tremont to finish off. I can take care of myself.”

  At the sounds of feet approaching through the trees, the big Doberman stopped its loping trot and spun back to join Peter. He spoke low to the dog, then looked back at Smith.

  “Go on. Now! Samson and I will cover your tails and buy you time. Hurry!” He gazed down at the dog. “You understand hand signals, boy?” He lowered his hand to his side and made a swift motion. Instantly the dog raced off into the woods to scout. Peter nodded, satisfied. “See, I won't be alone.”

  “He's right,” Randi agreed. “It's what Bill would've wanted.”

  Jon was frozen for a second. His high-planed face with the dark blue eyes looked ominous in the shadowy forest. His long, muscular body was tensed, ready to spring. Bill had just died, and now Peter was volunteering to stay behind where his risk of being killed, too, was
enormous. Jon had devoted himself to saving lives, not taking them. And now, because of circumstances, he was caught in what seemed a hopeless loop of death.

  He studied Peter's wrinkled, weathered face and the sharp eyes that had one message: Go. Leave me alone. This is what I do.

  Smith nodded. “Okay. Marty, you follow me. Good luck, Peter.”

  “Right.” Already the Englishman had turned, his gaze searching the forest behind as if his whole life were focused on this moment.

  Jon stared a second longer. Then he, Marty, and Randi sped away through the timber. Behind them a long burst of gunfire sounded, followed by a cry of pain.

  “Peter?” Marty's voice rose with worry. “Do you think he's hurt? Maybe we should go back?”

  “It was his H&K's fire,” Jon assured him, although he was not sure.

  Marty nodded uncertainly, remembering the endless days of too-close contact in the RV and Peter's tart humor and irritating habits. “I hope you're right. I… I've grown to like Peter.”

  Grimly they continued on. The woods were quiet now, shocked as sporadic gunfire sounded. Each shot seemed to pierce Smith to the quick. Then there was silence. That was worse. Peter could be lying in his own blood somewhere, dying.

  At last they emerged on a quiet residential street that paralleled Route 5. Grave and wary, they hid their weapons inside their clothes, trotted right, and turned onto the street where Jon and Randi had parked their rented car under the maple tree.

  They split up and approached the car cautiously.

  But no one was around, and no one tried to stop them. Marty heaved a sigh and climbed into the backseat. Jon slid into the driver's seat, Randi jumped into the front passenger seat, the mini-Uzi on her lap, and they headed for the Thruway. An hour later they arrived at the Oriskany-Utica airport, where they rented a light plane and flew into the vast wilderness of Adirondack State Park.

  CHAPTER FORTY THREE

  3:02 P.M.

  Lake Magua, New York