The Hades Factor c-1

by Robert Ludlum

  “Talk,” she told the older lab technician. “Talk fast.”

  * * *

  Marty was sitting against a tree near the shed, the Enfield bullpup lying across his lap. He was humming to himself. He seemed to be studying sunbeams that danced in a shaft of yellow light through the trees. To look at him where he leaned back, his short legs stretched out on the pine needles, his ankles crossed, he could be an imp from some long-ago fairy tale without a problem in the world. Unless you noticed his eyes. That was where Smith's attention was fixed as he approached silently, cautiously. The green eyes were almost emerald in color and troubled.

  “Any problems?”

  Marty jumped. “Darn it, Jon. Next time make some noise.” He rubbed his eyes as if they hurt. “I'm happy to report I've seen or heard no one. The shed's been quiet, too. But then there's not a lot any of those three can do, considering how well we tied them. Still, I don't think I'm cut out for guard work. Too boring and too much responsibility of the wrong kind.”

  “I see the problem. Feel like some computer sleuthing instead?”

  Marty immediately looked more cheerful. “At last. Of course!”

  “Let's go into the lodge. I need you to search some of Tremont's files.”

  “Ah, Victor Tremont. The one behind it all.” Marty rubbed his hands.

  Once inside, they were moving past the row of closed and locked doors when Smith heard a sound. They were almost in the same place in the hall where Randi had thought she had heard something.

  He stopped and grabbed Marty's arm. “Don't move. Listen. Are you picking up anything?”

  They stayed that way, slowly rotating their heads as if by movement alone they could enhance their hearing.

  Jon spun around. “What was that?”

  Marty frowned. “I think someone's shouting.”

  The sound came again. It was a voice, but muffled and far away. A mans voice.

  “It's this one.” Jon pressed his ear to one of the doors. It appeared to be thicker, sturdier than the others, and the lock was a heavy dead-bolt. Someone was shouting but barely audible somewhere on the far side.

  “Open it!” Marty said.

  “Give me the bullpup.” With the big assault rifle, he shot out the lock.

  Screams of terror sounded above their heads from the laboratory, but the door swung open. They entered cautiously. There was a second door almost at once. Smith shot this one open, too, and they found themselves in a large, well-furnished living room. There was a kitchen through an archway, a formal dining room, a wet bar, and a corridor that probably led to bedrooms. The noise, clearly shouting now, was coming from the corridor.

  “You stay back and cover me, Mart.”

  Marty did not bother to protest. “Okay. I'll do my best.”

  As Jon warily entered the corridor, whoever was calling must have heard enough to convince him someone was on the way. Banging started behind the third door.

  Jon tried it. Locked. “Who's in there?” he called out.

  “Mercer Haldane!” the furious voice bellowed. “Are you the police? Have you captured Victor?”

  “Stand back,” Jon called again. He used his Beretta on the simple room lock.

  The door blasted open, and a short bantam-rooster of an older man with a mane of unruly white hair, thick white eyebrows, and a clean-shaven but choleric face sat in an armchair in what looked like a master bedroom. He was handcuffed and chained to the wall at the ankle but not gagged.

  “Who the devil are you?” the old man demanded.

  “Lt. Col. Jonathan Smith, M.D. Someone your people have been trying to murder.”

  “Murder? Why, for the love of―” The old man stopped. “Ah, yes, Victor. I knew he was worried about… M.D. you say. Don't tell me: CDC? FDA?”

  “USAMRIID.”

  “Fort Detrick, of course. So have you caught the bastard?”

  “We're trying.”

  “You'd better try faster. He's getting that damned medal at five o'clock. Probably the money a minute or so later, and no telling where he'll be by six o'clock. A long way from here, if I know him.”

  “Then you'd better help us.”

  “Just ask.”

  “You think he created the virus epidemic?”

  “Of course he did. Are you a numbskull? That's why he locked me in here. What I don't know is how he did it.”

  Jon nodded. “Figures. Watch yourself. I'm going to shoot this leg chain off.”

  Mercer Haldane crunched with fright. Then he shrugged. “I hope your aim's good. I intend to live long enough to bring Victor down to his knees.”

  Smith shot out the chain lock and helped the old man up. “My other associate's in the lab. We're trying to locate Tremont's research records.”

  “He must have his illicit records hidden. I tried to find them, too.”

  Jon patted Marty on the back. “You didn't have my secret weapon.”

  * * *

  When Jon and Marty strode into the laboratory with the short old man red-faced and angry under a shock of white hair, Randi was waiting for them. She had locked the four lab technicians in the conference room.

  “What was all the shooting? You nearly gave me a coronary.”

  Jon introduced Mercer Haldane and asked, “What did the technician tell you?”

  “They work for Tremont and Associates. The password into their computer is Hades.”

  Marty made a beeline to the nearest terminal, Haldane on his heels. Marty's face was almost relaxed, so happy was he to be returning to a world he understood. Without looking at Haldane, Marty handed him his bullpup, sat, flexed his fingers, and went to work. Haldane rolled a stool over so he could sit next to him. Jon followed and took the bullpup Enfield away from the former CEO. He was not about to trust him.

  Smith quietly explained to Randi, “Mercer Haldane is the former chairman and CEO of Blanchard. Last week Tremont forced him out and took over.”

  “How could he do that?”

  “Old-fashioned blackmail, he says. But I think he was bought off, too. A cut of the Hades Project. That's what Tremont named the virus and serum project. He kept it hidden from Haldane and Blanchard for more than a decade.”

  “A perfect name for the horror they're causing. What else did he tell you?”

  “Just about what we'd figured. Tremont found the virus in Peruvian Amazonia and brought it back to Blanchard along with a crude native cure: the blood of monkeys that had survived the disease and were full of neutralizing antibodies. Some Indians down there drink the blood, and it saves a lot of them every year. Tremont set up his secret team with company money and personnel, and they did most of the work here to isolate the virus and develop their antiserum by cloning the genes that made the antibodies. Then the bastard used DNA repair enzymes to introduce a few subtle mutations into the viruses to make it become virulent progressively earlier.”

  “That's all he could tell you?” She was disappointed.

  “Yes. Except he's sure Tremont's caused this pandemic somehow.”

  The shout of rage echoed through the lab. “Useless! It's all nothing!”

  Marty was glaring at Haldane and the conference room where they had locked up the technicians. “There's nothing in the files of Tremont and Associates. It's all routine junk about antibiotics and vitamins and hair spray! That technician lied to us.”

  “No,” Haldane realized. “That's Victor. It's a dummy company. These people are technicians. He used them but told them nothing. They think they're working for Tremont and Associates. The Hades password is his idea of a joke on anyone accessing his computer.”

  Jon nodded. “That sounds like the kind of man who could run an experiment on humans in the Gulf War. But the real stuff has to be in there somewhere, Mart. Keep hacking. We've got to know.”

  Marty sounded discouraged. His meds had not worn off yet. “I'll try, Jon. Only I really need my own―”

  They heard a sudden sound outside the windows of the secret laboratory. L
ike a seasoned team, Jon and Randi dashed to look out. A car was approaching on the mountain road, a cloud of dust spinning out from the tires.

  Adrenaline jolted Smith. “Mart! Haldane! Watch those technicians.”

  Jon and Randi tore across the laboratory, out through the door, and down to the landing. Side by side, they dropped flat where they could see anyone below who passed through the corridor from the living room or the side door. Randi looked over at Jon, at his blue eyes so intense, at his wide face with the hard chin, his swept-back black hair. His expression was granite.

  “Now what?”

  “We'll know soon.” He did not look at her. He did not have to. He could feel her presence like a reassuring friend.

  Two car doors closed. Footsteps rapidly approached the house. A voice spoke low and urgent.

  CHAPTER FORTY FIVE

  3:32 P.M.

  Lake Magua, New York

  Rapid footsteps, soft and light, padded swiftly along the corridor from the back door.

  “What the―” Randi began.

  Before Jon could answer, the big Doberman, Samson, appeared at the bottom of the stairs. He looked up at the landing, bared his fangs, and bunched his powerful muscles to attack.

  Smith stood up, his Beretta behind his back. “Samson, sit!”

  Puzzled, the dog cocked his head. Jon repeated the command, and suddenly the animal seemed to identify him as one of the “friends” Bill Griffin had ordered him to sniff under the RV. Slowly he sank back on his haunches, still staring up.

  Jon raised his voice. His face was eager. “Peter?”

  The lean and leathery ex-SAS strolled into view, again wearing the trench coat buttoned over his black commando suit. “Who else? You don't think Samson would go over to the enemy, do you?” He and the Doberman climbed the stairs.

  Randi jumped up. “Perish the thought. Good to see you, Peter.”

  Smith's smile was broad. For a moment he looked ten years younger. “We've been worried.”

  “No sentries outside. That your handiwork?”

  Jon said, “Yes. Everyone else is at the ceremony, I expect.”

  Randi added, “Except for four lab techs we've got locked up. And the former head of Blanchard, who's helping Marty at the computer.”

  Randi stopped, and she and Jon stared at Peter, whose left arm was dangling straight down, useless. Blood had dried on Peter's left wrist and hand beneath the long trench-coat sleeve.

  “You're wounded! How bad? Let me look at it,” Jon ordered.

  “Pinprick.”

  “Goddamn it, come up here and take off your coat.”

  He held the laboratory door open as Peter sighed and topped the stairs, Samson at his side.

  “Many,” Randi called as they entered. “Peter's here.”

  Marty spun in his chair as Peter walked in. A smile of welcome wreathed his round face. The Englishman allowed himself a return smile. He and Marty stared at each other a long moment.

  Finally Peter said, “Mustn't worry about me, my boy. Remember the old man's been through worse than this on more continents than he cares to name. Now get yourself back to work.” There was affection in his voice.

  Marty's green eyes twinkled. He gave a short nod and returned to his chair. As he told Mercer Haldane about Peter, the Doberman appeared at Marty's side. Marty patted him, and the dog sighed and laid tiredly at his feet.

  The Englishman said quietly to Jon, “Don't fuss. I've stopped bleeding. I'll be fine until I reach the docs.”

  “I am a doc, you crazy Brit. Everything else about you may be working, but your memory's going south.”

  Peter gave a wry grimace and laid the H&K submachine gun on a lab bench. Jon helped him off with his trench coat. Underneath, he wore only his commando trousers and webbed belt. His chest was naked. Bullets had struck him in the side and arm. He had wrapped what looked like pieces of a torn sheet around the wounds.

  As Peter unwound the cloth, Randi got the older male technician from the conference room. He produced an extensive first-aid kit. The wound in the upper chest below the armpit had gone cleanly through the flesh around an upper rib. It appeared to have cracked the rib, but touched nothing vital. The arm injury was a shallow tunnel through muscle. The bleeding had all but stopped. Jon washed the wounds, applied antibiotic, rebandaged each one properly, and insisted Peter take at least aspirin.

  Smith told him, “You need a hospital, but that will hold you for now.”

  “Good as new,” Peter declared. “Tell me what you've found.”

  “We're pretty sure this is where Tremont and his associates did most of the actual work. Marty and Haldane are trying to bust into the records now. Tremont pushed Haldane out only last week. Blackmail, he says, but I suspect he settled for a big cut of the billions they'll all make. Then his conscience started bothering him.”

  “It'd be pleasant if conscience bothered more people,” Peter observed. “Shall we see what progress they've achieved?”

  “Not a damn thing.” Randi shook her head with discouragement. “Marty's still loosening up from his meds and having trouble figuring how the records are entered. This system's unconnected to Blanchard's mainframe, so Haldane's stumped.”

  Randi was leaning over Marty and Mercer Haldane as Marty manipulated the keyboard and Haldane sat beside him, interpreting what he found.

  “Tell the boy,” Peter said, wincing as the simple act of speaking tweaked his wounds, “he had best hurry. Samson and I injured the enemy but we by no means put them out of action. That Arab we saw back in the Sierras appears to be the boss, just as Griffin said. He escaped unharmed with at least two of his men. The rest won't be active anytime soon, if ever.”

  “Could they have followed you?” Randi wanted to know.

  “Think not. But it's likely they'll eventually decide Griffin or Marty informed us of this lodge and that we're here. They could arrive with reinforcements any minute.”

  Jon said, “You hear that, Mart?”

  “I've tried everything I know,” Marty snapped testily. “Now I'm working to establish an untraceable link with my computer so I can use my own programs. Give me another few seconds.”

  Both the testiness and the quickening of his speech showed his meds were almost gone, and they waited as patiently as they could.

  “Someone better go down and watch,” Smith realized. “Not you, Peter.”

  “Samson can go. He'll be a better lookout than any of us.”

  As Peter sent the dog off, Marty shouted, “I'm connected!”

  “Thank God,” Randi said fervently.

  “All right, let's start a search for the company that operates this computer.” Marty worked the keyboard, and the screen began to flash permutations too fast for them to see. Finally on the screen appeared the logo and name of Blanchard Pharmaceuticals, Inc.

  “That means Victor registered the machine to us, and we pay for it,” Haldane said. "An unexplained extra computer system was one item the accountants found they couldn't trace to any authorized research program.

  Marty played across the keyboard. The screen continued to flicker through a series of computations. Finally a name flashed on: VAXHAM Corporation.

  “What the devil is VAXHAM?” Haldane wondered.

  Marty was leaning forward, concentrating. He clicked on VAXHAM, and it lit up with a long series of directories. One was “Laboratory Reports.” He punched in and scrolled rapidly through the dated entries all the way back to the very first one: January 15, 1989. Jon leaned over his shoulder.

  “Wow,” Jon breathed. “A report of the first restriction enzyme mapping of the monkey virus from Peru! Now we're getting somewhere.” Smith pulled up a stool. He studied the restriction map of the virus and in his mind compared it to the same mapping of the one that had killed Sophia that he had studied at USAMRIID. He let out a long whistle and looked up. “No surprise, but at last we have confirmation. They're almost identical ― in fact, they may be identical. The monkey virus and the on
e killing people are the same.”

  Randi said angrily, “Victor Tremont knew it all along.”

  Each year listed a summary of the technical findings for virus and serum. They showed a steady lessening of the incubation time in victims before the final fatal outbreak and the steady increase in serum effectiveness on the virulent stage ― at least in a petri dish and later in monkeys. Again it was confirmation of what they had guessed. But Marty could find no data about the Iraq experiments nor how the virus had suddenly spread like a contagion across the world from remote Peru ― or from Victor Tremont and his VAXHAM Corporation.

  “The last directory is blocked by a password,” Marty announced. Then he sneered, “Complacent fools, they think they can keep out Zellerbach the Magician!”

  He raised his hands as if he were a concert pianist and attacked the keyboard. Using his own software, he sent the screen into a paroxysm of kaleidoscopic words, questions, commands, and images. It took a matter of seconds.

  “There!” Marty chortled. “How absurdly commonplace.”

  A single short phrase appeared on the screen: Lucifer at Home.

  “Hades,” Jon groaned.

  “People,” said Marty pompously, “are both unimaginative and predictable.”

  He entered the password. The first documents that appeared were a meticulous series of financial spreadsheets and summary reports covering every year from 1989 to the present. The corporate officers were listed: Victor Tremont, with some 35 percent of the stock, and George Hyem, Xavier Becker, Adam Cain, and Jack McGraw with 10 percent each.

  In his heightened state, Marty saw the connection instantly: “VAXHAM. With Tremont, an acronym of first and last names: Victor, Adam, Xavier, Hyem and McGraw, with an extra `A' to make it look like a word.”

  “Those are some of the best people in the company.” Haldane was aghast. “All of them head departments, and McGraw's security. No wonder they could get away with so much for so long.”

  Major stockholders were listed: Mal. Gen. Nelson Caspar and Lt. Gen. Einar Salonen (Ret.). “There's your army connection,” Randi told Jon. She shook her head with disgust.