Once the band struck up “Hail to the Chief” and everyone was riveted as President Castilla and Victor Tremont strode toward the platform, Randi moved closer to Jon to whisper, “The woman with the short silver hair wearing the knit business suit is Nancy Petrelli, and the general in the second row behind Admiral Brose is Nelson Caspar.”
“I expect Ben Sloat and old General Salonen are here somewhere, too.”
Their plan was simple: Work their way far enough forward to get the president's personal attention, and they would try to shout out their story. To wave their documents. To accuse Tremont and his cohorts to their faces with everyone as witnesses, and maybe to make one or more of them panic and reveal themselves. At least, to convince the president to hear. After all, this was a public gathering.
That was at the best.
At the worst, they wanted to give Marty a chance to break into the closed-circuit broadcast so Mercer Haldane could confirm everything they claimed.
But first, they had to slip through the crowd without attracting the sharp eyes of the hundreds of public and private security who were watching for interlopers, troublemakers, terrorists… and them.
5:09 P.M.
Lake Magua
Muttering wildly to himself in the small TV studio, Marty worked feverishly at the computer in the state-of-the-art control room.
“Where are you, you beast! I know you're in there somewhere. Give me the code name and the password, damn you! Once more, the telephone company is…”
Mercer Haldane waited out in the studio with the four technicians and a series of blowups of the computer records. Behind them was a photographic backdrop of an Adirondack woodland scene, the high peaks of Whiteface and Marcy in the distance. Haldane's cheeks were sweating. He continually mopped them as he watched Marty through the control room window. He glanced often and nervously at his watch.
“…All right, yes! I have you. I'm into the telephone company. Now the line into the local TV cable station. Come on… come on… I know you want me to find you… yes, that's it… damnation!..”
At the studio door, Peter kept guard on the corridor, listening for any sounds of warning from Samson. He also glanced from time to time at his watch while he observed Marty's frantic efforts.
“. Ah-ha! Got you. Now, the control room. Here we go… here we… Zounds and putridity! You won't stop me… you can't…” Sweat dripped from Marty's face, and his fingers pounded the keyboard as he frantically searched for the key into the system.
5:12 P.M.
Long Lake Village
As the surgeon general continued to talk, extolling the virtues of Victor Tremont and the wisdom of the president, Jon and Randi edged forward in parallel paths, slowly converging again as they advanced. Jon saw Victor Tremont's pockmarked killer, Nadal al-Hassan, in deep conversation with a man who looked as if he were the chief FBI agent present. Al-Hassan's arm swept over the crowd as he held a sheaf of photos in his lean hand. Jon did not have to guess whom the photos pictured. He repressed a worried groan.
The surgeon general's introduction ended, and the president stepped to the podium. His face was solemn as his gaze slowly traversed the faces in the audience and turned to do the same to all the dignitaries seated behind him. He continued on in a full circle across the vigilant backs of the secret service and Tremont's security team until he again faced the rapt crowd.
“These are terrible times,” he began. “The world suffers. Millions die. And yet we are here to celebrate. And it is entirely fitting that we should do so. The man we come to honor will go down in history not only as visionary but as a great humanitarian. He…”
As the president continued in rousing, cadenced tones, Jon and Randi moved inexorably forward, sometimes only a few steps, other times several feet at a time. They were careful to make no one angry. To attract no undue attention. And to appear to be enthralled with the president's speech as it came quickly to its peroration: “…It is my eternally grateful pleasure to present the nation's highest civilian award to Dr. Victor Tremont, a giant sun that will soon shed light on this great darkness into which we have all been plunged.”
Attempting to appear solemn but honored, humble but strong, while suppressing his real response of a loud, triumphal laugh, Victor Tremont moved toward the podium with what came out as a grotesque grimace. The medal was presented and accepted with a modest embarrassment, and the giant TV screen sprang to life with the image of the British prime minister towering over them all.
5:16 P.M.
Nadal al-Hassan's mirrored black eyes slowly traversed the surging crowd. His face was expressionless, and his dark, narrow head moved like a praying mantis as his cold gaze paused on a face that resembled one or the other of his quarries, on a shoulder that looked familiar, on a military posture among the packed throng.
They would be here, he was sure. Smith had proved to be a far more resourceful and dangerous adversary than he had ever expected. He had little faith in the state or local police of this rustic town, in McGraw's private security force of old soldiers and retired policemen, or in the FBI, and he was well aware that the secret service agents would confine their vigilance to the immediate safety of the president. The protection of Victor Tremont and the Hades Project rested on his shoulders.
His eyes were hooded as they continued to work the crowd. In the cold twilight, the pocks in the tall man's skin seemed deeper in the hollows of his face. He inhaled the pungent odor of wood smoke carried in the cold evening air. The scent reminded him of his nomadic youth around the campfires of northern Iraq. Those were not memories he cared to dwell on. He had come far from those poor beginnings, and the Hades Project would be the culmination of his long escape. No one was going to stop his success.
As he thought that, he saw them.
Smith had disguised himself in bulky hunting pants, a plaid hunting coat, and a ragged black mustache. The CIA woman wore a gray dress, hair darkened with shoe polish, and a straw hat. But they could not hide from him.
He whispered to McGraw and started forward, fighting the crowd. Excitement spread through him.
5:16 P.M.
Lake Magua
His eyes haggard, his back bent, his face so close to the keyboard his sweat dripped onto the keys, Marty battled to overcome the last barrier and assume control of the cable transmission. He had long since ceased to mutter and cry out. He had lapsed into a deep and determined silence as he struggled.
Mercer Haldane stood with the technicians in front of the single camera. It was switched on, focused, and waiting. He continued to mop the sweat that poured down his face under the hot lights. No one made small talk. The room seemed to bristle with tension.
At the studio door, Peter no longer watched the corridor outside or listened to anything but the silence that seemed to stretch endlessly. He did not know what was happening in Long Lake village, but he knew the speeches must have begun at least ten minutes ago, and he hoped that by now Jon and Randi were approaching the platform to shout out their accusations in front of the president, the crowd, the secret service, Tremont, and the worldwide TV audience.
Accusations they would have no chance to prove… unless Marty broke into the transmission in the next few seconds.
5:17 P.M.
Long Lake Village
Jon and Randi had reached the second row of packed spectators. Just ahead was the raised stage with its colorful patriotic bunting. The entire throng ― all the dignitaries, Victor Tremont, and the president ― were staring up at the giant image of the prime minister heaping praise and gratitude on Victor Tremont.
Jon took a breath, nodded to Randi, and they abruptly pushed through the last people and shouted up to the president's turned back.
Smith bellowed: “Tremont is a fraud and a mass murderer!” He waved the printouts of the secret records. “He caused this pandemic himself! For money. To extort billions from the world!”
The president turned in shock at Jon's first shout.
Vi
ctor Tremont spun to face them, shouting back: “They've got guns! That man is a fugitive from the military, a rogue scientist, and a killer. Shoot him!”
The secret service leaped from the platform and ran toward Jon.
Randi took up the cry. “Tremont's still infecting millions of people! He's sending out the virus in his antibiotics. He's shipping infected antibiotics every day. Even today!”
Nadal al-Hassan and his men struggled through the crowd toward them. Jack McGraw was bawling orders at his security guards.
Jon battled in the grip of the secret service. He managed to wave his papers. “I have the proof! I have their records. I…”
The secret service swarmed him to the ground.
Other secret service and FBI men pounced on Randi. Pain shot through her shoulders. They found her Uzi. “She's armed!”
Nadal al-Hassan had almost reached them, his gun hidden at his side.
5:18 P.M.
Lake Magua
Marty shouted into his microphone, “We're in!”
“Go!” Peter cried.
Mercer Haldane stared into the camera, took a deep breath, and started to talk.
5:18 P.M.
Long Lake Village
On the platform, more secret service grabbed the president to hustle him away.
The giant screen above the milling crowd went dark for a second, and then Mercer Haldane appeared with his white, flowing hair and dignified face. He was standing in the secret laboratory. Behind him the four lab technicians held up giant blowups of the most damning printouts. Watching from below, the crowd fell into a surprised hush.
“My name is Mercer Haldane.” His words boomed. Somehow Marty had managed to increase the volume. “Until last week, I was chairman and CEO of Blanchard Pharmaceuticals. I have news about the virus that all of you must listen to carefully. Your lives depend on it. A great evil has been perpetrated on all of us by Victor Tremont.” Shocked by his words, everyone's attention was riveted, including the secret service. “Ten years ago, Victor inaugurated a monstrous secret plan. He called it the Hades Project, and he infected twelve soldiers in the Gulf War, six on each side of the conflict, with a unique and deadly virus he had found in the Peruvian jungle. Then he contaminated Blanchard's antibiotics with the live virus and shipped it across the world. This virus would lie dormant for―”
On the platform, the president had stopped to listen. Still closely surrounded by the watchful agents, he stared up at the mammoth screen, his eyes slowly blinking as he took in Mercer Haldane's story. All the dignitaries had focused on it, too. The great crowd stood in an eerie silence as Mercer Haldane pointed to record entries, to dates, to figures.
The audience began to murmur, softly at first like a distant tornado barely heard, and then louder and louder.
The secret service agents relaxed their holds on Jon and Randi.
On the giant screen, Haldane showed the list of officers and stockholders in the secret VAXHAM Corporation.
As a shudder of understanding and belief seemed to sweep over the throngs, the president barked an order. Secret service and FBI agents went to stand beside Nancy Petrelli, General Caspar, Ben Sloat, an angry General Salonen, and the four officers of VAXHAM.
The president scanned the audience. “Bring those two who were shouting. I want to see the records they were trying to show me.”
Randi brushed away the FBI and secret service agents, jumped onto the platform, and handed her printouts to President Castilla. “Sir, you must arrest Victor Tremont at once, or he'll escape and transfer billions of dollars to his offshore accounts.”
The president scanned the papers and barked an order. The secret service and FBI agents spread out, looking for Tremont.
The chief of detail ran up to the platform. “He's not here, Mr. President. Victor Tremont is gone!”
Randi searched all around, too. Her voice rose. “So is Jon!”
“Find them!” the president shouted.
5:36 P.M.
The hallways in the storage basement of the main building of Blanchard Pharmaceuticals, Inc., were brightly lighted and filled with boxes, file cabinets, and discarded office furniture and equipment. Beneath that level was the sub-basement where the lights were dimmer. Here spread all the machines to heat, air-condition, supply, and operate the big two-story building. The equipment made a quiet hum.
Under that was yet a third level, unmarked. Seldom visited. It was dark, damp, and rived with narrow corridors. It was not silent. Running footsteps echoes from the walls as Victor Tremont and Nadal al-Hassan rushed along with the speed and certainty of those who knew where they were going. Each carried a weapon. They passed an ordinary steel door on the right. They did not stop but continued on to the wall at the very end. This wall was as smooth and unbroken as all the rest in the dank sub-sub-basement. Simply the end of the corridor, apparently.
Victor Tremont took a small black box from his suit-jacket pocket.
Nadal al-Hassan, his weapon ready, watched warily back along the side corridor.
Tremont pressed a button on the box. The entire wall slid heavily to the left, revealing a hidden vault door made of the strongest steel available when it had been built on Tremont's orders at the time he had Blanchard's operations moved to the Adirondack Wilderness. Tremont was shaking. He spun the combination lock, and the massive door rose a few millimeters up on pneumatic lifts and slowly swung open.
“Clever,” Jon said as he stepped from the main corridor, the Beretta held steady in both hands. He aimed it at the two fugitives, who looked up. While Mercer Haldane had been speaking to the stunned crowds, Jon had watched Victor Tremont slip away. Caught in the mass of bodies, Jon had been unable to work his way as swiftly as he had wanted. But in the end, it had not mattered. He had found Tremont.
Nadal al-Hassan never hesitated. A thin smile spread across his narrow face. He swung his Clock and fired before the echo of Jon's voice ceased.
The bullet missed Smith's throat by the thickness of a hair.
Jon did not hesitate or miss. All the horrors of the past two weeks swept over him in an unforgettable second. He pulled the trigger, and al-Hassan fell forward without a sound. He lay spread-eagled, his blood pooling on the gray concrete floor at the side of his head.
Victor Tremont's bullet did not miss either. It stabbed like searing ice through the upper part of Jon's left leg. It hurled him against the wall, which caused Tremont's second and third shots to fly past and ricochet, whining away along the main corridor.
Propped against the wall, Jon fought to stay conscious. He fired again. His bullet hit Tremont's right arm, knocking him back against the half-open door and sending his pistol flying with a metallic clatter to the floor. It bounced and skidded, and the sound reverberated away along the secret corridors like a dying cry.
Dragging his bloody leg, Jon advanced on the mass murderer.
Tremont did not cringe. He lifted his chin, his eyes glowing with the certainty that any man had his price. “I'll give you a million dollars! Five million!”
“You don't have a million dollars. Not anymore. You're dead. They'll electrocute you.”
“They won't find me.” He jerked his head behind him toward the half opened door. “I destroyed the plans. No one knows an exit is here. I had it built by foreigners. The money's already transferred where no one can find it.”
“I thought you'd have some plan.”
“I'm not a fool, Smith. Thev'll never find me.”
“Not a fool,” Jon agreed. “Just a ghoul. A murderer of millions. But that's statistics. The world will have to deal with you for that. But you killed Sophia, and that's personal. I get to decide what to do. You ended her life with a wave of your hand: Eliminate her. Now it's my turn.”
“Half! I'll give you half.! A billion dollars. More!” Tremont shrank back against the massive steel door, his long body cowering.
Jon limped forward, the Beretta steady in both hands. “I loved her, Tremont. She loved me.
Now―”
It was Randi's voice behind him. “No, Jon. Don't. He's not worth it.”
“What do you know? I loved her, dammit!” His finger tightened on the trigger.
“He's finished, Jon. The FBI is here. The secret service. They've got them all. The serum's on its way to stop the dying, and they've confiscated all the antibiotics. Let them deal with him. Let the world deal with him.”
Smith's face was fierce. His eyes glowed like coals. His chin jutted. He took another step closer, the Beretta steady, inches from Tremont's trembling face. The arrogant executive tried to speak again, to say something, but his mouth and lips and tongue were too dry. All that came out was a whimper.
“Jon?” Randi's voice was suddenly soft, close.
He glanced back over his shoulder and saw Sophia. It was her lovely face, her large, intelligent eyes and sweet smile. He blinked. No, it was Randi. Sophia. Randi. He shook his head to clear it. He knew what Randi wanted, and what Sophia would have wanted.
He made himself take another deep breath. He glared once more at the shaking Tremont. Then he lowered the gun and stumbled away, his wounded leg dragging. He brushed past Randi and pushed through the ranks of FBI and secret service. Some of the agents reached out to stop him.
“Let him go,” Randi said gently. “He'll be all right. Just let him go now.”
Jon heard her behind him, but a rush of tears was blinding his eyes. He could not stop the tears. Did not want to. They poured silently down. He turned into the main corridor and hobbled on toward the distant stairs.
EPILOGUE
Six weeks later, early December
Santa Barbara, California
Santa Barbara…. Land of palms and magenta sunsets. Of diving seagulls and glossy yachts with white sails afurl on the turquoise channel. Of lovely young women and handsome young men in the briefest of swimware. Jon Smith, M.D., formerly of the U.S. Army, tried to occupy his mind with the languid beauty of this soft paradise where effort seemed trivial and appreciation of life, nature, and dreams was all.
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