The Hades Factor (19 page)

When he whipped the cover off the next-to-the-last one, Smith stared. “A Rolls-Royce?”

“My father's.” Marty grinned shyly.

It was a thirty-year-old Silver Cloud, as gleaming as the day it had cruised out from under the hands of the long-forgotten craftsmen who built it. When the attendant started it up and rolled it carefully out from the row, its original Rolls-Royce engine purred so softly Smith was not sure it was actually running. There was not a squeak, squeal, knock, or rattle.

“There you are, Mr. Zellerbach,” the attendant said proudly. “She's our belle. Best car in the house. I'm glad to see she's going somewhere at last.”

Smith took the keys and told Marty to sit in the backseat. He left his uniform blouse off but put on his cap so he would look more like a chauffeur. Behind the wheel, he studied the dashboard instruments and gauges on the whorled wood and examined the controls. With a sense of awe, he slid the clutch into gear and drove the elegant machine out of storage and onto the side street. Almost anywhere in the nation the Rolls would stand out as glaringly as his Triumph. But not in New York, Los Angeles, or Washington. Here it was just one more expensive car carrying an ambassador, a foreign dignitary, an important official, or a CEO of some kind.

“Do you like it, Jon?” Marty asked from the backseat.

“It's like riding a magic carpet,” Smith said. “Beautiful.”

“That's why I kept it.” Marty gave a satisfied smile and leaned back like an overweight cat against the seat, comforted by the close walls of the car. He set his papers and his black medicine case beside him and gave a little chortle. “You know, Jon, that guy in the bathroom's going to tell the others about my escape route, but they're never going to figure out how to make it work.” He held up the remote control with a flourish. “Zounds! They're screwed!”

Smith laughed and glanced at the rearview mirror. The chopper circled helplessly a block away. He turned the grand machine onto Massachusetts Avenue. Inside the Silver Cloud, there was hardly a sound despite the heavy traffic.

He asked, “Are those papers printouts of what you were able to download?”

“Yes. I have good news, and I have bad news.”

Marty described his cybersearch as they passed Dupont Circle and glided north, through the city to I-95 and onto the Beltway. As Marty talked, Smith remained tense and alert for anyone following. He had the constant sense they could be attacked again from any point at any time.

Then he looked into the rearview mirror at Marty with amazement. “You really were able to find the report from the Prince Leopold?”

Marty nodded. “And virus reports from Iraq.”

“Amazing. Thank you. What about Bill Griffin and Sophia's phone records?”

“No. Sorry, Jon. I really tried.”

“I know you did. I'd better read what you've got.”

They were approaching the Connecticut Avenue exit at the extension of Rock Creek park in Maryland. Smith took the exit, drove into the park, and stopped the Rolls at a secluded meadow surrounded by a stand of thick trees. As Marty handed him the two printouts, he said, “They'd been deleted by the director of NIH's Federal Resource Medical Clearing House.”

“The government!” Smith swore. “Damn. Either someone in the government or army's behind what's happening, or the people who are have even more power than I'd thought.”

“That scares me, Jon,” Marty said.

“It scares me, and we better find out which it is soon.”

Muttering, he read the Prince Leopold report first.

Dr. Renée Giscours described a field report he had seen while doing a stint at a jungle hospital far upriver in Bolivian Amazonia years ago. He had been battling what appeared to be a new outbreak of Machupo fever and had no time to think about an unconfirmed rumor from far-off Peru. But the new virus jogged his memory, so he checked his papers and found his original note--- but not the actual report. His jottings to himself back then emphasized an unusual combination of hantavirus and hemorrhagic fever symptoms and some connection to monkeys.

Smith thought about it. What had caught Sophia's interest in this? There were few facts, nothing but the vague memory of an anecdote from the field. Was it the mention of Machupo? But Giscours made no special connection, did not suggest any link, and Machupo antibodies had shown no effect on the unknown virus. It did suggest the new unknown virus actually existed in nature, but researchers would assume that. Perhaps it was the mention of Bolivia. Maybe Peru. But why?

“Is it important?” Marty wanted to know, eager to help.

“I don't know yet. Let me read the rest.”

There were three more reports--- all from the Iraqi Minister of Health's office. The first two concerned three ARDS deaths a year ago in the Baghdad area that were unexplained but finally attributed to a hantavirus carried by desert mice drawn into the city by lack of food in the fields. The third reported three more ARDS cases in Basra who had survived. All three in Basra. Smith felt a chill. The exact same numbers had died and survived. Like a controlled experiment. Was that what the three American victims were, too, part of some experiment?

Plus there was the connection of the first three American victims to Desert Storm.

He felt a settling in his chest, as if now at last he had a clearer sense of direction. He had to go to Iraq. He needed to find out who had died and who had survived... and why.

“Marty, we're going to California. There's a man there who'll help us.”

“I don't fly.”

“You do now.”

“But, Jon---” Marty protested.

“Forget it, Marty. You're stuck with me. Besides, you know deep down you like doing crazy things. Consider this one of your craziest.”

“I don't believe thinking positively is enough in this case. I might freak out. Not that I'd want to, you understand. But even Alexander the Great had fits.”

“He had epilepsy. You have Asperger's, and you've got medication to control it.”

Marty froze. “Little problem there. I don't have my meds.”

“Didn't you bring your case?”

“Yes, of course I brought it. But I have only one dose left.”

“We'll have to get you more in California.” As Marty grimaced, Smith restarted the Rolls and pulled onto the Interstate. “We'll need money. The army, the FBI, probably the police, and the people with the virus will be monitoring my bank accounts, credits cards, the works. They won't be monitoring yours yet.”

“You're right. Since I value my life, I suppose I have to go along. At least for a while. Okay. Consider it a donation. Do you think fifty thousand dollars would be enough?”

Smith was stunned at the large sum. But when he thought about it, he realized money was meaningless to Marty. “Fifty thousand should do fine.”

__________

Over the roar of the rotors and the slipstream wind, Nadal al-Hassan shouted into the phone, “We have lost them.” He wore dark sunglasses over his hatchet face. They seemed to absorb the sunlight like black holes.

In his office near the Adirondack lake, Victor Tremont swore. “Damn. Who is this Martin Zellerbach? Why did Smith go to him?”

Al-Hassan covered his open ear to hear better. “I will find out. What about the army and the FBI?”

“Smith's officially AWOL and connected to the deaths of Kielburger and the woman because he was the last to see them alive. Both the police and the army are looking for him.” The distant roar of the helicopter in his ear made him want to shout as if he were there with al-Hassan. “Jack McGraw's staying on top of the situation through his source in the Bureau.”

“That is good. Zellerbach's residence has much computer equipment. Very advanced. It is possible that is why Smith went there. Perhaps we could learn what he is looking for by analyzing what this Zellerbach was doing when we arrived.”

“I'll send Xavier to Washington. Have your people watch the hospitals where all the victims were treated, especially the three survivors. So far the government hasn't revealed the survivals, but they will. When Smith hears about them, he'll probably try to reach them.”

“I have already seen to it.”

“Good, Nadal. Where's Bill Griffin?”

“That I do not know. He has not reported in to me today.”

“Find him!”

___________________

CHAPTER

TWENTY

___________________

7:14 P.M.

New York City

Mercer Haldane, chairman of Blanchard Pharmaceuticals, Inc., could barely manage a smile as Mrs. Pendragon brought in the agenda for tomorrow's board meeting. Still, he bid her his customary cheerful goodnight. Safely alone again, he sat brooding in his white tie and tails. One of the quarterly dinners for the board was tonight, and he had an enormous problem that must be addressed first.

Haldane was proud of Blanchard, both of its history and its future. It was an old company, founded by Ezra and Elijah Blanchard in a garage in Buffalo in 1884 to make soap and face cream from their mother's original recipes. Owned and run by one or the other Blanchard, it had prospered and branched into fermentation products. During World War II, Blanchard was one of the few manufacturers selected to make penicillin, which elevated it to a pharmaceutical company. After the war, the company grew rapidly and went public with great fanfare in the 1960s. Twenty years later, in the early 1980s, the last Blanchard descendant handed over the operation of the company to Mercer Haldane. As CEO, Haldane ran Blanchard into the 1990s. Ten years ago, he had assumed the chairmanship as well. It was his company now.

Until two days ago, the future of Blanchard looked as rosy as its past. Victor Tremont had been his discovery, a brilliant biochemist with executive potential and creative flair. Haldane had nurtured Victor slowly, bringing him up through all the company's operations. He had been grooming Victor to succeed him. In fact, four years ago Haldane had promoted him to COO, even though he retained effective control. He knew Victor seethed under the constraint, that he was eager to run the company, but Haldane considered that a plus. Any man worth his salt wanted his own show, and a hungry man kept his competitive edge.

Tonight it was Mercer Haldane who seethed.

A year ago, a new auditor had reported accounting for research and development that seemed odd. The auditor was concerned, even nervous. It was impossible to follow funds for a project through to its conclusion. Haldane considered the man's worry nothing more than unfamiliarity with the intricacies of R&D in the pharmaceutical industry. But Haldane was also a cautious executive, so he had hired a second outside auditing firm to look more deeply.

The result was alarming. Two days ago, Haldane had received the report. In an intricate pattern of small, barely noticeable irregularities--- overruns, shortfalls, paper transfers, borrowings, excessive supply and repair costs, pilfering, and spillage and leakage losses--- almost a billion dollars appeared to be missing from the total R&D budget over a ten year period. A billion dollars! In addition, a similar sum appeared to have been applied to a phantom R&D program Haldane had never heard of. The paper trail was exceedingly complex, and the auditors admitted they could not be absolutely certain of their findings. But they also said they were sure enough that they believed they should be granted permission to continue digging.

Haldane thanked them, told them he would be in touch, and immediately thought of Victor Tremont. Not for a second did he believe a billion dollars could be lost through tiny pinpricks, or that Victor would steal such a sum. But it was possible his hungry second-in-command could order a secret research project and try to keep it hidden from Haldane. Yes, he would believe that.

He made no immediate move. Victor and he would meet in his New York office before the private dinner he gave for the board at the quarterly meeting. He would brace Victor with what he knew and demand an explanation. One way or another, he would discover whether any secret program existed. If it did, he would have to fire Victor. But the project might be worth saving. If there were no such program, and Victor could not explain the lost billion, he would fire him on the spot.

Haldane sighed. It was tragic about Victor, but at the same time he felt an eagerness that made his blood rush. He was getting on in years, but he still enjoyed a good fight. Especially one that he knew he would win.

At the sound of his private elevator coming up, he crossed the luxurious office with its view south over the entire city to the Battery and the bay. He poured a snifter of his best XO cognac and returned to his desk. He opened a humidor, selected a cigar, lighted it, and took the first long, savory draw as the elevator stopped and Victor Tremont stepped out in his white tie and tails.

Haldane turned his head. “Good evening, Victor. Pour yourself a brandy.”

Tremont eyed him where he sat behind the big desk smoking the cigar. “You're looking solemn tonight, Mercer. Some problem?”