The Hades Factor (4 page)

Covert One 1 - The Hades Factor

FOUR

___________________

Midnight

Washington, D.C.

Washington's magnificent Rock Creek park was a wedge of wilderness in the heart of the city. From the Potomac River near the Kennedy Center it wound narrowly north to where it expanded into a wide stretch of woods in the city's upper Northwest. A natural woodland, it abounded in hiking, biking, horse trails, picnic grounds, and historical sites. Pierce Mill, where Tilden Street intersected Beach Drive, was one of those historical landmarks. An old gristmill, it dated from pre-Civil War days when a line of such mills bordered the creek. It was now a museum run by the National Park Service and, in the moonlight, a ghostly artifact from a faraway time.

Northwest of the mill, where the brush was thick in the shadows of tall trees, Bill Griffin waited, holding a highly alert Doberman on a tight leash. Although the night was cold, Griffin sweated. His wary gaze scanned the mill and picnic grounds. The sleek dog sniffed the air, and its erect ears rotated, listening for the source of its unease.

From the right, in the general direction of the mill, someone approached. The dog had caught the faint sounds of autumn leaves being crunched underfoot long before they were audible to Griffin. But once Griffin heard the footfalls, he released the animal. The dog remained obediently seated, every taut muscle quivering, eager.

Griffin gave a silent hand signal.

Like a black phantom, the Doberman sprang off into the night and made a wide circle around the picnic grounds, invisible among the ominous shadows of the trees.

Griffin desperately wanted a cigarette. Every nerve was on edge. Behind him something small and wild rustled through the underbrush. Somewhere in the park a night owl hooted. He acknowledged neither the sounds nor his nerves. He was highly trained, a complete professional, and so he maintained watch, vigilant and unmoving. He breathed shallowly so as to not reveal his presence by clouds of white breath in the cold night air. And although he kept his temper under control, he was an angry, worried man.

When at last Lt. Col. Jonathan Smith came into view, striding across the open area in the silver-blue moonlight, Griffin still did not move. On the far side of the picnic grounds, the Doberman went to ground, invisible. But Griffin knew he was there.

Jon Smith hesitated on the path. He asked in a hoarse whisper, “Bill?”

In the umbra of the trees, Griffin continued to concentrate on the night. He listened to the traffic on the nearby parkway and to the city noises beyond. Nothing was unusual. No one else was in this part of the massive preserve. He waited for the dog to tell him otherwise, but he had resumed his rounds, apparently satisfied, too.

Griffin sighed. He stepped out to the edge of the picnic grounds where the moonlight met the shadows. His voice was low and urgent. “Smithy. Over here.”

Jon Smith turned. He was jumpy. All he could see was a vague shape wavering in the moonlight. He walked toward it, feeling exposed and vulnerable, although he did not know to what.

“Bill?” he growled. “Is that you?”

“The bad penny,” Griffin said lightly and returned deep into the shadows.

Smith joined him. He blinked, willing his eyes to adjust quickly. At last he saw his old friend, who was smiling at him. Bill Griffin had the same round face and bland features Smith remembered, although he looked as if he had lost ten pounds. His cheeks were flatter, and his shoulders appeared heavier than usual since his torso and waist were slimmer. His brown hair hung mid-length, limp and unruly. He was two inches shorter than Smith's six feet--- a good-sized, strong-looking, stocky man.

But Smith had also witnessed Bill Griffin make himself appear neutral, ordinary really, as if he had just gotten off work from a factory job assembling computer parts or was on his way to the local cafe where he was the head hamburger flipper. It was a face and body that had stood him in good stead in army intelligence and in the FBI monitoring covert operations, because under that bland exterior was a sharp mind and iron will.

To Smith, his old friend had always been something of a chameleon, but not tonight. Tonight, Smith looked at him and saw the star Iowa football player and man of opinions. He had grown up to be honest, decent, and daring. The real Bill Griffin.

Griffin held out his hand. “Hello, Smithy. Glad to see you after so long. It's about time we caught up. When was it last? The Drake Hotel, Des Moines?”

“It was. Porterhouses and Potosi beer.” But Jon Smith did not smile at the good memory as he shook Griffin's hand. “This is a hell of a way to meet. What have you got yourself into? Is it trouble?”

“You might say.” Griffin nodded, his voice still light. “But never mind that right now. How the hell are you, Smithy?”

“I'm fine,” Smith snapped, impatient. “It's you we're talking about. How'd you know I was in London?” Then he chuckled. “No, never mind. Stupid question, right? You always know. Now, what's the---”

“I hear you're getting married. Finally found someone to tame the cowboy? Settle down in the suburbs, raise kids, and mow the lawn?”

“It'll never happen.” Smith grinned. “Sophia's a cowboy herself. Another virus hunter.”

“Yeah. That makes sense. Might actually work.” Griffin nodded and gazed off, his eyes as restless and uneasy as the now-invisible Doberman. As if the night might explode into flames around them. “How're your people doing on the virus anyway?”

“Which virus? We work on so damn many at Detrick.”

Bill Griffin's gaze still traversed the moonlight and shadows of the park like a tank gunner searching for a target. He ignored the sweat collecting under his clothes. “The one you were assigned to investigate early Saturday.”

Smith was puzzled. “I'd been in London since last Tuesday. You must know that.” He swore aloud. “Damn! That must be the 'emergency' Sophia was called in about while we were talking. I've got to get back---” He stopped and frowned. “How do you know Detrick's got a new virus? Is that what this is all about? You figure they told me all about it while I was away, and now you want to tap me for information?”

Griffin's face revealed nothing. He scrutinized the night. “Calm down, Jon.”

“Calm down?” Smith was incredulous. “Is the FBI so interested in this particular virus that they sent you to pump me in secret? That's damn stupid. Your director can call my director. That's the way these things are done.”

Griffin finally looked at Smith. “I don't work for the FBI anymore.”

“You don't...?” Smith stared into the steady eyes, but now there was nothing there. Bill Griffin's eyes, like the rest of his featureless face, had gone empty. The old Bill Griffin was gone, and for a moment Smith felt an ache in the pit of his stomach. Then his anger rose, every sensor of his military and virus-hunter experience sounding loudly. “What's so special about this new virus? And what do you want information for? Some sleazy tabloid?”

“I'm not working for any newspapers or magazines.”

“A congressional committee, then? Sure, what better for a committee looking to cut science funding than using an ex-FBI man!” Smith took a deep breath. He did not recognize this man whom he had once thought of as his best friend. Something had changed Bill Griffin, and Griffin was showing no signs of revealing any of it. Now Griffin seemed to want to use their friendship for his own ends. Smith shook his head. “No, Bill, don't tell me who or what you're working for. It doesn't matter. If you want to know about any viruses, go through army channels. And don't call me again unless you're my friend and nothing more.” Disgusted, he stalked away.

“Stay, Smithy. We need to talk.”

“Screw you, Bill.” Jon Smith continued toward the moonlight.

Griffin gave a low whistle.

Suddenly a large Doberman bounded in front of Jon Smith. Snarling, it spun to face him. Smith froze. The dog planted all four paws, lifted his muzzle, and growled long and deep. His sharp teeth glistened white and moist, so pointed that with one slash they could tear out a man's throat.

Smith's heart thundered. He stared unmoving at the dog.

“Sorry.” Griffin's voice behind him was almost sad. “But you asked if there was bad trouble. Well, there is--- but not for me.”

As the dog continued to make low growls of warning in his throat, Smith remained immobile, except for his face. He sneered in contempt. “You're saying I'm in some kind of trouble? Give me a break.”

“Yes.” Griffin nodded. “That's exactly what I'm saying, Smithy. That's why I wanted to meet. But it's all I can tell you. You're in danger. Real danger. Get the hell out of town, fast. Don't go back to your lab. Get on a plane and---”

“What are you talking about? You know damn well I'd never do that. Run away from my work? Damn. What's happened to you, Bill?”

Griffin ignored him. “Listen to what I'm saying! Call Detrick. Tell the general you need a vacation. A long vacation. Out of the country. Do it now, and get as far away as possible. Tonight!”

“That won't cut it. Tell me what's so special about this virus. What danger am I in? If you want me to act, I've got to know why.”

“For Christ's sake!” Griffin exclaimed, losing his temper. “I'm trying to help. Go away. Go fast! Take your Sophia.”

Before he had finished speaking, the growling Doberman abruptly lifted his front paws off the path and whirled, landing ninety degrees south. His gaze indicated the far side of the park.

Griffin said softly, “Visitors, boy?” He gave a hand signal, and the dog raced into the trees. Griffin turned on Smith and exploded, “Get out of here, Jon! Go. Now!” He dashed after the Doberman, a stocky shadow moving with incredible speed.

Man and dog vanished among the thick trees of the dark park.

For a moment Smith was stunned. Was it for him Bill was afraid or for himself? Or for both of them? It appeared his old friend had taken a great risk to warn him and to ask him to do what neither would have once considered--- abandon job and accountability.

To go this far, Bill's back had to be slammed up against a very unyielding wall.

What in God's name was Bill Griffin mixed up in?

A shiver shot up Smith's spine. A pulse at his temple began to throb. Bill was right. He was in danger, at least here in this dark park. Old habits resettled themselves on him like a long-forgotten cloak. His senses grew acute, and he expertly surveyed the trees and lawns.

He sprinted away along the edge of the dark trees while his mind continued to work. He had assumed the way Bill had found him was through FBI channels, but Bill was no longer in the FBI.

Smith's stay at the Wilbraham Hotel had been known only to his fiancée, to his boss, and to the clerk who had made his travel arrangements at Fort Detrick. No way would any of them have revealed his whereabouts to a stranger, no matter how convincing the stranger was.

So how had Bill--- a man who claimed to be out of government--- managed to learn where he had been staying in London?

__________

An unlighted black limousine lurked in the shadow of the old mill near the Tilden Street entrance to Rock Creek park. Alone in the backseat sat Nadal al-Hassan, a tall man with a dark face as narrow and sharp as a hatchet. He was listening to his subordinate, Steve Maddux, who leaned inside the window, reporting.

Maddux had been running, and his face was red and sweaty. “If Bill Griffin's in that park, Mr. al-Hassan, he's a goddamn ghost. All I saw was the army doc taking a walk.” He breathed hard, trying to catch his breath.

Inside the luxury car, the bones and hollows of the tall man's face were deeply pocked, the mark of a rare survivor of the once-dreaded smallpox. His black eyes were hooded, cold, and expressionless. “I have told you before, Maddux, you will not blaspheme while you work for me.”

“Hey, sorry. Okay? Jesus Chr-”

Like a cobra striking, the tall man's arm snaked out, and his long fingers clamped on Maddux's throat.

Maddux went pasty with fear, and he made strangling sounds as he bit off the curse. Still, the unsaid syllables hung in the darkness through an ominous silence. Finally, the hand on his throat relaxed a fraction. Sweat dripped off Maddux's forehead.

The eyes inside the car were like mirrors, glistening surfaces no one could see behind. The voice was deceptively quiet. “You wish to die so soon?”

“Hey,” the scared man said hoarsely, “you're a Muslim. What's wrong with---”

“All the prophets are sacred. Abraham, Moses, Jesus. All!”

“Okay, okay! I mean, Jes-” Maddux quaked as the claw tightened on his throat. “How'm I s'posed to know that?”

For another instant, the fingers squeezed. Then the tall man let go. His arm withdrew. “Perhaps you are right. I expect too much from stupid Americans. But you know now, yes, and you will not forget again.” It wasn't a question.

Wheezing, Maddux gasped, “Sure, sure, Mr. al-Hassan. Okay.”