The Hades Factor Part 3

"You might say." Griffin nodded, his voice still light. "But never mind that right now. How the h.e.l.l 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 d.a.m.n 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 a.s.signed to investigate early Sat.u.r.day."

Smith was puzzled. "I'd been in London since last Tuesday. You must know that." He swore aloud. "d.a.m.n! 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 d.a.m.n 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 h.e.l.l out of town, fast. Don't go back to your lab. Get on a plane and---"

"What are you talking about? You know d.a.m.n well I'd never do that. Run away from my work? d.a.m.n. 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 G.o.d'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 a.s.sumed 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 fiancee, 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-Ha.s.san, 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-Ha.s.san, he's a G.o.dd.a.m.n 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 hoa.r.s.ely, "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-Ha.s.san. Okay."

The sharp-faced man, al-Ha.s.san, examined Maddux with his cold, mirrored eyes. "But Jon Smith was there." He sat back in the gloom of the car, talking softly as if to himself. "Our man in London finds Smith changed his flight and was missing from London all day. Your men pick him up at Dulles, but instead of driving home to Maryland, he comes here. At the same time, our esteemed colleague slips away from our hotel and I follow him to this vicinity before he eludes me. You fail to find him in the park, but it is a strange coincidence, wouldn't you say? Why is the a.s.sociate of Dr. Russell here if not to meet our Mr. Griffin?"

Maddux said nothing. He had learned most of his boss's questions were spoken aloud to some unseen part of himself. Nervously he let the silence stretch. Around the limo and the two men, the wild park seemed to breathe with a life of its own.

Eventually al-Ha.s.san shrugged. "Perhaps I am wrong. Perhaps it is a mere coincidence, and Griffin has nothing to do with why Colonel Smith is here. It does not really matter, I suppose. The others will take care of Colonel Smith, yes?"

"You got it." Maddux nodded emphatically. "No way he gets out of D.C."

CHAPTER.

FIVE

1:34 A.M., Tuesday, October 14 Fort Detrick, Maryland In her office, Sophia Russell flicked on her desk lamp and collapsed into her chair, weary and frustrated. Victor Tremont had called this morning to report that nothing in his Peru journals mentioned the strange virus she had described or the Indian tribe called the Monkey Blood People. Tremont was her best outside lead, and she was devastated he had been unable to help.

Although she and the rest of the Detrick microbiology staff had continued to work around the clock, they were no closer to resolving the threat posed by the virus. Under the electron microscope the new virus showed the same globular shape with hairlike protrusions of some of its proteins, much like a flu virus. But this virus was far simpler than any influenza mutation and far more deadly.

After they had failed to find a match among the hantaviruses, they had rechecked Marburg, La.s.sa, and Ebola, even though those related killers had no microscopic similarities to the unknown virus. They tried every other identified hemorrhagic fever. They tried typhoid, bubonic plague, pneumonic plague, meningitis, and tularemia.

Nothing matched, and this afternoon she had finally insisted General Kielburger reveal the virus and enlist the aid of the CDC and the other Level Four installations worldwide. He had still been reluctant; there were still only the three cases. But at the same time, the virus appeared to be totally unknown and highly lethal, and if he did not take the proper steps and a pandemic resulted, he would be responsible. So, grumbling, he had finally acquiesced and sent off full explanatory memos and blood samples to the CDC, the Special Pathogens Branch of WHO, Porton Down in the U.K., the University of Anvers in Belgium, Germany's Bernard Nocht Inst.i.tute, the special pathogens branch of the Pasteur Inst.i.tute in France, and all the other Level Four labs around the globe.

Now the first of the reports were coming in from the other Hot Zone labs. Everyone agreed the virus seemed like a hantavirus, but matched nothing in any of their data banks. All the reports from the CDC and the foreign laboratories showed no progress. All contained desperate, if informed, guesses.

In her office, tired to the marrow, Sophia leaned back in her desk chair and ma.s.saged her temples, trying to ward off a headache. She glanced at her watch and was shocked to see the time. Good G.o.d, it was nearly 2:00 A.M.

Worry lines furrowed her brow. Where was Jon? If he had arrived home last night as scheduled, he would have been in the lab today. Because of her frantic work schedule, she had not thought too much about his absence. Now, despite her tiredness and headache and her initial worries about Jon, she could not help smiling. She had a forty-one-year-old fiance who still had all the curiosity and impulsiveness of a twenty-year-old. Wave a medical mystery in front of Jon, and he was off like a racehorse. He must have found something fascinating that had delayed him.

Still, he should have called by now. Soon he would be a full day late.

Maybe Kielburger had ordered him somewhere in secret, and Jon could not call. That'd be just like the general. Never mind she was Jon's fiancee. If the general had sent Jon off, she would learn about it with the rest of the staff, when the general was good and ready to announce it.

She sat up in her chair, thinking. The scientific staff was working through the night, even the general, who never pa.s.sed up an opportunity to be noticed in the right way. Abruptly furious and anxious about Jon, she marched out, heading for his office.

Brig. Gen. Calvin Kielburger, Ph.D., was one of those big, beefy men with loud voices and not too many brains the army loved to raise to the rank of colonel and then freeze there. These men were sometimes tough and always mean but had few people skills and less diplomacy. They tended to be called Bull or Buck. Sometimes officers with those nicknames made higher rank, but they were small, feisty men with big jaws.

Having achieved one star beyond what he could reasonably have expected, Brigadier General Kielburger abandoned actual medical research in the heady illusion of rising to full general with troop command. But to lead armies, the service wanted smart officers who could work well with the necessary civilian officials. Kielburger was so busy promoting himself he did not see his smartest move was to be intelligent and tactful. As a result, he was now stuck administering an irreverent gang of military and civilian scientists, most of whom did not take well to authority in the first place, particularly not to narrow-minded bombast like Kielburger's.

Of the unruly lot, Lt. Col. Jon Smith had turned out to be the most irreverent, the most uncontrollable, the most irritating. So in answer to Sophia's question, Kielburger bellowed, "I sure as h.e.l.l didn't send Colonel Smith on any a.s.signment! If we had a sensitive task, he'd be the last one I'd send, exactly because of stunts like this!"

Sophia was as frosty as Kielburger was choleric. "Jon doesn't pull 'stunts.' "

"He's a full day late when we need him here!"

"Unless you phoned him, how would he know we needed him?" Sophia snapped. "Even I didn't know how bad the situation was until I started examining the virus. Then I was busy in the lab. Working. I'm sure you remember what that's like." The truth was, she doubted he had any memories of the pressures and excitement of lab work, because she had heard that even in those days he had preferred to shuffle papers and critique other scientists' notes. She insisted, "Jon must have a reason for being late. Or something he can't control is detaining him."

"Such as what, Doctor?"

"If I knew, I wouldn't be wasting your valuable time. Or mine. But it's not like him to be late without calling me."

Kielburger's florid face sneered. "I'd say it's very much like him. He's a G.o.dd.a.m.n pirate looking for the next chest of gold, and he always will be. Take my word for it, he's run into an 'interesting' medical problem or treatment or both and missed his flight. Face it, Russell, he's a G.o.dd.a.m.n loose cannon, and after you're married you're going to have to deal with that. I don't envy you."

Sophia compressed her lips, fighting a strong desire to tell the general exactly what she thought of him.

He stared back, idly undressing her in his mind. He had always liked blondes. It was s.e.xy the way she pulled back her pale hair in a ponytail. He wondered whether she was blond everywhere.

When she made no answer, he went on in a more conciliatory voice. "Don't sweat it, Dr. Russell. He'll turn up soon. I hope so, anyway, because we need everyone we can get on this virus. I suppose you have nothing to report?"

Sophia shook her head. "To be frank, I'm about out of ideas, and so is the rest of the staff. The other labs are struggling, too. It's early, but all we're getting so far from everyone is negatives and guesses."

Kielburger tapped his desk in frustration. He was a general, so he felt obligated to do something. "You say this is a totally unique virus of a type never seen before?"

"There's always a first one to be discovered."

Kielburger groaned. This could ruin any chance he had to break out of the medical ghetto and move into line command.

Sophia was studying him. "May I make a suggestion, General?"

"Why not?" Kielburger said bitterly., "The three victims we have are widely separated geographically. Plus two are about the same age, while one is much younger. Two are male; one is female. One in active service, one a veteran, and one civilian. How did they get the virus? What was the source? It has to have been centered somewhere. The odds are astronomical against three outbreaks within twenty-four hours of the same unknown virus thousands of miles apart."

As usual, the general did not get it. "What's your point?"

"Unless we begin to see other victims centered in one of the three locations, we have to find the connection among the three we do have. We need to start investigating their lives. For instance, maybe they were all in the same hotel room in Milwaukee six months ago. Maybe that's when all three contracted it." She paused. "At the same time, we should comb the medical records in the three areas for signs of previous infections that could have produced antibodies."

At least it was a positive step, and it would make Kielburger look as if he was acting decisively. "I'll instruct the staff to begin at once. I want you and Colonel Smith to fly out to California first thing in the morning to talk to the people who knew Major Anderson. Is that clear?"

"Perfectly, General."

"Good. Let me know when Smith decides to return to work. I'm going to chew his a.s.s!"

So mad she could not even enjoy the spectacle of Kielburger acting out his Hollywood conception of a tough, no-nonsense American hero, Sophia stalked out of his office.

In the corridor, she looked up at the wall clock: 1:56 A.M. Fresh worry overwhelmed her. Had something happened to Jon? Where was he?

2:05 A.M.

Washington, D.C.

As he drove his small Triumph through the night city, Jon Smith, mulled what Bill Griffin had told him, trying to comprehend even the unspoken hints.

Bill said he had left the FBI. Voluntarily or by request?