The Hades Factor Part 8

Dressed again, he hurried to his office, where he checked his data against Sophia's. At last he sat back and stared into s.p.a.ce. The virus that had killed Sophia matched none he had ever heard of or seen. It had been close here and there, yes, but always to a different known virus.

What it did match was the unknown virus she had been working on.

Obsessed as he was with Sophia's death, he still felt horror at the potential threat to the world from this new, deadly virus. Four victims might be only the beginning.

How had Sophia contracted it?

If she had had an accident in which she had any possible contact with the new virus, she would have reported it instantly. Not only was that a standing order, it was insanity not to. The pathogens in a Hot Zone were lethal. There was no vaccine and no cure, but prompt treatment to bolster the body's resistance and maintain the best possible health, plus normal medical steps for any virus, had saved many who all but certainly would have died untreated.

Detrick had a biocontainment hospital where the doctors knew everything there was to know about treating victims. If anyone could have saved her, it would have been them, and she knew it.

On top of everything, she was a scientist. If she had thought there was the remotest possibility she could have contracted the virus, she would have wanted everything that had happened to her recorded and a.n.a.lyzed to add to the body of knowledge about the virus and perhaps save others.

She would have reported anything. Anything at all.

Add to that the violent attacks on him in Georgetown, and Smith could draw only one conclusion: Her death had been no accident.

In his mind, he heard her gasping voice "...lab ...someone ...hit ..."

The tortured words had meant nothing to him in the horror of the moment, but now they reverberated in his mind. Had someone entered her lab and attacked her the way they had attacked him?

Galvanized, he read again through her notes, memos, and reports for any clue, any hint of what had really happened.

And saw the number in her careful printing at the top of the next-to-last page of her logbook. Her logbook detailed each day's work on the unknown virus. The entry number was PRL-53-99.

He understood the notation. "PRL" referred to the Prince Leopold st.i.tute in Belgium. There was nothing special about that, simply her way to identify a report from some other researcher she had used in her work. The number referred to a specific experiment or line of reasoning or a chronology. What was important about this reference and number was that she always--- always--- wrote them at the end of her report.

At the end.

This notation was at the top of a page--- at the beginning of a commentary concerning the problem of three victims separated widely by geography, circ.u.mstances, age, gender, and experience dying from the same virus at the same time, and no one else in the surrounding areas even contracting it.

The commentary mentioned no other reports, so the log number was in the wrong place.

He examined the two last pages carefully, pushing apart the sheets so he could study the gutter where the paper was sealed into the book's spine. His magnifying gla.s.s revealed nothing.

He thought a moment and then carried the open logbook to his large dissecting microscope. He positioned the book's exposed gutter under the viewing lens and peered into the binocular eyepiece. He slid the spine under the viewer.

He inhaled sharply when he saw it--- a cut almost as straight and delicate as a laser scalpel. But although very good, it was not good enough to hide the truth from the powerful microscope. A knife-edge showed, faintly jagged.

A page had been cut out.

Brig. Gen. Calvin Kielburger stood in the open doorway to Jon Smith's office. His hands clasped behind his back, legs spread apart, beefy face set firmly in a severe expression, he looked like Patton on a tank in the Ardennes inspiring the Fourth Armored.

"I ordered you to go home, Colonel Smith. You're no good to anyone out on your feet. We need a full, clear-thinking staff on this effort. Especially without Dr. Russell."

Smith did not look up. "Someone cut a page from her logbook."

"Go home, Colonel."

Now Smith raised his head. "Didn't you hear me? There's a page missing from the last work she did. Why?"

"She probably removed it because she didn't want it."

"Have you forgotten everything you know about science since you got that star? No one destroys a research note. I can tell you what was cut out was connected to some report she had read from the Prince Leopold Inst.i.tute in Belgium. I've found no copy of such a report in her papers."

"It's probably in the computer data bank."

"That's where I'm going to look next."

"You'll have to do it later. First I want you to get some rest, and then I need you to go to California in Dr. Russell's place. You've got to talk to Major Anderson's family, friends, anyone and everyone who knew him."

"No, dammit! Send someone else." He wanted to tell Kielburger about the attacks on him in Washington. That might go a long way to making the general believe that he had to keep trying to find out how Sophia had contracted the virus. But Kielburger would want to know what he had been doing in Washington in the first place when he was supposed to be back at Detrick, which would force him to reveal his clandestine meeting with Bill Griffin. He could not expose an old friend until he knew more, which meant he had to convince the general to let him go on. "Something's wrong about Sophia's death, I know it. I'm going to find out what."

The general bristled. "Not on the army's time, you're not. We've got a far bigger problem than the death of one staff member, Colonel, no matter who she was."

Smith reared up from his seat like a stallion attacked by a rattlesnake. "Then I'm out of the army!"

For a moment Kielburger glared, his thick fists clenched at his sides. His face was beet red, and he was ready to tell Smith to go ahead and quit. He had had enough of his insubordination.

Then he reconsidered. It would look bad on his record--- an officer unable to command loyalty in his troops. This was not the time to deal with Smith's arrogance and insubordination.

He forced his face to relax. "All right, I suppose I don't blame you. Continue working on Dr. Russell's case. I'll send someone else to California."

2:02 P.M.

Bethesda, Maryland Even though she had rushed, it took Lily Lowenstein the entire morning to do what the nameless man had ordered. Now she was finishing a celebratory lunch at her favorite restaurant in downtown Bethesda. On the other side of the window, the city's tall buildings, reminding her again of a mini-Dallas, reflected the bright October sunlight as she sipped her second daiquiri.

Surprisingly, tapping into WHO's worldwide computerized medical network had turned out to be the simplest of her tasks. n.o.body had thought it necessary to put stringent security on a scientific and humanitarian information network. So it had been child's play to erase all trace of a series of reports from WHO records concerning the victims and survivors of two minor viral outbreaks in the cities of Baghdad and Basra.

The Iraqi computer system was five years out of date, so going in to remove the originals of the same reports at the source was almost as easy. Oddly, Lily had found most of the original information from Iraq had already been erased by the Saddam Hussein regime. Not wanting to reveal any weakness or need, no doubt.

Clearing the single Belgian report from all electronic records of her own FRMC master computer, from USAMRIID and CDC's databases, and from all the other databases worldwide had been more time consuming. But the hardest task proved to be erasing the item from the telephone log at Fort Detrick. She had been forced to call in favors from high-level phone company contacts who owed her.

Curious, she had attempted to comprehend the reason behind the blackmailer's demands, but there seemed to be no common ground among the items she deleted except that most dealt with a virus. There had been hundreds of other research reports flying back and forth over the electronic circuits among a dozen Level Four research inst.i.tutions worldwide, and her blackmailer had shown no interest in those.

Whatever he had wanted, her part was successfully completed. She had not been discovered, had left no trace, and would soon be free of her financial problems for good. She would never get in so deep again, she promised herself. With fifty thousand dollars in cash, she could go to Vegas or Atlantic City with enough to recoup everything she had lost. With a carefree smile, she quickly decided she would begin with a thousand on the Capitals to win tonight.

She almost laughed aloud as she left the restaurant and turned the corner toward the bar where her favorite bookmaker had his private booth. She felt a fiery surge that told her she could not lose. Not now. Not anymore.

Even when she heard the screams behind her, the screech and rumble of rubber and metal, and turned to see the big black SUV careening along the sidewalk directly at her, she had a wide smile on her face. The smile was still there when the SUV struck her and swerved back onto the street, leaving her dead on the sidewalk.

3:16 P.M.

Fort Detrick, Maryland Smith pushed away from the computer screen. There were five reports from the Prince Leopold Inst.i.tute, but none had arrived yesterday or early today, and none reported anything but more failure to cla.s.sify he unknown virus.

There had to be a report with new information in it--- at least one fact important enough for Sophia to be inspired in some new line of investigation she had chronicled as a full-page note last night. But he had searched Detrick's database, CDC's database, and tied into the army's supercomputer to search every other Level Four lab in the world, including the Prince Leopold itself.

There was nothing.

Frustrated, he stared at the uncooperative screen. Either Sophia had made a mistake, put the wrong code on her designation, and the report had never existed, or--- Or it had been erased from every database in the world, including its source.

That was difficult to believe. Not impossible to do, but hard to believe someone would go to such trouble over a virus when it was in everyone's best interests to investigate. Smith shook his head, trying to dismiss the idea that there had been anything critical on that missing page, but he could not. The page had been cut out.

And by someone who had gotten on and off the base unseen. Or had they?

He reached again for the phone to find out who else had been in the lab last night, but after speaking to the whole staff and Sergeant Major Daugherty, he was no closer to an answer. All of Daugherty's people had gone home by 6:00 P.M. while the scientific staff had stayed until 2:00 A.M., even Kielburger. After that, Sophia had been here alone.

On the night desk, Gra.s.so had seen nothing, not even Sophia's leaving, as Smith already knew. At the gate, the guards swore they had seen no one after 2:00 A.M., but they had obviously missed Sophia staggering out on foot, so their report meant little. Besides, he doubted anyone skilled enough to cut out the page without leaving a trace to the naked eye would have drawn attention to himself as he entered or left.

Smith was at a dead end.

Then, in his mind, he heard Sophia gasp. He closed his eyes and saw once again her beautiful face, contorted in excruciating pain. Falling into his arms, struggling to breathe, yet managing to blurt out, "...lab ...someone ...hit. ..."

5:27 P.M.

The Morgue, Frederick, Maryland Dr. Lutfallah was annoyed. "I don't know what more we can find out, Colonel Smith. The autopsy was clear. Definite. Shouldn't you take a break? I'm surprised you can function at all. You need some sleep ..."

"I'll sleep when I know what happened to her," Smith snapped. "And I'm not questioning what killed her, only how it killed her."

The pathologist had reluctantly agreed to remeet Smith in the hospital's autopsy room. He was not happy to have been pulled away from a perfectly good Tanqueray martini.

"How?" Lutfallah's eyebrows shot up. This was too much. He made no effort to keep the scathing sarcasm from his voice. "I'd say that'd be the usual way any lethal virus kills, Colonel."

Smith ignored him. He was bent close to the table, fighting to keep from breaking down again at the sight of his vibrant Sophia so pale and lifeless. "Every inch, Doctor. Examine her inch by inch. Look for anything we missed, anything unusual. Anything."

Still bristling, Lutfallah began to search. The two medical men worked in silence for an hour. Lutfallah was starting to make annoyed sounds again when he gave a m.u.f.fled exclamation through his surgical mask. "What's this?"

Smith jerked alert. "What? What do you have? Show me!"

But it was Lutfallah who did not answer this time. He was examining Sophia's left ankle. When he spoke, it was a question. "Was Dr. Russell diabetic?"

"No. What have you found?"

"Any other intravenous medications?"

"No."

Lutfallah nodded to himself. He looked up. "Did she do drugs, Colonel?"

"You mean narcotics? h.e.l.l, no."

"Then take a look."

Smith joined the pathologist, who was standing on Sophia's left side. Together they bent close to the ankle. The mark was all but invisible--- a reddening and swelling so small no one had noticed, or perhaps it had not been there before, a late manifestation of the virus.

In the center of the reddening was a single, tiny needle mark for an injection, as expertly administered as the page had been cut from her notebook.

Smith stood up abruptly. Fury enveloped him. He gripped his hands in white-hard fists as his head pounded. He had guessed it. Now he knew it.

Sophia had been murdered.

8:16 P.M.

Fort Detrick, Maryland.

Jon Smith slammed into his office and stalked to his desk. But he did not sit. He could not. He paced the room, back and forth, a wild animal in a corral. Despite the turmoil in his body, his mind was diamond sharp. Concentrating. For him right now, despite the needs of the world... there was one single goal--- to find Sophia's killer.

All right, then. Think. She must have learned something so dangerous she had to be killed, and all physical evidence of what she had learned or deduced eliminated. So what else did researchers in a worldwide scientific investigation do? They talked.

He grabbed the telephone. "Get me the base security commander."

His fingers tapped a tattoo on the desk like a drummer beating eighteenth- and nineteenth-century regiments into battle.

"Dingman speaking. How can I help you, Colonel?"

"Do you keep a record of incoming and outgoing phone calls from USAMRIID?"

"Not specifically, but we can get one of a call made to or from the base. May I ask what in particular you're interested in?"

"Any and all made by Dr. Sophia Russell since last Sat.u.r.day. Incoming, too."

"You have authorization, sir?"

"Ask Kielburger."

"I'll get back to you, Colonel."

Fifteen minutes later, Dingman phoned with a list of Sophia's incoming and outgoing calls. There had been few, since Sophia and the rest of the staff had been buried in their labs and offices with the virus. Five outgoing, three overseas, and only four incoming. He called the numbers. All checked out as discussions of what had not been found, of failure.

Disappointed, he sat back--- and then shot forward out of his chair. He ran through the corridor into Sophia's office, where he pawed through everything on her desk again. Checked the drawers. He was not wrong--- her monthly telephone log, the one Kielburger insisted they keep faithfully, was also missing.

He hurried back to his office and made another call. "Ms. Curtis? Did Sophia turn her October phone log in early? No? You're sure? Thank you."

They had taken her phone log, too. The murderers. Why? Because there had been a call that revealed what they were trying to hide. It had been erased along with the Prince Leopold report. They were powerful and clever, and he had hit a seemingly impenetrable wall trying to discover what Sophia had done, or knew, to make someone think he needed to kill her.

He would have to find the answer another way--- look into the history of the victims. Something must have connected them before they died, something tragically lethal.

He dialed again. "Jon Smith, Ms. Curtis. The general in his office?"