The Hades Factor (20 page)

“Get your brandy, and we'll discuss it.”

Tremont poured a snifter of the fine old cognac, helped himself to a cigar, sat in a comfortable leather armchair facing Haldane, and crossed his legs.

He smiled. “So, let's not waste our valuable time. I have a lady to pick up for the dinner. What have I done wrong?”

Haldane bristled. He was being challenged. He decided to be blunt and put Victor in his place. “It seems we have a billion dollars unaccounted for. What did you do, Victor--- steal it or divert it into some pet scheme?”

Tremont sipped his brandy, turned his cigar to study the ash, and nodded as if he had expected this. His long, aristocratic face was shadowy in the lamplight. “The secret audit. I thought that was probably it. Well, the simple answer is no... and yes. I didn't steal the money. I did divert it to a project all my own.”

Haldane controlled his anger. “How long has this been going on?”

“Oh, I'd say ten years or so. A couple of years after that specimen-finding trip to Peru you sent me on when I was working in the main research lab. Remember?”

“A decade! Impossible! You couldn't have fooled me that long. What really---”

“Oh, but I could, and I did. Not alone, of course. I put together a team inside the company. The best men we have. They saw the billions that could be made on my concept, and they signed on. A little creative bookkeeping here, help from security there, some fine scientists, my own outside laboratory, a lot of dedication, some cooperation inside our federal government and military, and voila!--- the Hades Project. Conceived, planned, developed, and ready to go.” Victor Tremont smiled again and waved the cigar like a magic wand. “In a few weeks--- months at most--- my team and Blanchard will make billions. Possibly hundreds of billions. Everyone will be rich--- me, my team, the board, the stockholders... and, of course, you.”

Haldane held his cigar frozen in midair. “You're insane.”

Tremont laughed. “Hardly. Just a good businessman who saw an opportunity for gigantic profit.”

“Insane and going to prison!” Haldane snapped.

Tremont held up a hand. “Calm yourself, Mercer. Don't you want to know what the Hades Project is? Why it's going to make all of us filthy rich, including you, despite your lack of gratitude?”

Mercer Haldane hesitated. Tremont was admitting he had used company funds for secret research. He would have to be terminated and probably prosecuted. But he was also a fine chemist, and legally the project did belong to Blanchard. Perhaps it would make a large profit. After all, as chairman and CEO, it was his duty to protect and enhance the company's bottom line.

So Haldane cocked his white head. “I can't see how it can change anything, Victor, but what is this brilliant coup of yours?”

“When you sent me to Peru thirteen years ago, I found an odd virus in a remote area. It was deadly, fatal in most cases. But one tribe had a cure: They drank the blood of a specific species of monkey that also carried the disease. I was intrigued, so I brought home live virus from victims as well as various monkeys' blood. What I found was startling, but rather elegantly logical.”

Haldane stared. “Go on.”

Victor Tremont took a long drink of the cognac, smacked his lips in appreciation, and smiled over the top of the snifter at his boss. “The monkeys were infected by the same virus as the humans. But it's a strange one. The virus lies dormant for years inside its host, rather like the HIV virus before it becomes AIDS. Oh, a small fever perhaps, some headaches, other sudden and brief pains, but nothing lethal until, apparently spontaneously, it mutates, gives symptoms of a heavy cold or mild flu for two weeks or so, and then becomes lethal to both humans and monkeys. However, and this was key, it strikes earlier and with far less severity in the monkeys. Many monkeys survive, and their blood is full of neutralizing antibodies to the mutated virus. The Indians learned this, by trial and error I expect, so when they fell ill they drank the blood and were cured. In most cases, anyway, if they got the right monkey's blood.”

Tremont leaned forward. “The beauty of this symbiosis is that no matter how the virus mutates, the mutation always appears in the monkeys first, which means antibodies are always available for any mutation. Isn't that an exquisite bit of nature?”

“Stunning,” Haldane said drily. “But I see no avenue to profit in your anecdote. Does this virus exist elsewhere where there's no natural cure?”

“Absolutely nowhere as far as we've been able to ascertain. That's the key to the Hades Project.”

“Enlighten me. Please. I can't wait.”

Tremont laughed. “Sarcasm. One step at a time, Mercer.” He stood up and walked to the bar. He poured more of the chairman's fine cognac. Seated again, he crossed his knees. “Of course, we couldn't very well import millions of monkeys and kill them for their blood. Not to mention that not all monkeys carried the antibodies, and that blood would deteriorate rapidly anyway. So first we had to isolate the virus and the antibodies in the blood. Then we had to establish methods of large-scale production and provide a broad enough spectrum to accommodate some of the spontaneous mutations over time.”

“I suppose you're going to tell me you did all this.”

“Absolutely. We isolated the virus and were capable of production within the first year. The rest took varying lengths of time, and we finalized the recombinant antiserum only last year. Now we have millions of units ready to ship. It's been patented as a cure for the monkey virus, without mentioning the human virus, of course. That's going to appear to be a bit of luck. Our costs have been inflated and well tabulated, so we can claim a higher price to the public, and we've applied for FDA approval.”

Haldane was incredulous. “You don't have FDA approval?”

“When the pandemic starts, we'll get instant approval.”

“When it starts?” It was Haldane's turn to laugh. A derisive laugh. “What pandemic? You mean there's no epidemic of the virus to use your serum on? My God, Victor---”

Tremont smiled. “There will be.”

Haldane stared. “Will be?”

“There have been six recent cases in the United States, three of which we secretly cured with our serum. More victims here are coming down with it, plus there have already been over a thousand deaths overseas. In a few days, the globe will know what it's facing. It won't be pretty.”

Mercer Haldane sat motionless at his desk. Cognac forgotten. Cigar burning the desktop where the stub had fallen from the ashtray. Tremont waited, the smile never leaving his smooth face. His iron-gray hair and tan skin glowed in the lamplight. When Haldane finally spoke, his rigidity was painful to witness, even for Tremont.

But Haldane's voice was controlled. “There's some part of this scheme you aren't telling me.”

“Probably,” Tremont said.

“What is it?”

“You don't want to know.”

Haldane thought that over for a time. “No, it won't play. You're going to prison, Victor. You'll never work again.”

“Give me some credit. Besides, you're in as deep as I am.”

Haldane's white eyebrows shot up in surprise. “There's no way---!”

Tremont chuckled. “Hell, you're in deeper. My ass is covered. Every order, every requisition, and every expenditure was approved and signed by you. Everything we did has your authorization in writing. Most of it's real because when you get in an irritable mood, you sign papers just to get them off your desk. I put them there, you scribbled your signature and shooed me out of the office like a schoolboy. The rest are forgeries no one's going to spot. One of my people has an expert.”

Like a wary old lion, Haldane repressed his outrage at Tremont's underhandedness. Instead, he studied his protegé, assessing the potential value of what he had revealed. Grudgingly, Haldane had to agree the profits could be astronomical, and he would see to it that he got his share. At the same time, he tried to detect a flaw, a mistake that could lead to all their downfalls.

Then Haldane saw it: “The government's going to want to mass-produce your cure. Give it to the world. They'll take it away from you. National interest.”

Tremont shook his head. “No. They couldn't produce the serum unless we gave them the details, and no one else has the production facilities in place. They won't try to take it anyway. First, because we'll have enough on hand to do the job. Second, no American government is going to deny us a reasonable profit. That's the name of the game we preach to the world, isn't it? This is a capitalist society, and we're simply practicing good capitalism. Besides, the spin is we're working around the clock to save humanity, so we deserve our reward. Of course, as I said, we've inflated our research costs, but they won't look too deep. The profits will be stupendous.”

Haldane grimaced. “So there's going to be a pandemic. I suppose the only good thing about that is you've got the cure. Perhaps not so many lives will be lost.”

Tremont noted the cynicism that Haldane had used to convince himself to capitulate. As always, Tremont had anticipated Haldane correctly. Now he looked slowly around the chairman's office as if memorizing every detail.

He focused on his former mentor again, and his face grew cool and remote. “But to make it all work, I need to be in charge. So at the board meeting tomorrow, you're going to step down. You're going to turn the company over to me. I'll be CEO, chairman of the executive committee, full control. You can stay on as chairman of the board, if you like. You can even have more contact with daily operations than any other board member. But in a year you'll retire with a very fat separation bonus and pension, and I'll take over the board, too.”

Haldane stared. The combative old lion was fraying around the edges. He had not anticipated this, and he was shocked. He had underestimated Tremont. “If I refuse?”

“You can't. The patent is in the name of my incorporated group, with me as principal stockholder, and licensed to Blanchard for a large percentage fee. You, by the way, approved that arrangement years ago, so it's quite legal. But don't worry. There'll be plenty for Blanchard, and a big bonus for you. The board and stockholders will be ecstatic at the profits, not to mention the public-relations coup. We'll be the heroes riding to rescue the world from an apocalyptic disaster worse than the Black Plague.”

“You keep stressing how much money I'm going to make. In or out. I see no reason to leave. I'll just run it myself and make sure you are financially rewarded.”

Tremont chuckled, enjoying the vision of being a savior and making a fortune worthy of Midas at the same time. Then he turned his gaze grimly onto Haldane. “The Hades Project will be a stunning success, the biggest Blanchard has ever had. But even though on paper you approved it all, you really know nothing about it. If you tried to take over, you'd look like a fool at best. At worst, you'd reveal your incompetence. Everyone would suspect you were trying to take credit for my work. At that point, I could get the board and stockholders to kick you out in five minutes.”

Haldane inhaled sharply. In his most terrifying nightmares, he had never expected this could happen. Events had him in an iron grip, and he had lost control. A sense of helplessness, of being a fish that thrashed inside an impenetrable net, swept over him. He could think of nothing to say. Tremont was right. Only a fool would fight now. Better to play the game and walk away with the loot. As soon as he decided that, he felt better. Not well, but better.

He shrugged. “Well, let's go and have dinner, then.”

Tremont laughed. “That's the Mercer I know. Cheer up. You'll be rich and famous.”

“I'm already rich. I never gave a damn about being famous.”

“Get used to it. You're going to like it. Think of all the former presidents you can play golf with.”

___________________

CHAPTER

Covert One 1 - The Hades Factor

TWENTY ONE

___________________

4:21 P.M.

San Francisco, California

Using Marty Zellerbach's credit card, Smith and Marty arrived in a rented jet at San Francisco International Airport late Friday afternoon. Worried about Marty's need to refill his prescription, Smith immediately rented a car, drove them downtown, and found a pharmacy. The druggist called Marty's Washington doctor at home for authorization, but the doctor insisted on speaking directly with Marty. As Marty talked, Smith listened on an extension.

The doctor was stiff and strained, and he asked irrelevant questions. Finally he wanted to know whether Colonel Smith was with Marty.

With a jolt of adrenaline, Smith grabbed the receiver from Marty's hand and hung up both phones.

As the pharmacist gave a puzzled frown from behind the glassed-in counter, Smith explained to Marty in a low voice, “Your doctor was trying to hold you here. Probably for the FBI or army intelligence to arrive and arrest me. Maybe for the killers at the bungalow, and we both know what they'd do.”

Marty's eyes widened in alarm. “The pharmacist gave the name of his drugstore and said where it was. Now my doctor knows, too!”

“Right. So does whoever was listening in on the doctor's end. Let's go.”

They rushed out. Marty's medication was wearing off, and they needed to save the last dose for the morning and the long drive ahead. Marty grumbled and stayed close to Smith. He put up with buying clothes and other necessities, and he grudgingly ate dinner in an Italian restaurant in North Beach that Smith remembered from a brief stint at the Presidio when it was an active army base. But the computer genius was growing more agitated and talkative.

At nightfall they took a room at the Mission Inn far out on Mission Street. Fog had rolled in, wrapping itself around picturesque lampposts and rising above bay windows.

Marty noticed none of the area's charm or the advantages of the small motel. “You can't possibly subject me to this medieval torture chamber, Jon. Who in heaven's name would be idiotic enough to want to sleep in such a foul dungeon?” The room smelled of the fog. “We'll go to the Stanford Court. It's at least presentable and almost livable.” It was one of San Francisco's legendary grande dame hotels.

Smith was amazed. “You've stayed there before?”

“Oh, thousands of times!” Marty said in an enthusiastic exaggeration that warned Smith he was beginning to spin out of control. “That's where we rented a suite when my father took me to San Francisco. I was enthralled by it. I used to played hide-and-seek in the lobby with the bellmen.”

“And everyone knew that's where you stayed in San Francisco?”

“Of course.”

“Go there again if you don't mind our violent friends finding you.”

Marty instantly flip-flopped. “Oh, dear me. You're right. They must be in San Francisco by now. Are we safe in this dump?”

“That's the idea. It's out of the way, and I registered under an alias We're only here one night.”

“I don't plan to sleep a wink.” Marty refused to take off his clothes for bed. “They could attack at any hour. I'm certainly not going to be seen running down the street in my nightshirt with those beasts or the FBI pursuing me.”

“You've got to get a good night's sleep. It's a long trip tomorrow.”

But Marty would hear none of it, and while Smith was shaving and brushing his teeth, he hooked a chair under the knob of the only door. Then he crumpled a newspaper sheet by sheet and arranged the crushed papers in front of the door. “There. Now they can't sneak in on us. I saw that in a movie. The detective put his pistol on the bedside table, too, so he could reach it quickly. You'll do that with your Beretta, Jon, right?”

“If it makes you feel better.” Smith came out of the bathroom, drying his face. “Let's get to bed.”

When Smith slid under the covers, Marty lay down fully dressed on the twin. He stared up at the ceiling, his eyes wide open. Suddenly he looked to Smith. “Why are we in California?”

Smith turned off the bedside light. “To meet a man who can help us. He lives in the Sierras near Yosemite.”

“That's right. The Sierras. Modoc country! You know the story of Captain Jack and the Lava Beds? He was a brilliant Modoc leader, and the Modocs were put on the same reservation as their arch enemies, the Klamaths.” In the dim room, Marty launched into the excited reverie of his unleashed mind. “In the end, the Modocs killed some whites, so the army came after them with cannon! Maybe ten of them against a whole regiment. And...”

He related every detail of the injustice done by the army to the innocent Modoc leader. From there he described the saga of Chief Joseph and his Nez Percé in Washington and Idaho and their mad dash for freedom against half the army of the United States. Before he had finished reciting Joseph's heartrending final speech, his head jerked around toward the door.

“They're in the corridor! I hear them! Get your gun, Jon!”

Smith leaped up, grabbed the Beretta, and tried to speed quietly through the rumpled newspapers, which was impossible. He listened at the door. His heart was thundering.

He listened for five minutes. “Not a sound. Are you sure you heard something, Marty?”

“Absolutely. Positively.” His hands flapped in the air. He was sitting upright, his back rigid, his round face quivering.

Smith crouched, trying to relieve his weary body. He continued to listen for another half hour. People came and went outside. There was conversation and occasional laughter. Finally he shook his head. “Not a thing. Get some sleep.” He moved through the noisy newspapers to his bed.

Marty was chastened and silent. He lay back. Ten minutes later he enthusiastically began the chronological history of every Indian War since King Philip's in the 1600s.

Then he heard steps again. “There's someone at the door, Jon! Shoot them. Shoot them! Before they break in! Shoot them!”

Jon sped to the door. But there was no sound beyond it. For Smith, it was the final straw. Marty would be inventing wild dangers and relating more stories about early America all night. He was reaching warp speed, and the longer he was off his medication, the worse it would be for both of them.

Smith got up again. “Okay, Marty, you'd better take your last dose.” He smiled kindly. “We'll just have to trust we can get you more when we get to Peter Howell's place tomorrow. Meanwhile, you've got to sleep, and so do I.”

Marty's mind buzzed and flashed. Words and images whipped through with incredible speed. He heard Jon's voice as if at a great distance, almost as if a continent separated them. Then he saw his old friend and the smile. Jon wanted him to take his drug, but everything within him railed against it. He hated to leave this thrilling world where life happened quickly and with great drama.

“Marty, here's, your medicine.” Jon stood beside him with a glass of water in one hand and the dreaded pill in the other.

“I'd rather ride a camel across the starry sky and drink blue lemonade. Wouldn't you? Wouldn't you like to listen to fairies playing their golden harps? Wouldn't you rather talk to Newton and Galileo?”

“Mart? Are you listening? Please take your meds.”

Marty looked down at Jon, who was crouching in front of him now, his face earnest and worried. He liked Jon for many reasons, none of which seemed relevant now.

Jon said, “I know you trust me, Marty. You've got to believe me when I tell you we let you stay off your medication too long. It's time for you to come back.”

Marty spoke in an unhappy rush. “I don't like the pills. When I take them, I'm not me. I'm not there anymore! I can't think because there's no `I' to think!”

“It's rough, I know,” Smith said sympathetically. “But we don't want you to cross the line. When you're off them too long, you go a little nuts.”

Marty shook his head angrily. “They tried to teach me how to be `normal' with other people the way they teach someone to play a piano! Memorize normality! `Look him in the eye, but don't stare.' `Put out your hand when it's a man, but let a woman put out her hand first.' Imbecilic! I read about a guy who said it just right: `We can learn to pretend to act like everyone else, but we really don't get the point.' I don't get the point, Jon. I don't want to be normal!”

“I don't want you to be `normal' either. I like your wildness and brilliance. You wouldn't be the Marty I know without that. But we've got to keep you balanced, too, so you don't go so far out into the stratosphere we can't bring you back. After we get to Peter's tomorrow, you can slide off the pills again.”

Marty stared. His mind did cartwheels of numbers and algorithms. He craved the freedom of his unfettered thoughts, but he knew Jon was right. He was still in control, but just barely. He did not want to risk dropping off the edge.

Marty sighed. “Jon, you're a champ. I apologize. Give me the darn pill.”

Twenty-five minutes later, both men were sound asleep.

__________

12:06 A.M., Saturday, October 18

San Francisco International Airport

Nadal al-Hassan strode off the DC-10 red-eye from New York into the main concourse. The overweight man in the shabby suit who greeted him had never met him, but there was no one else on the New York flight who fit the description he had been given.

“You al-Hassan?”

Al-Hassan eyed the shabby man with distaste. “You are from the detective agency?”

“You got that right.”

“What do you have to report?”

“FBI beat us to the drugstore guy, but all he knows anyways is there was two of 'em, an' when they left they took a taxi. We're checking the cab companies, an' so's the local cops and the FBI. Hotels, motels, roomin' houses, car rentals, an' other drugstores, too. So far nothin'. An' the cops an' FBI ain't doin' no better.”

“I will be at the Hotel Monaco near Union Square. Call me the instant you find anything.”

“You want us checkin' all night?”

“Until you find them, or the police do.”

The slovenly man shrugged. “It's your money.”

Al-Hassan caught a taxi to the newly renovated downtown San Francisco hotel with its small, elegant lobby and dining room decorated to look like a continental city in the 1920s. As soon as he was alone in his room, he phoned New York and reported everything the sloppy man had told him.

Al-Hassan said, “He cannot use army resources. We are covering all Smith's and Zellerbach's friends as well as everyone connected to the virus victims.”

“Hire another detective agency if you have to,” Victor Tremont ordered from his New York hotel room. “Xavier's found what this Zellerbach person was doing for him.” He recited the discoveries in Marty's computer logs. “Apparently, Zellerbach found the Giscours memo, and he uncovered reports about the virus in Iraq. Smith has probably figured out we have the virus, and now he wants to know what we're going to do with it. He's no longer a potential threat, he's a menace!”

Al-Hassan's voice was a promise. “Not for much longer.”

“Keep in touch with Xavier. This Zellerbach person tried to trace the Russell woman's phone call to me. We expect he'll try again. Xavier is monitoring Zellerbach's computer. If he uses it, Xavier will keep him online long enough to initiate a phone trace through our local police in Long Lake.”

“I will call Washington and give him my cell phone number.”

“Have you located Bill Griffin?”

AI-Hassan was quiet, embarrassed. “He has contacted no one since we assigned him to kill Smith.”

Tremont's voice cracked like a whip. “You still don't know where Griffin is? Incredible! How could you lose one of your own people!”

Al-Hassan kept his voice low, respectful. Victor Tremont was one of the few heathens in this godless country he respected, and Tremont was right. He should have kept a closer eye on the ex-FBI man. “We are working to find Griffin. It is a point of pride with me that we find him quickly.”

Tremont was silent, calming himself. At last he said, “Xavier tells me Martin Zellerbach was also looking for Griffin's most recent address, obviously for Smith. As you suggested, there is a connection somewhere. Now we have evidence of it.”

“It is interesting that Bill Griffin has made no attempt to contact or approach Jon Smith. On the other hand, Smith visited Griffin's ex-wife yesterday in Georgetown.”

Tremont considered. “Perhaps Griffin is playing both sides. Bill Griffin could turn out to be our most dangerous enemy, or our most useful weapon. Find him!”

__________

7:00 A.M.

San Francisco Mission District

Marty and Smith were awake and checked out by 7:00 A.M. By 8:00 they had driven across San Francisco's glistening bay and were heading east on I-580. After Lathrop, they crossed to 99 and 120 and headed south through fertile inland farmlands to Merced, where they stopped to eat a late breakfast. Then they turned east again, straight toward Yosemite on 140. The day was cool but sunny, Marty was still calm, and as they reached the higher elevations the sky seemed to grow a translucent blue.