The Hades Factor Page 13

  In his office after he had left Kielburger, Smith had written up his reports and notes, printed them out, and driven a circuitous route home, watching behind. He had seen no one follow to the big saltbox house he had shared for so many happy months with Sophia. When he had finished packing for a week of any weather, loaded his service Beretta, and grabbed his passport, address book, and cell phone, he dressed in his uniform and waited for Kielburger’s call with the word from the Pentagon.

  But Kielburger did not call.

  It was growing dark at 1800 as he drove back to Fort Detrick. Ms. Melanie Curtis was not at her secretary’s desk, and when he checked the general’s office, the general was gone, too, but neither office looked as if it had been tidied up for the night. Very unusual. He looked at his watch: 1827. They must be on coffee breaks. But at the same time?

  Neither was in the coffee room.

  Kielburger’s office was still empty.

  The only explanation Smith could think of was the Pentagon had called Kielburger to Washington in person, and he had taken Melanie Curtis with him.

  But would not Kielburger have called to tell him?

  No. Not if the Pentagon had ordered him not to.

  Uneasy, and telling no one, he went back down to his battered Triumph. Pentagon permission or not, he was going to Washington. He could not sleep another night in the Thurmont house. He turned on the ignition and drove out the gate. He saw no one watching from outside, but to be sure, he circled the streets for an hour before driving to I-270 and heading south for the Capital. His mind roamed over the past with Sophia. He was beginning to find comfort in remembering the good times. God knew, that was all he had left.

  He had had one good night’s sleep in three days and wanted to be sure no one was tailing him, so he pulled off abruptly at Gaithersburg and watched the exit to see whether anyone followed. No one did. Satisfied, he drove to the Holiday Inn and checked in under a false name. He drank two beers in the motel bar, ate dinner in the motel dining room, and went back to his room to watch CNN for an hour before dialing Kielburger at the office and at home. There was still no answer.

  Suddenly he sat bolt upright, shocked. It was the third item on the national report: “The White House has reported the tragic death of Brig. Gen. Calvin Kielburger, medical commander of the United States Army Medical Research Institute of Infectious Diseases at Fort Detrick, Maryland. The general and his secretary were found dead in their homes, apparently victims of an unknown virus that has already killed four people in the United States, including another research scientist at Fort Detrick. The White House emphasizes these tragic deaths are isolated, and there is no public danger at this time.”

  Stunned, Smith’s mind quickly grappled with what he knew: Neither Kielburger nor Melanie Curtis had worked in the Hot Zone with the virus. There was no way they could have contracted it. This was no accident or natural spreading of the virus. This was murder … two more murders! The general had been stopped from going to the Pentagon and the surgeon general, and Melanie Curtis had been stopped from telling anyone the general’s intentions.

  And what had happened to the complete secrecy everyone working on the virus was supposed to maintain? Now the nation knew. Someone somewhere had done a complete reversal, but why?

  “ … in connection with the tragic deaths at Fort Detrick, the army is requesting all local police watch for Lt. Col. Jonathan Smith, who has been declared absent without leave from Detrick.”

  He froze in front of the motel television. For a moment it seemed as if the walls were closing in on him. He shook his head; he had to parse this out clearly. They had enormous power, this enemy that had murdered Sophia, the general, and Melanie Curtis. They were out there looking for him, and now the police wanted him, too.

  He was on his own.

  PART TWO

  Chapter Fourteen

  9:30 A.M., Friday, October 17

  The White House, Washington, D.C.

  President Samuel Adams Castilla had been in office three years and was already campaigning for his second term. It was a cool, gray morning in the District, and he had expected a good turnout at the Mayflower Hotel for a fund-raising breakfast, which he had canceled for this emergency meeting.

  Annoyed and worried, he stood up from the heavy pine table he used as his Oval Office desk and stalked to the leather chair by the fireplace, where everyone was gathered. As with every president, the Oval Office reflected President Castilla’s tastes. No thin-blooded, Eastern seaboard interior decorator for him. Instead, he had brought his Southwestern ranch furniture from the governor’s residence in Santa Fe, and an Albuquerque artist had coordinated the red-and-yellow Navajo drapes with the yellow carpet, woven blue presidential seal, and the vases, baskets, and headdresses that made this the most native Oval Office in history.

  “All right,” he said, “CNN says we’ve had six deaths from this virus now. Tell me how bad it really is and what we’re up against.”

  Sitting around a simple pine coffee table, the men and women were somber but cautiously optimistic. Surgeon General Jesse Oxnard, seated next to the secretary of Health and Human Services, was the first to answer. “There have now been fifteen deaths from an unknown virus that was diagnosed last weekend. That’s here in America, of course. We’ve just recently learned there were six original cases, with three of them surviving. At least that’s a little hopeful.”

  Chief of Staff Charles Ouray added, “Reports from the WHO indicate ten or twelve thousand people overseas have contracted it. Several thousand have died.”

  “Nothing to require any special emergency action on our part, I’d say.” This was the chairman of the Joint Chiefs, Admiral Stevens Brose. He was leaning against the fireplace mantel under a large Bierstadt Rocky Mountain landscape.

  “But a virus can spread like wildfire,” Secretary of Health and Human Services Nancy Petrelli pointed out. “I don’t see how we can in all good conscience wait for the CDC or Fort Detrick to come up with countermeasures. We need to call on the private sector and contact every medical and pharmaceutical corporation for advice and help.” She looked hard at the president. “It’s going to get worse, sir. I guarantee it.”

  When some of the others began to protest, the president cut them off. “Just what kind of details do we know about this virus so far?”

  Surgeon General Oxnard grimaced. “It’s of a type never seen before, as far as Detrick and the CDC can tell. We don’t know how it’s transmitted yet. It’s apparently highly lethal, since three people who worked with it at Detrick have died, although the mortality rate of the first six cases was only fifty percent.”

  “Three out of six is lethal enough for me,” the president told them grimly. “You say we recently lost three scientists at Fort Detrick, too? Who?”

  “One was the medical commander, Brig. Gen. Calvin Kielburger.”

  “Good Lord.” The president shook his head sadly. “I remember him. We talked soon after I took office. That’s tragic.”

  Admiral Brose agreed ominously: “It’s blown the lid off. I’d declared the matter top secret after the first four deaths because my exec, General Caspar, reported too many amateurs were bumbling around in what could be a critical situation. I was concerned about public panic.” He paused for confirmation of the correctness of his decision. Everyone nodded, even the president. The general inhaled, relieved. “But the police were called to General Kielburger’s and his secretary’s homes when they were discovered dead. The hospital recognized the same virus that’d killed the first USAMRIID scientist. So now the news people have it. I’ve had to open it up, but the media knows it’s got to get its information only from the Pentagon. Period.”

  “Sounds like a good step,” Nancy Petrelli, the HHS secretary, agreed. “There’s also a scientist who appears to have gone AWOL from Detrick. That concerns me, too.”

  “He’s missing? You know why?”

  “No, sir,” Jesse Oxnard admitted. “But the circumstances are susp
icious.”

  “He disappeared soon before Kielburger and his secretary died,” the Joint Chiefs chairman explained. “We’ve got the army, the FBI, and the local police alerted. They’ll find him. Right now we’re saying it’s for questioning.”

  The president nodded. “That sounds reasonable. And I agree with Nancy. Let’s see what the private sector can offer. Meanwhile, everyone keep me informed. A lethal virus no one knows anything about scares the hell out of me. It should scare the hell out of all of us.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  9:22 A.M.

  Washington, D.C.

  The multiethnic neighborhood of Adams-Morgan is a bustling district of rooftop restaurants with sweeping views of the city. Its main arteries—Columbia Road and Eighteenth Street—offer a lively potpourri of sidewalk cafés, neighborhood bars and clubs, new and secondhand bookstores, record stores, funky used-clothing shops, and trendy boutiques. Newcomers in the exotic dress of Guatemala and El Salvador, Colombia and Ecuador, Jamaica and Haiti, both Congos, and Cambodia, Laos, and Vietnam add color to an already picturesque neighborhood.

  At a rear table in a coffee shop just off Eighteenth, where coffee mugs had made circular brands that looked so old they might have been there since the days Indians trod local ridges, Special Agent Lon Forbes, FBI, waited for Lt. Col. Jonathan Smith to come to the point. He knew little personal detail about Smith except he claimed to be a friend of Bill Griffin’s. That made Forbes both interested and wary.

  Since he had had no time to research Smith’s background beyond finding out that he was assigned to Fort Detrick as a research scientist, Agent Forbes had suggested they meet in this grungy coffee shop. He had arrived early and watched from across the street as late breakfast seekers strolled past. Then Smith had arrived.

  In his drab-green officer’s uniform, the lieutenant colonel had stopped to glance around outside, observed the interior from the door, and finally entered. The FBI man noticed the impressive physique of the man and a sense of repressed power. At least from an initial impression, Smith neither looked nor acted like an egghead research scientist in the arcane field of cell and molecular biology.

  Smith sipped coffee, chatted about the weather—unseasonably warm—asked if Forbes wanted a pastry—Forbes declined—and tapped his foot under the minuscule table. Forbes watched and listened. The lieutenant colonel’s high-planed face was strong, faintly American Indian, and his black hair was swept neatly back. He had navy blue eyes that seemed full of a darkness that had nothing to do with their inky color. Forbes sensed violence that ached to explode. This officer was not only on edge, he was wound as tight as a steel spring.

  “I need to get in touch with Bill,” Smith finally announced.

  “Why?”

  Smith pondered the wisdom of answering. At last he decided he would have to take the chance and reveal something of what he knew. After all, he had come here to get help. “A few days ago Bill contacted me, arranged a clandestine meeting in Rock Creek park, and warned me I might be in danger. Now I am in danger, and I need to know more about how he knew and what he knows now.”

  “That’s plain enough. You care to tell me what the danger is?”

  “Someone wants to kill me.”

  “But you don’t know who?”

  “In a nutshell, no, I don’t.”

  Forbes looked around at the empty tables. “The circumstances, what we call the environment of the danger, you don’t want to get into that?”

  “Right now, no. I just need to find Bill.”

  “It’s a big Bureau. Why me?”

  “I remembered Bill saying you were about his only friend there. The only one he’d trust, anyway. You’d be on his side if the chips were down.”

  Which was true, Forbes knew, as far as it went, and another plus for Smith. Bill would have told that only to another person he trusted.

  “Okay. Now tell me about you and Bill.”

  Smith described their childhood together, high school and college, and Forbes listened, comparing it to what Griffin had said and what he knew from the personnel file he had studied after Griffin disappeared. It all appeared to match.

  Forbes drank coffee. He leaned forward in the somnolent café and contemplated his hands cupped around the mug. His voice was low and serious. “Bill saved my life. Not once, but twice. We were partners and friends and a lot more. Much, much more.” He looked up at Smith. “Okay?”

  As Forbes looked up at him, Smith tried to see behind his eyes. There was a world of meaning in that single word with a question mark: Okay? Did it mean they were so close there were things between him and Bill the Bureau didn’t know? Broken rules together? Covered each other’s backs? Bent laws? We did things, okay? Don’t ask. Not the details. Just say, when it comes to Griffin, I can be trusted to help. Can you be trusted, too?

  Smith tried, “You know where he is.”

  “No.”

  “Can you get in touch with him?”

  “Maybe.” Forbes drank the coffee more as a time filler than because he wanted it. “He’s not with the Bureau anymore. I guess you didn’t know that.”

  “I knew. He told me when we met. What I don’t know is whether I should believe him. He could be working undercover.”

  “He’s not undercover.” Forbes hesitated. Finally he continued, “He came from freewheeling army intelligence, and the Bureau has rules. Rules for everything. Questions about every move you make no matter how good the result. Paperwork that has to be filled out for everything. Bill was too much of a self-starter. Initiative does not go down well with the brass. Not to mention secret initiative. The Bureau likes agents to report every breath they breathe in triplicate. That never sat well with Bill.”

  Smith smiled. “No, it wouldn’t have.”

  “He got into trouble. Insubordination. Not a team player. I took plenty of that myself. But Bill went farther. He cut rules and corners, and he didn’t always account for his actions or expenses. He got accused of misappropriating funds. When he made deals to close cases, the Bureau refused to honor some that involved particularly bad characters. They made it hard for Bill, and he finally got disgusted.”

  “He quit?”

  Forbes reached into his jacket for a handkerchief. Smith saw the big 10mm Browning in his shoulder holster. The Bureau still believed in its agents being the men with the bigger guns. Forbes mopped his face. He was clearly worried. But not for himself. For Bill Griffin.

  He said, “Not exactly. He’d met someone on a tax-fraud case, someone with money and power. I never knew who. Bill started missing meetings and staying away from the Hoover Building between assignments. When he was sent to work with a field office, sometimes he didn’t show up for days. Then he blew an assignment, and there were signs of high living—too much money, the usual. The director found evidence Bill was secretly moonlighting for the tax-fraud guy and that some of what he was doing skated pretty close to the edge—intimidation, using his badge to lean on people, that sort of thing. In the Bureau, if you work for the Bureau, you represent the Bureau. Period. They fired him. He went to work for someone. I had the feeling it was the tax-fraud guy he’d been moonlighting for.” He shook his head regretfully. “I haven’t seen him in more than a year.”

  Smith tried to watch the street outside the front windows, but there were too many signs taped to the dirty glass. “I can see where he’d be frustrated, even disgusted. But to work for someone like that? To intimidate others? That doesn’t sound like Bill.”

  “Call it disgust, disillusion, principles betrayed.” Forbes shrugged. “As far as he was concerned, no one at the Bureau really cared about justice. It was all about the rules. The law. And, yeah, I think he wanted money and power, too. No one flips sides like a believer who loses his belief.”

  “And that’s okay with you?”

  “It’s not okay, and it’s not not-okay. It’s what Bill wants, and I don’t ask questions. He’s my man regardless.”

  Smith considered everyth
ing. His position was similar to what Bill’s had been. Instead of the Bureau, it was the army that was betraying Smith, and how far from going rogue was he right now? In the Pentagon’s eyes, he probably already was rogue. Certainly AWOL. Was he the one to judge Bill? Was this FBI man a better friend of Smith’s old friend than was Smith?

  Moral actions were not always as absolute as we liked to think.

  “You don’t know where he is? Or who the man he’s working for, or with, is?”

  Forbes said, “I don’t know where he is, or if he’s even working for the same guy. It’s only a hunch, and I never knew who the guy was.”

  “But you can get in touch with Bill?”

  Forbes’s eyes blinked slowly. “Let’s say I can. What would you want me to say?”

  Smith had already worked that out. “That I took the warning. That I survived, but they murdered Sophia. That I know they have the virus. But I don’t know what they’re planning, and I need to talk to him.”

  Forbes studied the big soldier-scientist. The FBI had been briefed days ago on the worrisome situation with the unknown virus, including the death of Dr. Sophia Russell. Then an army memo had arrived this morning declaring Smith AWOL, a danger to the integrity of the investigation, the facts of which had been declared top secret by the White House. It asked the Bureau to look for Smith and, if they found him, to return him to Fort Detrick under guard.

  But a lifetime of learning to assess people, sometimes in a matter of seconds with his life hanging on the outcome, had made Forbes trust himself. Smith was not the enemy. If anything threatened the integrity of the investigation, it was the paranoid order that took the scientific investigators out of the field. The Pentagon didn’t want any more headlines about bacteriological warfare agents and our soldiers’ possible exposure during Desert Storm. They were covering their sedentary butts as usual.