The Hades Factor c-1 Page 17

  Tonight it was Mercer Haldane who seethed.

  A year ago, a new auditor had reported accounting for research and development that seemed odd. The auditor was concerned, even nervous. It was impossible to follow funds for a project through to its conclusion. Haldane considered the man's worry nothing more than unfamiliarity with the intricacies of R&D in the pharmaceutical industry. But Haldane was also a cautious executive, so he had hired a second outside auditing firm to look more deeply.

  The result was alarming. Two days ago, Haldane had received the report. In an intricate pattern of small, barely noticeable irregularities ― overruns, shortfalls, paper transfers, borrowings, excessive supply and repair costs, pilfering, and spillage and leakage losses ― almost a billion dollars appeared to be missing from the total R&D budget over a ten year period. A billion dollars! In addition, a similar sum appeared to have been applied to a phantom R&D program Haldane had never heard of. The paper trail was exceedingly complex, and the auditors admitted they could not be absolutely certain of their findings. But they also said they were sure enough that they believed they should be granted permission to continue digging.

  Haldane thanked them, told them he would be in touch, and immediately thought of Victor Tremont. Not for a second did he believe a billion dollars could be lost through tiny pinpricks, or that Victor would steal such a sum. But it was possible his hungry second-in-command could order a secret research project and try to keep it hidden from Haldane. Yes, he would believe that.

  He made no immediate move. Victor and he would meet in his New York office before the private dinner he gave for the board at the quarterly meeting. He would brace Victor with what he knew and demand an explanation. One way or another, he would discover whether any secret program existed. If it did, he would have to fire Victor. But the project might be worth saving. If there were no such program, and Victor could not explain the lost billion, he would fire him on the spot.

  Haldane sighed. It was tragic about Victor, but at the same time he felt an eagerness that made his blood rush. He was getting on in years, but he still enjoyed a good fight. Especially one that he knew he would win.

  At the sound of his private elevator coming up, he crossed the luxurious office with its view south over the entire city to the Battery and the bay. He poured a snifter of his best XO cognac and returned to his desk. He opened a humidor, selected a cigar, lighted it, and took the first long, savory draw as the elevator stopped and Victor Tremont stepped out in his white tie and tails.

  Haldane turned his head. “Good evening, Victor. Pour yourself a brandy.”

  Tremont eyed him where he sat behind the big desk smoking the cigar. “You're looking solemn tonight, Mercer. Some problem?”

  “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 capab
le 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 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 S
mith 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?”