The Hades Factor c-1 Page 19

  A shade under six feet, Howell was almost too lean under the dark blue-green plaid flannel shirt and heavy khaki British army trousers he wore stuffed into black combat boots. His narrow face had the color and texture of leather dried out by years of wind and sun. It was so deeply lined his eyes seemed sunk in ravines. The eyes were sharp but guarded. His thick black hair was nearly all gray, and his hands were curved brown claws.

  “Tell me about this friend of yours ― Marty.”

  Jon Smith sank into the chair and touched the high points of his and Marty's growing up together, the difficulties of Marty's young life, and the discovery that he had Asperger's syndrome. “It changed everything for him. The drugs gave him independence. With them, he could make himself sit through classes and then do the spade-and-shovel work necessary to get two Ph.D.s. When he's medicated, he can do the boring, nitty-gritty things that are necessary to survive. He changes lightbulbs, does his laundry, and cooks. Of course, he has plenty of money to hire people to do those things, but strangers make him nervous. He has to take the medicine anyway, so why not take care of himself?”

  “Can't say I blame him. You said his medication was wearing off?”

  “Yes. One way to tell is he talks in exclamation points, just as you heard. He lectures and enthuses and seldom sleeps and drives everyone nuts. If he stays off too long, he can zoom into never-never land and be so out of control he's dangerous to himself and maybe to others.”'

  Howell shook his head. "I feel sorry for the young fellow, don't get me wrong.

  Smith chuckled. “You've got it reversed. Marty feels sorry for you. And for me. Actually, he pities us, because we can never know what he knows. We can't conceptualize what he understands. It's everyone's loss that he's isolated himself to concentrate strictly on his computer interests, although from what I understand of what he's doing, other computer experts consult him from around the world. But never in person. Always by E-mail.”

  Howell continued to clean his weapon ― a Heckler & Koch MP5, as lethal as it looked. He said, “But if he's mechanical and slow when he's on the drugs, and gaga when he's off, how does he manage to get anything accomplished?”

  “That's the trick. He's learned to let himself go beyond the stage where the meds are working but not quite into the state where he's flying high and wild. He'll have a few hours a day in that in-between condition, and that's heaven for him. New ideas seize him with lightning speed. He's sharp, incisive, quick, and half out-of-control every minute. He's unbeatable.”

  Howell's creviced face looked up from the weapon. His pale eyes flickered. “Unbeatable at computers, is he? Well, now. That's something else again.” He returned to the H&K submachine gun. It had been the weapon of choice of the British Special Air Service some years ago and probably was still.

  “You always clean a gun when you have visitors?” Smith closed his eyes, resting after the long drive from San Francisco.

  Howell snorted. “You ever read Doyle's The White Company? Quite good, actually. Much more interesting to me as a boy than Sherlock Holmes. Odd about that. The boy's the father of the man and all that.” He appeared to think about boys and men for a moment before continuing. “Anyway, there's an old bowman in the book ― Black Simon. One morning the hero asks him why he's sharpening his sword to a razor's edge, since the company doesn't expect any action. Black Simon tells him he dreamed of a red cow the nights before the major battles of Crecy and Poitiers, and last night he again dreamed of a red cow. So he was getting prepared. Of course, later that day, just as Simon expected, the Spanish attacked.”

  Smith chuckled and opened his eyes. “Meaning, when I appear, you'd better prepare for trouble.”

  Howell's weathered face smiled. “That's about it.”

  “Right as usual. I need help, and it's probably dangerous.”

  “What else is an old spook and desert rat good for?”

  Smith had first met him during the boredom of Desert Shield when the hospital spent every day preparing and waiting for action that never came. But it came to Peter Howell. Or, to be exact, Peter and the SAS went to it. Peter had never said exactly where “it” had been, but one night he appeared at the hospital like a ghost who had arisen out of the sand itself. He had a high fever and was kitten-weak. Some doctors swore they had a heard a helicopter or a small land vehicle close by in the desert that night, but no one was sure. How he had arrived or who had brought him remained a mystery.

  Smith realized instantly the unknown patient wearing British desert camos without rank or unit markings had been bitten by a venomous reptile. He had saved Peter's life with immediate treatment. In the following days, as Peter recovered, they came to know and respect each other. That was when Smith learned his name was Mal. Peter Howell, Special Air Service, and that he had been deep inside Iraq on some unnamed mission. That was all Peter would ever say. Since he was obviously far too old to be a normal SAS trooper, there had to be more to the story, but it was years before Smith gleaned the rest, and even then it remained hazy.

  Simply put, Peter was one of those restless and reckless Brits who seemed to pop up in every conflict of the last two centuries, small or large, on one side or the other. Educated at both Cambridge and Sandhurst, a linguist and adventurer, he had joined the SAS in Vietnam days. When the action faded, he volunteered for MI6 and foreign intelligence. He had worked for one or the other ever since, depending on whether the wars were hot or cold, and sometimes for both at once. Until he grew too old for one, and outlived his usefulness to the other.

  Now he had found a well-deserved retirement on the remote and sparsely populated eastern side of the Sierras. Or so it appeared. Smith had a suspicion his “retirement” was as murky as the rest of his life.

  Now that Smith was AWOL, he needed the kind of help the SAS and MI6 could give. “I have to get into Iraq, Peter. Secretly, but with contacts.”

  Howell began to reassemble the H&K. “That's not dangerous, my boy. That's suicide. No way. Not for a Yank or a Brit. Not the way things are over there these days. Can't be done.”

  “They murdered Sophia. It has to be done.”

  Howell made a sound much like his recall of Stan the mountain lion. “Like that, eh? Care to explain this AWOL nonsense?”

  “You know I'm AWOL?”

  “Try to keep in touch, you see. Been AWOL a few times myself. Usually a good story behind it.”

  Smith filled him in on everything that had happened since the death of Major Anderson at Fort Irwin. “They're powerful, Peter, whoever they are. They can manipulate the army, the FBI, the police, perhaps even the whole government. Whatever they're planning, it's worth killing people for. I've got to know what that is and why they killed Sophia.”

  His submachine gun cleaned, oiled, and back together, Howell reached out a brown claw for a humidor. He filled his pipe. Deeper in the house they could hear Marty raving at his computer, shouting excitedly to himself.

  His pipe lit, puffing slowly, Howell muttered, “With that virus, and no known cure or vaccine, they can hold the planet hostage. It has to be someone like Saddam or Khadafy. Or China.”

  “Pakistan, India, any country weaker than the West.” Smith paused. “Or no country. Perhaps it's all about money, Peter.”

  As the aromatic pipe tobacco scented the room, Peter thought about it. “Getting you into Iraq could cost more than my life, Jon. The price could be an entire underground. The opposition against Saddam Hussein is weak in Iraq, but it does exist. While it bides its time, my people and your people are there to help build it up. They'll get you in if I ask, but they won't compromise the entire network. If you stumble into serious trouble, you'll be on your own. The U.S. embargo is ruining the lives of everyone except Saddam and his gang. It's killing children. You can expect little from the underground and nothing from the Iraqi people.”

  Smith's chest tightened. Still he shrugged. “It's a risk I have to take.”

  Howell smoked. “Then I better get cracking. I'll arrang
e all the protection I can. I wish I could go, too, but I'd be a liability. They know me too well in Iraq, you see.”

  “It's better I go alone. I've got a job for you here anyway.”

  Howell brightened. “Do tell? Well, I was becoming a trifle bored. Feeding Stanley has its limits as excitement.”

  “Another thing,” Smith added. “Marty has to have his meds, or he'll soon be useless. I can give you the empty bottles, but we can't contact his doctor in Washington.”

  Howell took the bottles and vanished into the hall and on past the room where Marty raved. Smith sat alone, listening to Marty. Outdoors the wind blew through the majestic ponderosa pines. It was a comforting sound, as if the earth were breathing. He let himself relax wearily into the chair. He cut off his grief for Sophia and his feelings of worry and all the tension of whether he could find what he needed in Iraq, and whether he would survive if he did. If anyone could get him into that brutalized country, it was Peter. He was sure answers were there somewhere ― if not among those who had died from the virus last year, then among those who had survived.

  5:05 P.M.

  Washington, D.C.

  In the single large room of Marty Zellerbach's disordered bungalow off Dupont Circle, computer expert Xavier Becker watched in fascination as Zellerbach, accessing his huge Cray mainframe from some remote PC, probed through the computers of the telephone company with the delicate skill of a surgeon.

  Xavier had never seen anything like the search-and-cracking software Zellerbach had created. The sheer beauty and grace of the man's work almost made him forget what he was there for.

  It was all he could do to keep one step ahead of Zellerbach as he led the distant cracker through a maze of phony positive results to keep him online while the police up north in Long Lake village traced Zellerbach through the maze of relays across the world. Xavier sweated, worrying Zellerbach would switch the sequence of relay lines, which would mean they would lose him. But Zellerbach never did. Xavier could not understand the oversight by such a genius. It was as if Zellerbach had set up his system of relays to hide his location because he knew it was the right thing to do, not because he cared about the reasons behind it, and so never thought of switching the trail again.

  A tense voice announced in his earphones, “Just a few more minutes. Hold him on, Xavier.”

  Jack McGraw at Long.Lake sounded as if he were sweating as much as Xavier. Twice before they had almost had Zellerbach, when Xavier had led him in circles with phony data while he tried to locate Bill Griffin, and again when he accessed USAMRIID's computer to check on progress with the unknown virus. Each time Zellerbach had moved too fast for Xavier to hold him. But not this time. Maybe Xavier's false data was better now, or maybe Zellerbach was getting tired and losing his concentration. Whatever it was, another two or three minutes and…

  “Got him!” Jack McGraw's voice exulted. “He's online outside some little burg in California called Lee Vining. Al-Hassan's near Yosemite. We're alerting him now.”

  Xavier switched off. He felt none of the security chief's jubilation as he watched Zellerbach still following the fake trail he expected to lead to the phone call the Russell woman had made to Tremont. Zellerbach's creativity was too beautiful to be sabotaged by his own carelessness. It made Xavier feel sad and confused. It looked as if Zellerbach had been carried away by his own enthusiasm, by a kind of naive ignorance of the existence of the Xavier Beckers or the Victor Tremonts of this world.

  2:42 P.M.

  Near Lee Vining,

  High Sierras, California

  Smith stepped into the computer room, and Marty's frustration greeted him like an atomic blast. “Zounds, zounds, zounds! Where are you, you chimera! No one defeats Marty Zellerbach, you hear? Oh, I know you're there! Fuck and damn and―”

  “Mart?” Smith had never heard him swear. It must be another sign he was going over the edge. “Mart! Stop it. What's going on?”

  Marty went on swearing. He pounded the console, unaware Smith was speaking or that he was even in the room.

  “Mart!” Smith grabbed his shoulder.

  Marty whirled like a wild animal, teeth bared. And saw Smith. He suddenly collapsed in upon himself, drooping limp in his chair. He stared up with anguish. “Nothing! Nothing. I've found nothing. Nothing! ”

  “That's okay, Marty,” Smith said in a soothing voice. “What didn't you find? Bill Griffin's address?”

  “Not a trace. I was so close, Jon. Then nothing. The phone calls, too. I'm in my computer, using my own software. Just another step. It's there, I know it! So close―”

  “We knew it was a long shot. What about the virus? Anything new at Fort Detrick?”

  “Oh, I had that in minutes. Officially, there have now been fifteen deaths and three survivals here in America.”

  Smith jerked alert. “More deaths? Where? And survivors? How? What kind of treatment?”

  “No details. Had to break through a brand-new security wall to find what I did. The Pentagon has all its data shut down, except to me.” He chortled. “No information to the public except through the military.”

  “That's why we didn't hear about the survivors. Can you locate them?”

  “I haven't seen a whisper of who they are or where they are. Sorry, Jon!”

  “Not at Detrick or the Pentagon?”

  “No, no. Neither place. Terrible. I think those Pentagon bandits are keeping the information off-system!”

  Smith thought rapidly. His first instinct had been to find the survivors and try to get close enough to interview them. It seemed like the easiest, most direct route.

  The reason the government had shut down the information was probably to avoid panicking people ― standard operating procedure ― and the situation was likely a lot worse than fifteen deaths. Scientists would be studying the three survivors around the clock to find answers before going public. Which meant every possible American human and technological security would be assigned.

  Inwardly he sighed, frustrated. No way was he or even Peter Howell going to get past that.

  Besides, the survivors would be the first place army intelligence, the FBI, and the murderers would expect him to go. They would be waiting. He inhaled and nodded. There was no choice. The only survivors he had a chance to reach were in Iraq. That locked-down country did not expect him, and they did not have the technological wizardry of the U.S. government. His best and fastest hope of finding out what was behind all this was to go there.

  Marty was saying excitedly, “There! Almost got you! Just another minute.”

  Smith came out of his reverie to see him screaming at the console, hunched toward the screen like a hunter who sees his prey only a few feet ahead.

  Fear tightened Smith's chest. Suddenly the mechanics of what Marty was doing made terrible sense. He snapped, “How long have you been connected to your computer in Washington?”

  Howell appeared in the doorway. His wiry body went rigid. “He's been online through his own computer?”

  “How long, Mart?” Smith repeated tensely.

  Marty came out of his thrilled trance. He blinked and checked the time on the screen. “An hour, perhaps two. But it's fine. I'm using a series of relays all over the world, just as we're supposed to. Besides, it's my own computer. I―”

  Smith swore. “They know where your computer is! They could be in your bungalow right now, inside your computer, teasing you on! Was the trail through the telephone company there the first time you cracked in?”

  “Heck, no! I located a whole new path. I found a new one for Bill Griffin, too, but that led nowhere. This one in the phone company keeps opening up to new avenues. I know I can―”

  Peter Howell's voice was crisp. “Do they have people in California?”

  “I'd bet the farm on it,” Smith told him.

  “His meds are on the way.” Howell spun on his heel. “Your killers can trace the phone line to Lee Vining and to me. Not my real name, of course. They'll have to locate the cabin
, get out here, find the road, and reach us. I'd say an hour at worst. With luck two. We'd be wise to be away in less than one.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY THREE

  6:51 P.M.

  New York City

  Victor Tremont adjusted his dinner jacket and straightened his black tie in the mirror of his suite in the Waldorf-Astoria tower. Behind him, still stretched naked on the rumpled bed, was Mercedes O'Hara. She was beautiful ― all curves and lush, golden skin.

  She fixed her dark eyes on him in the mirror. “I do not like to be hung in the bedroom closet with the suits until you decide I am to be used again, Victor.”

  Tremont scowled into the mirror. Neither patient nor reserved, the tall woman with the cascade of red hair falling across her breasts had been a mistake. Tremont rarely made that misjudgment. In fact, he could think of only one other time. That woman had killed herself when he had told her he would never marry her.

  “I have a meeting, Mercedes. We'll go to dinner when I get back. The table is reserved at Le Cheval, your favorite. If that doesn't suit you, leave.”

  Mercedes would not kill herself. The Chilean woman owned extensive vineyards and a world-renowned winery in the Maipo Valley, sat on the boards of two mining companies and in the Chilean parliament, and had been a cabinet minister and would be again. But like all women, she demanded too much of his time and sooner or later would insist on marriage. None understood he did not need or want a companion.

  “So?” She continued to observe from where she reclined on the bed. “No promises? One woman is the same as another. We are all a nuisance. Victor can love only Victor.”

  Tremont found himself annoyed. “I wouldn't say―”

  “No,” she interrupted, “that would require for you to understand.” She sat up on the bed, swung her long legs over the edge, and stood. “I think I am tired of you, Dr. Tremont.”