The Hades Factor c-1 Read online

  Victor Tremont's voice rose slightly. “That may not be necessary. I kept a journal of my trips back then. Notes on the plants and potential pharmaceuticals. Perhaps I jotted down something about your virus as well.”

  Sophia leaped at the suggestion. “I'd appreciate your looking. Right away.”

  “Whoa.” Tremont gave a warm chuckle. He had her. “The notebooks are stored somewhere in my house. Probably the attic. Maybe the basement. I'll have to get back to you tomorrow.”

  “I owe you, Victor. Maybe the world will. First thing tomorrow, please. You have no idea how important this could be.” She gave him her phone number.

  “Oh, I think I know,” Tremont assured her. “Tomorrow morning at the latest.”

  He hung up and rotated once more to gaze out at the brightening lake and the high mountains that suddenly seemed to loom close and ominous. He stood up and walked to the window. He was a tall man of medium build, with a distinctive face on which nature had played one of her more kindly tricks: From a youth's oversized nose, gawky ears, and thin cheeks, he had grown into a good-looking man. He was now in his fifties, and his features had filled out. His face was aquiline, smooth, and aristocratic. The nose was the perfect size ― straight and strong, a fitting centerpiece for his very English face. With his tan skin and thick, iron-gray hair, he drew attention wherever he went. But he knew it was not his dignity and attractiveness that people found so appealing. It was his self-confidence. He radiated power, and less-assured people found that compelling.

  Despite what he had told Sophia Russell, Victor Tremont made no move to go home to his secluded estate. Instead, he stared unseeing at the mountains and fought off tension. He was angry… and annoyed.

  Sophia Russell. My God, Sophia Russell!

  Who would have thought? He had not even recognized her name initially. In fact, still did not remember any of the names of that insignificant little student group. And he doubted any would recall his. But Russell had. What kind of brain retained such detail? Obviously the trivial was too important to her. He shook his head, disgusted. In truth, she was not a problem. Just a nuisance. Still, she must be dealt with. He unlocked the secret drawer in his carved desk, took out a cell phone, and dialed.

  An emotionless voice with a faint accent answered. “Yes?”

  “I need to talk to you,” Victor Tremont ordered. “My office. Ten minutes.” He hung up, returned the cell phone to the locked drawer, and picked up his regular office phone. “Muriel? Get me General Caspar in Washington.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  9:14 A.M., Monday, October 13

  Fort Detrick, Maryland

  As employees arrived at USAMRIID that Monday morning, word quickly spread through the campus's buildings of the weekend's fruitless search to identify and find a way to contain some new killer virus. The press still had not discovered the story, and the director's office ordered everyone to maintain media silence. No one was to talk to a reporter, and only those working in the labs were kept in the loop about the agonizing quest.

  Meanwhile, regular work still had to be done. There were forms to be filed, equipment to be maintained, phone calls to be answered. In the sergeant major's office, Specialist Four Hideo Takeda was in his cubicle sorting mail when he opened an official-looking envelope emblazoned with the U.S. Department of Defense logo.

  After he read and reread the letter, he leaned over the divider between his cubicle and that of Specialist Five Sandra Quinn, his fellow clerk. He confided in an excited whisper, “It's my transfer to Okinawa.”

  “You're kidding.”

  “We'd given up.” He grinned. His girlfriend, Miko, was stationed on Okinawa.

  “Better tell the boss right away,” Sandra warned. “It means teaching a new clerk to deal with the goddamned absentminded professors we got here. She'll be pissed. Man, they're all out of their minds today anyway with this new crisis, aren't they?”

  “Screw her,” Specialist Takeda swore cheerfully.

  “Not in my worst nightmare.” Sgt. Maj. Helen Daugherty stood in her office doorway. “Would you care to step in here, Specialist Takeda?” she said with exaggerated politeness. “Or would you prefer I beat you senseless first?”

  An imposing six-foot blonde with the shoulders to offset all her whistle-producing curves, the sergeant major looked down with her best piranha smile at the five-foot-six Takeda. The clerk hurried out of his cubicle with a nervous show of fear not entirely faked. With Daugherty, as befitted any good sergeant major, you were never fully sure you were safe.

  “Close the door, Takeda. And take a seat.”

  The specialist did as instructed.

  Daugherty fixed him with a gimlet eye. “How long have you known about the possibility of this transfer, Hideo?”

  “It came out of the blue this morning. I mean, I just opened the letter.”

  “And we put it in for you… what, almost two years ago?”

  “Year and a half, at least. Right after I came back from leave over there. Look, Sergeant, if you need me to stick around awhile, I'll be―”

  Daugherty shook her head. “Doesn't look like I could do that if I wanted to.” With her finger she stabbed a memo on her desk. “I got this E-mail from the Department of the Army about the same time you must've opened your letter. Looks like your replacement's already on her way. Coming from Intelligence Command over in Kosovo, no less. She must've been on a plane before the letter even got to the office.” Daugherty's expression was thoughtful.

  “You mean she'll be here today?”

  Daugherty glanced at the clock on her desk. “A couple of hours, to be exact.”

  “Wow, that's fast.”

  “Yes,” Daugherty agreed, “it sure is. They've even cut travel orders for you. You've got a day to clear out your desk and quarters. You're to be on a plane tomorrow morning.”

  “A day?”

  “Better get at it. And best of luck, Hideo. I've enjoyed working with you. I'll put a good report in your file.”

  “Yessir, er, Sergeant. And thanks.”

  Still a little stunned, Takeda left Sergeant Major Daugherty contemplating the memo. She was rolling a pencil between her hands and staring off into space as he enthusiastically dumped out his desk. He repressed a war whoop of victory. He was not only tired of being away from Miko, he was especially tired of living in the USAMRIID pressure cooker. He had been through plenty of emergencies here, but this new one had everyone worried. Even scared. He was glad to get the hell out.

  * * *

  Three hours later, Specialist Four Adele Schweik stood at attention in the same office in front of Sergeant Major Daugherty. She was a small brunette with almost black hair, a rigid carriage, and alert gray eyes. Her uniform was impeccable, with two rows of medal ribbons showing service overseas in many countries and campaigns. There was even a Bosnian ribbon.

  “At ease, Specialist.”

  Schweik stood at ease. “Thank you, Sergeant Major.”

  Daugherty read her transfer papers and spoke without looking up. “Kind of fast, wasn't it?”

  “I asked to be transferred to the D.C. area a few months ago. Personal reasons. My colonel told me an opening had suddenly come up at Detrick, and I jumped at it.”

  Daugherty looked up at her. "A little overqualified, aren't you? This is a backwater post. A small command not doing much and never going overseas.

  “I only know it's Detrick. I don't know what your unit is.”

  “Oh?” Daugherty raised a blond eyebrow. There was something too cool and composed about this Schweik. “Well, we're USAMRIID: U.S. Army Medical Research Institute for Infectious Diseases. Scientific research. All our officers are doctors, vets, or medical specialists. We even have civilians. No weapons, no training, no glory.”

  Schweik smiled. “That sounds peaceful, Sergeant Major. A nice change after Kosovo. Besides, haven't I heard USAMRIID is on the cutting edge, working with pretty deadly Hot Zone diseases? Sounds like it could be exciting.”


  The sergeant major cocked her head. “It is for the docs. But for us it's just office routine. We keep the place running. Over the weekend there was some kind of emergency. Don't ask any questions. It's none of your business. And if any journalist contacts you, refer them to public affairs. That's an order. Okay, there's your cubicle next to Quinn's. Introduce yourself. Get settled, and Quinn will bring you up to speed.”

  Schweik came to attention. “Thank you, Sergeant Major.”

  Daugherty rotated her pencil again, studying the door that had just closed behind the new woman. Then Daugherty sighed. She had not been completely truthful. Although there was plenty of routine, there were moments like this when all of a sudden the army didn't make a damn bit of sense. She shrugged. Well, she had seen stranger things than an abrupt shift in personnel that made both transferring parties happy. She buzzed Quinn, asked for a cup of coffee, and put out of her mind the latest lab crisis and the strange personnel transfer. She had work to do.

  * * *

  At 1732, hours, Sergeant Major Daugherty locked her cubicle door, preparing to leave the empty office. But the office was not empty.

  The new woman, Schweik, said, “I'd like to stay and learn as much as I can, if that's all right, Sergeant Major.”

  “Fine. I'll tell security. You have an office key? Good. Lock up when you're finished. You won't be alone. That new virus is driving the docs crazy. I expect some of them will be on campus all night. If this goes on much longer, they're going to start getting cantankerous. They don't like mysteries that kill people.”

  “So I've heard.” The small brunette nodded and smiled. “See, plenty of action and excitement at Fort Detrick.”

  Daugherty laughed. “I stand corrected,” she said, and went out.

  At her desk in the silent office, Specialist Schweik read memos and made notes for another half hour until she was sure neither the sergeant major nor security was coming back to check on her. Then she opened the attache case she had brought inside during her first coffee break. When she had arrived at Andrews Air Force Base this morning, it had been waiting in the car assigned to her.

  From the case she withdrew a schematic diagram of the phone installations in the USAMRIID building. The main box was in the basement, and it contained connections for all the internal extensions and private outside lines. She studied it long enough to memorize its position. Then she returned the diagram, closed the case, and stepped into the corridor, carrying it.

  With innocent curiosity on her face, she looked carefully around.

  The guard inside the front entrance was reading. Schweik needed to get past him. She inhaled, keeping herself calm, and glided silently along the rear corridor to the basement entrance.

  She waited. No movement or noise from the guard. Although the building was considered high security, the protection was less to keep people out than to shield the public from the lethal toxins, viruses, bacteria, and other dangerous scientific materials that were studied at USAMRIID. Although the guard was well trained, he lacked the aggressive edge of a sentry defending a lab where top-secret war weapons were created.

  Relieved that he remained engrossed in his book, she tried the heavy metal door. It was locked. She took a set of keys from the case. The third one opened the basement door. She padded soundlessly downstairs, where she wound in and out among giant machines that heated and cooled the building, supplied sterile air and negative pressure for the labs, operated the powerful exhaust system, supplied water and chemical solutions for the chemical showers, and handled all the other maintenance needs of the medical complex.

  She was sweating by the time she located the main box. She set the attache case on the floor and withdrew from it a smaller case of tools, wires, color-coded connections, meters, switching units, listening devices, and miniature recorders.

  It was evening, and the basement was quiet but for the occasional snap, gurgle, and hum of the pipes and shafts. Still, she listened to make sure no one else was around. Nervous energy sent chills across her skin. Warily she studied the gray walls. At last she opened the main box and went to work on the multitude of connections.

  * * *

  Two hours later, back in her office, she checked her telephone, attached a miniature speaker-earphone set, flipped a switch on the hidden control box in her desk drawer, and listened. “… Yeah, I'll be here at least two more hours, I'm afraid. Sorry, honey, can't be helped. This virus is a bear. The whole staff's on it. Okay, I'll try to get there before the kids go to bed.”

  Satisfied her listening and rerouting equipment was working, she clicked off and dialed an outside line. The male voice that had contacted her last night and given her instructions answered. “Yes?”

  She reported: “Installation is complete. I'm connected to the recorder for all phone calls, and I've got a line on my set to alert me to any from the offices you're interested in. It'll connect me with the shunt to intercept calls.”

  “You were unobserved? You are unsuspected?”

  She prided herself on her ear for voices, and she knew all the major languages and many minor. This voice was educated, and his English was good but not perfect. A non-English speech pattern, and the smallest trace of a Middle-Eastern accent. Not Israel, Iran, or Turkey. Possibly Syria or Lebanon, but more likely Jordan or Iraq.

  She filed the information for future reference.

  She said, “Of course.”

  "That is well. Be alert to any developments that concern the unknown virus they are working on. Monitor all calls in and out of the offices of Dr. Russell, Lieutenant Colonel Smith, and General Kielburger.

  This job could not last too long, or it would become too risky. They would probably never find the body of the real Specialist Four Adele Schweik. Schweik had no known relatives and few friends outside the army. She had been selected for those reasons.

  But Schweik sensed Sergeant Major Daugherty was suspicious, vaguely disturbed by her arrival. Too much scrutiny could expose her.

  “How long will I remain here?”

  “Until we do not need you. Do nothing to call attention to yourself.”

  The dial tone hummed in her ear. She hung up and leaned forward to continue familiarizing herself with the routines and requirements of the sergeant major's office. She also listened to live conversations in and out of the building and monitored the light on the desk phone that would alert her to calls from the Russell woman's laboratory. For a moment she was curious about what was so important about Dr. Russell. Then she banished the thought. There were some things it was dangerous to know.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Midnight

  Washington, D.C.

  Washington's magnificent Rock Creek park was a wedge of wilderness in the heart of the city. From the Potomac River near the Kennedy Center it wound narrowly north to where it expanded into a wide stretch of woods in the city's upper Northwest. A natural woodland, it abounded in hiking, biking, horse trails, picnic grounds, and historical sites. Pierce Mill, where Tilden Street intersected Beach Drive, was one of those historical landmarks. An old gristmill, it dated from pre-Civil War days when a line of such mills bordered the creek. It was now a museum run by the National Park Service and, in the moonlight, a ghostly artifact from a faraway time.

  Northwest of the mill, where the brush was thick in the shadows of tall trees, Bill Griffin waited, holding a highly alert Doberman on a tight leash. Although the night was cold, Griffin sweated. His wary gaze scanned the mill and picnic grounds. The sleek dog sniffed the air, and its erect ears rotated, listening for the source of its unease.

  From the right, in the general direction of the mill, someone approached. The dog had caught the faint sounds of autumn leaves being crunched underfoot long before they were audible to Griffin. But once Griffin heard the footfalls, he released the animal. The dog remained obediently seated, every taut muscle quivering, eager.

  Griffin gave a silent hand signal.

  Like a black phantom, the Doberman sprang
off into the night and made a wide circle around the picnic grounds, invisible among the ominous shadows of the trees.

  Griffin desperately wanted a cigarette. Every nerve was on edge. Behind him something small and wild rustled through the underbrush. Somewhere in the park a night owl hooted. He acknowledged neither the sounds nor his nerves. He was highly trained, a complete professional, and so he maintained watch, vigilant and unmoving. He breathed shallowly so as to not reveal his presence by clouds of white breath in the cold night air. And although he kept his temper under control, he was an angry, worried man.

  When at last Lt. Col. Jonathan Smith came into view, striding across the open area in the silver-blue moonlight, Griffin still did not move. On the far side of the picnic grounds, the Doberman went to ground, invisible. But Griffin knew he was there.

  Jon Smith hesitated on the path. He asked in a hoarse whisper, “Bill?”

  In the umbra of the trees, Griffin continued to concentrate on the night. He listened to the traffic on the nearby parkway and to the city noises beyond. Nothing was unusual. No one else was in this part of the massive preserve. He waited for the dog to tell him otherwise, but he had resumed his rounds, apparently satisfied, too.

  Griffin sighed. He stepped out to the edge of the picnic grounds where the moonlight met the shadows. His voice was low and urgent. “Smithy. Over here.”

  Jon Smith turned. He was jumpy. All he could see was a vague shape wavering in the moonlight. He walked toward it, feeling exposed and vulnerable, although he did not know to what.

  “Bill?” he growled. “Is that you?”

  “The bad penny,” Griffin said lightly and returned deep into the shadows.

  Smith joined him. He blinked, willing his eyes to adjust quickly. At last he saw his old friend, who was smiling at him. Bill Griffin had the same round face and bland features Smith remembered, although he looked as if he had lost ten pounds. His cheeks were flatter, and his shoulders appeared heavier than usual since his torso and waist were slimmer. His brown hair hung mid-length, limp and unruly. He was two inches shorter than Smith's six feet ― a good-sized, strong-looking, stocky man.