Covert One 1 - The Hades Factor, page 29
For one moment of madness, he truly believed she was alive. Just by reaching out, he could gather her into his arms, smell the scent of her hair, and feel the beat of her heart against his. Alive.
He dug deep inside himself, searching for strength.
And made himself blink.
He shook his head to clear it. He had to quit lying to himself. He was looking at Randi.
Not Sophia.
They were in grave danger. He had to face the truth. His stomach felt hollow, like an elevator falling too fast. It was possible neither of them would survive. He could delay no longer.
He had to tell her about Sophia. He had to say the words because if he did not, he was going to slip over into some other world where he could pretend forever Randi was Sophia. He could not allow his emotions to continue these cruel games.
Because it was not just his future at risk. It was Randi’s, too, and tens of millions of people who could die from the virus. He could hear Sophia’s voice inside his mind: “Shape up, Smith. Just because you decide to live doesn’t mean you don’t love me. You’ve got a job to do. Love me enough to get on with it.”
Randi was studying him. “You were going to say who you think the police are.”
He inhaled again, pulling oxygen and sanity into his body. “At the time, I didn’t notice. But when they first attacked, their leader said my real name. Not the cover name I’d been going around Baghdad using. I don’t see how else he could’ve known I was Colonel Jon Smith except that he– all of them– were hired by the people with the virus. They’ve been trying to stop me from investigating ever since–”
He made himself see her, not her sister. But as he did, her face tightened as if she realized he was going to tell her something terrible, something that affected her intimately. One more thing she might never forgive him for.
He said gently, “Randi, I have terrible news. Sophia’s dead. They murdered her. The people behind all this did it.”
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CHAPTER
Covert One 1 - The Hades Factor
THIRTY FOUR
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Randi jerked erect. For a moment Jon had the sensation she had heard something else… not his voice or words. Her face was frozen. The muscles seemed to atrophy. But she gave no other outward sign she had received the devastating news that her sister had been murdered.
In the shocked silence, he felt the truck’s every bump and lurch. Their lives depended on it, so he forced himself to pay attention. The truck’s speed was increasing. Buildings seemed farther away, and the sounds of voices and radios receded. They must be on a wider street. He noted traffic sounds and bits of conversation from the truck’s cab, but that was all.
His pulse throbbed guiltily at his temples. “Randi?”
Suddenly her face collapsed. Tears streamed down her cheeks, but she remained erect and motionless. She had heard the words, but she could not understand the meaning. Pain seared through her. Sophia? Dead? Murdered? She rejected them. Impossible. How could Sophia be dead?
Her voice was wooden through her tears. “I don’t believe you.”
“It’s true. I’m sorry. I know how much you loved her, and she loved you.”
Guilt overwhelmed her. His words were hammer blows. I know how much you loved her.
She had not seen Sophia in months. She had been too busy, too involved in her job. Other people needed her more. She had thought there would be plenty of time later to be close and really enjoy each other again. When they had both done what they had to do.
When Jon Smith no longer took up so much of Sophia’s life.
It felt as if her heart were shattering. Angrily she used the fingers of both hands to wipe away her tears.
“Randi?”
She heard his voice. Heard the truck… with a sudden hollowness below the wheels. Her mind quickly shifted, and as if from a great distance she realized they were crossing a bridge. A long bridge with the sound of the truck echoing off water beneath. She heard the rush of open air around them. The far-off cries of men who were night fishing. The bray of a donkey.
And then with an aching rush, she remembered. Sophia. She crossed her arms, trying to hold herself together, and she looked at Jon. There was devastation in his face. His grief looked so deep it could never be erased.
That face was not lying: Sophia was dead.
Sophia was dead.
She inhaled sharply, trying to control herself. Her sister’s face kept flashing into her mind. At the same time, she was looking at Jon Smith. She had just begun to think she could trust him. She wanted to believe he had nothing to do with it, but she could not help her suspicions.
His blind arrogance back when he had been treating Mike had led to Mike’s death. Had he killed her sister just as he had killed Mike?
“How?” she demanded. “What did you do to her?”
“I wasn’t there, not when it happened. I was in London.” He told her everything, from the time he met Bill Griffin to his discovery of the missing page and the needle mark in Sophia’s ankle. “It was the virus Sophia was trying to identify, classify, and trace to its source. The same virus I followed here to Iraq. But her death was no accident. The virus isn’t that contagious. She would have had to have made a very careless mistake. No, they infected her with it because she had uncovered something. They murdered her, Randi, and I’m going to find out who they are and stop them. They won’t get away with it….”
As he talked on, she closed her eyes, thinking about how much Sophia must have suffered before she had died. She fought back a sob.
Jon continued, his voice low and earnest, “…They murdered our director and his secretary, too, because I’d told them someone had the live virus and was using it on people. Now we have a global epidemic. How the new victims contracted the virus I don’t know, or how someone cured a few. But I’ve got to find out….”
He was still talking over the rumble of the truck, which was driving faster. The noises of the city had been left behind, and now it seemed as if they were in open country. There was only the occasional roar of a vehicle passing in the other lane.
Another surge of tears overcame her. He put an arm around her shoulder, and she pushed him away. She wiped her face with her sleeve.
She would not cry anymore. Not here. Not now.
“…They’re powerful,” he was saying. “Obviously, they’ve been here in Iraq. Maybe they still are. Which is one more reason to think they sent these `police.’ The people behind the virus seem to reach everywhere. Even into our government and the army itself. High up into the Pentagon.”
“The army? The Pentagon?” She stared at him in disbelief.
“There’s no other explanation for USAMRIID’s being taken out of the loop, shut down, and the lid clamped on. And then all the records that were erased through the NIH’s FRMC terminal. I was getting too close, and they had to stop me. It’s the only explanation for Kielburger’s death. He was calling the Pentagon to tell them what I’d discovered when he vanished. He and his secretary disappeared and were found dead hours later. Now they’re looking for me, too. I’m officially AWOL, plus I’m wanted for questioning in the deaths of General Kielburger and his secretary.”
Randi repressed a bitter comment. Jon Smith, the man who had killed her great love, was telling her the U.S. Army was somehow involved in her sister’s death and he had run from them in the noble cause of pursuing his investigation. How could she believe him? Trust him? His whole story sounded like some kind of enormous fabrication.
Yet any American who came to Iraq now risked his life. She had seen his courage as he had tried to protect Dr. Mahuk from the Republican Guards before he had even known she was Dr. Mahuk. Then there was the virus itself. If he had been the only one to tell her about it, she would be doubtful. But Dr. Mahuk was also a source, and she trusted Radah Mahuk.
As she was contemplating all this, she heard the truck cross another long bridge. Again there was the familiar hollow sound below, echoing from water.
What water? She came totally alert. “How many bridges have we crossed?”
“Two, as I recall. About fifteen, twenty miles apart. This is the second one.
“Two.” Randi nodded. “That’s what I counted. There should be a third soon.”
She took a deep, shuddering breath. And another. They were all gone– her father, mother, and now her sister. First her parents in a boating accident off Santa Barbara ten years ago. And now Sophia. She wiped her eyes again as they waited, silent in their shared grief.
The truck drove onto a third bridge, and instantly she was back in the present. In the moment. At work. Right now it was her only balm.
In a charged whisper, she told him, “We must’ve crossed the Tigris in the middle of Baghdad. Then the second bridge had to be over the Euphrates. The third must be the Euphrates again. We’re not going south. We’re going west. If the land goes into a slow climb, we’ll know we’re heading into the Syrian Desert and eventually to Jordan.”
Impressed, Jon stared past Randi at the two policemen, who were talking quietly. Their rifles rested in their arms, the muzzles pointed casually toward their prisoners. It had been a long time since he had tried to break away.
He said, “Tell them I’m stiff. That I’m just going to stretch.”
She frowned, puzzled. “Why?”
“I’ve got an idea.”
She seemed to study him again. At last she nodded. “Okay.” She spoke humbly in Arabic to the two heavily armed men.
One responded in a bark, and she uttered more words.
At last she told Jon, “He says it’s all right, but only you can stand. Not me.” She gave a grim smile.
“Figures.”
He got up to his feet and arched his back as if his limbs had gone to sleep. He could feel the policemen’s intense gazes from the tailgate area. When they turned away, bored again and half asleep, he put his right eye to a long tear in the slope of the canvas roof. He looked out and up.
Suddenly the harsh voice of one of the policemen snarled.
Randi translated. “Sit, Jon. You’ve just been busted.”
Smith fell back to the bench, but he had seen what he wanted: “The north star. We are going west.”
“The Justice Detention Center is south.”
“So I was told. Besides, that had to be miles back. They’re not taking us to jail, and they’re not taking us to the center. You have any weapons they didn’t find?”
Her brows raised. “A small knife inside my thigh.”
He looked down at her sedate gray skirt and nodded. She would be able to reach it quickly.
With an abrupt lurch, the Russian truck slowed and threw them forward. Another lurch sent them against the cab in front. It slammed Randi into Jon. She quickly pushed away. The vehicle stopped. Voices talked roughly. Suddenly there were noises of men climbing from the cab and walking forward, talking.
In the truck’s rear, the two policemen went into a crouch, AK-47s at the ready.
She cocked her head, listening to the Arabic words. “I think the officer and one of his men got out of the cab.”
Jon shook his shoulders to relieve the strain. “Is it a checkpoint?”
“Yes.”
Silence. Then laughter. More laughter, a slapping of backs, some boot clicking, and the two policemen climbed back into the front of the truck. The engine ground gears and bumped forward, gathering speed.
Randi’s voice was low and thoughtful, “From what I could hear, the Republican Guard stopped them, and they had no trouble convincing them they’re legitimate police. The Guards even seemed to know the officer by name.”
“Then they are the police?”
“I’d say so, and that means they’re probably moonlighting for your American friends. If we’re both right, then whoever’s behind all this has not only power but big money. The only good thing about our situation is we’re not in the detention center. Still, there are six of them, all highly armed.”
The corners of Jon’s mouth turned up in a half smile, but his blue eyes were cold. “They haven’t got a chance.”
She frowned. “What do you have in mind?”
He whispered, “The pair who’re guarding us were close to dozing off before the Republican Guard stopped the truck. With luck, the motion and monotony will lull them again and put them into a kind of trance. Let’s pretend to nap. It could make them sleepy, too.”
“We can’t wait long. They haven’t brought us out here to enjoy the desert air.”
They sat in silence, eyes closed, heads drooping as they simulated sleep. They shifted positions from time to time the way sleeping people did. As his head nodded and he let out an occasional low snore, Jon watched the guards with his peripheral vision.
Miles passed. The guards’ desultory conversation quieted and slowed as the truck rocked on into the night. Smith and Randi grew drowsy themselves. Then they heard a light snore that was not one of Jon’s.
“Randi.” His voice was husky.
One of the policemen had slumped back against the canvas side. The other’s head had fallen forward, and he was nodding, fighting sleep.
Soon they would have the chance for which they had hoped– prayed, to be precise.
Jon pressed his index finger to his lips then pointed for Randi to crawl along the left side of the truck bed while he would crawl along the right. Randi nodded. They turned over onto their stomachs and rose to their knees. As the truck continued to rock, they slipped forward in the dim light.
Abruptly the truck made a sharp turn. Everyone was thrown hard to the right as it left the road for what felt like a rutted trail. The heavy vehicle jounced and shook with teeth-rattling vibrations. Disappointed, Smith resumed his slumped position against the wall, and Randi settled quickly back into her old spot as the two Iraqis, instantly awake, complained to one another.
“Damn,” she muttered.
The truck slowed, but the damage was done. There was no way they could jump these alert guards and survive.
Jon swore. They had lost their best opportunity so far– maybe their last.
With another abrupt lurch, the truck slowed again, throwing them forward. As it lumbered to a stop, someone in the cab shouted angrily. An answering shout came from out in the night. Suddenly the motor of another vehicle roared. Headlights swept across the darkness and focused on the truck’s canvas side, eerily illuminating the interior where Jon and Randi listened.
It was in Arabic. “What are they saying?” Jon asked.
“We’ve got more visitors.” Randi listened to the voices. “And our friendly police aren’t all that happy about it.”
“Who is it this time?”
“I’m not sure. It could be Republican Guards again. Maybe something spooked them back at the checkpoint, and they’ve got a new batch of questions.”
“Terrific. Then we’re in even worse trouble.” Jon wiped sweat from his face.
Suddenly Randi whispered urgently, “That last voice! It was speaking Arabic all right, but it wasn’t Iraqi Arabic.”
Inside the truck, the two policemen had gone into wary crouches, their AK-47s up. They radiated vigilance. Something out there frightened them. They exchanged low words and reached for the canvas flap that covered the rear.
Their backs were facing Jon and Randi.
Without hesitation, Jon breathed, “Let’s do it.”
He flung himself forward, trusting Randi to do the same. He tackled the policeman on the left, yanked him backward, and slammed his fist into the man’s right temple. As he dropped to the floor unconscious, Jon wrenched away his AK-47.
At the same time, Randi pulled up her skirt, grabbed the knife from her thigh, and leaped at the second guard. Just as he whirled in his crouch to help his friend, Randi jammed the knife into his arm. He screamed, dropped his rifle, and grabbed the wound.
Randi thrust her knee up, connecting with his chin. His neck snapped back, and he sprawled onto his back unmoving, atop the other uniformed policeman.
As Randi swept up the AK-47, automatic fire exploded outside. It was as loud and surprising as thunder. Shouts and cries echoed across the desert night. There was the sound of running feet and more gunfire. It was a battle. The sounds were coming closer, and the fighting would soon be upon them.
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CHAPTER
Covert One 1 - The Hades Factor
THIRTY FIVE
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6:32 P.M.
Long Lake Village, New York
At his desk in his corner office, Victor Tremont pushed aside the report on which he was working, rubbed his eyes, and again checked his Rolex. He tapped his fingers on the edge of the massive desk. He was tense, on edge. There had been no word from Nancy Petrelli or the surgeon general, and more than nine hours had passed since he had heard from al-Hassan. The end of more than a dozen years of risky work was coming to a triumphant conclusion, and he was too close to being one of the richest men in the world for anything to go wrong now.
Restless and concerned, he arose, clasped his hands behind his back, and paced across the plush carpeting to his wall of windows. The lake stretched into the distance like a silver crater in the final fade of sunlight. He could almost smell the thick pines on both sides as they darkened from blue to purple and now black. House lights blinked on like a scattering of emerging stars. He looked right and left to view the sprawling, heavily landscaped industrial complex that was Blanchard Pharmaceuticals, as if to reassure himself that it was all there. That it was real. That it was his.
His intercom buzzed. “Mr. al-Hassan has arrived, Dr. Tremont.”
“Good.” He returned to his desk and composed his face. “Send him in.”
Nadal al-Hassan’s pockmarked features were triumphant. “We have Smith.”
Excitement surged through Tremont. “Where?”
As al-Hassan came to a stop before the desk, his cadaverous frame leaned forward like a greyhound about to pounce on a rabbit. He smiled. “In Baghdad. The policemen I bribed `arrested’ them.”
