The Hades Factor

by Robert Ludlum

  “With the proof on paper,” Peter added.

  “And someone whom he’ll believe,” Jon finished. “Not a discredited scientist like me, AWOL from the army and wanted for questioning.”

  “Or a CIA agent who’s probably been branded as rogue by now, too,” Randi agreed glumly.

  Marty, who was still printing out the records of the Hades Project, said over his shoulder, “May I suggest Mr. Mercer Haldane, former chairman of Blanchard Pharmaceuticals, who, at least on paper, appears to be one of the heinous conspirators?”

  Everyone stared at the white-haired executive. He nodded enthusiastically, seeing a chance to reclaim his self-respect. “Yes. I like that. I want to tell the president everything.” Then his eagerness faded. “But Victor would never let me get close.”

  “I’m not sure anyone could personally reach the president today,” Randi agreed.

  Jon pursed his lips, thinking. “Which leaves us back where we started. But we’ve got to stop Tremont some damn way.”

  “And very soon,” Peter warned. “That bloody al-Hassan and his troops could show up here any second. Then where are we?”

  “Who else will be at the ceremony?” Randi wondered. “The surgeon general? Secretary of state? The president’s chief of staff?”

  “They’ll be just as well guarded,” Smith knew. “Besides, Tremont’s people will see to it we don’t get close. Tremont’s security uses violence as their tool of choice. In some ways, they’re a worse obstacle than the secret service.”

  Randi ruminated, “I wish some of those foreign leaders were going to be there in person. We might have a chance to—”

  “Wait.” Jon suddenly had another idea. He sat on the stool next to Marty. “Mart, can you break into a closed-circuit TV transmission?”

  “Sure. Once I broke into a CNN transmission.” He laughed, remembering the prank. “Of course, that was only a local cable station, and I was in another studio in the building. I don’t know about a national cable company. What’s the company? What are the computer codes? Of course, I’d need a TV camera here, too.”

  Mercer Haldane suggested, “There’s a local studio in Long Lake village.”

  “They’ll be routing the feed through there,” Randi objected. “There’ll be technicians everywhere.”

  “We’ll go in shooting if we have to. Could you tap into the cable from there, Mart?”

  “I think so.”

  “Okay, that’s what we’ll do.”

  Peter was doubtful. “The whole village is going to be crawling with police tripping on each other’s shoes.”

  Movement at the perimeter of the room drew their attention. The older male technician who had brought the medical kit to Jon was walking slowly toward them. They had forgotten to lock him back into the conference room. His face was drained of color.

  “I didn’t know any of what you’ve just found out. All I do is routine analysis.” He held out a hand as if asking forgiveness. “I’ve taken Blanchard antibiotics myself. I have a family who—” He swallowed. “They’ve taken them, too, off and on over the years. I … maybe you should know Mr. Tremont has a small TV studio in the lodge. He had it installed to connect to the plant and to the local studio for making publicity and inspirational videos and live broadcasts. It’s state-of-the-art. I can show you where it is.”

  “Marty?” Jon asked.

  “I’ll probably need more time from there.” He was doubtful.

  After the first shock of Tremont’s monstrous plan had begun to wear off, Smith’s mind had been clear and precise. Now it seemed as if his faculties had never been sharper. He checked his watch and barked orders. “We’ve got forty minutes. Randi, we’re going to the ceremony to try to give the printouts of all the records to the president. If we can’t get near, at least we can cause a disturbance and give Marty more time.” He turned to Peter. “You and Samson stay here to protect Mart and Haldane. Haldane, once you’re on camera, you’re going to give the speech of your life.”

  “I will.” The former CEO nodded. “You can count on it.”

  Pale from his wound, Peter murmured, “Piece of cake.”

  “Take the lab technician to show you where the TV studio is, and we’ll leave the three others locked up. We’ll take the M-16s in case we need to make a lot of noise. All set?”

  Everyone nodded. For a brief moment they gazed around at each other, as if for reassurance. Then they were a blur of action as they ran out of the lab. Peter, Marty, and Haldane followed the technician into the rear corridor. Jon and Randi sprinted outside to their rented car.

  Randi drove fast along the mountain road in the late-afternoon sunlight. It was a shock to see how normal and beautiful the world looked. Less than a half mile from the lodge, they saw dust clouds rising ahead.

  “Pull off!” Jon snapped.

  Tires screeching, she sped the car off the road into the tall pines. A branch ripped off an outside mirror. With her Uzi and one of the M-16s, and he with the other two M-16s, they leaped out of the car and ran back fifty feet. As they turned to look through the trees, they saw three SUVs racing along the road.

  “There he is.” Jon recognized the lean Nadal al-Hassan from the Sierras in the front seat of the lead SUV. “No surprise.”

  “Al-Hassan,” Randi agreed, remembering him from outside Peter’s battered RV.

  “Shoot at them with everything we have so they’ll think there’s a lot of us, but don’t hit the tires.”

  “Why the hell not?” Randi demanded.

  “We need to make them follow us and leave the lodge alone.”

  Using both hands, they dodged from side to side and fired their weapons. They hit mostly air but still caused enough damage to send all three vehicles careening off the road. As soon as the tires of the third SUV skidded to the side, Jon and Randi loped back to their car. Randi pulled out onto the road again and, as they sped past al-Hassan and his men, they saw one of the three SUVs had its front tires shot out. It was out of commission, abandoned in the trees.

  “Damn!” Jon swore.

  “Peter and Samson will handle them if they have to.”

  The two other SUVs had smashed windows but no major damage. They bumped back onto the road. As they watched in the rearview mirror, two men ran from the disabled vehicle and clambered aboard the others as they turned to chase Jon and Randi toward the county highway, a mile and a half ahead.

  “Stay ahead until we hit Long Lake village,” Smith said. “Keep them chasing us.”

  “Piece of cake,” Randi replied in Peter’s voice, smiling grimly.

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  4:52 P.M.

  Long Lake Village, New York

  The sun was low in the mountain sky, and it was one of those beautiful afternoons in the Adirondacks that sent shivers of pleasure into the souls of any nature lover. Rich autumn colors showed in the leaves of the towering hardwoods. The pines seemed to grow straight up to the blue sky. The air was crisp and clean. Daisies were still in bloom. Outside on the lawn in the center of the sprawling complex that was Blanchard Pharmaceuticals’ headquarters, an audience of dignitaries sat in white folding chairs at the back of the raised platform, waiting eagerly for the formalities of this notable occasion to begin. Before the platform stood an animated crowd.

  As he waited in the tent erected to protect him, President Samuel Adams Castilla contemplated the festivities with satisfaction. Composed of local citizens of the rural region, representatives from most nations on earth, and editors, columnists, and reporters from all the major news media everywhere, the audience was everything a president who had an election to win could have wanted. This historic ceremony being telecast to every corner of the world and, more important, to the American people should assure his reelection by a landslide.

  Next to him stood Victor Tremont, whose gaze moved slowly across the surging throng. His thoughts were far less sanguine. He was consumed with an uneasy foreboding, as if his father stood over his shoulder saying a
gain, “No one can have everything, Vic.” He knew there was no realistic basis for such defeatism, but he could not seem to shake off the worry. That infernal Smith and the stupid Russell woman’s CIA sister had once again escaped the best efforts of al-Hassan and his men. They had vanished, and Tremont had heard nothing from al-Hassan since.

  Despite his confidence that he had prepared for any emergency, it concerned him, and he studied the crowd for a sign of the pair. He wished to God he had never taken that phone call from Sophia Russell. Why had she remembered that momentary encounter more than a dozen years ago? Chance. The completely unforeseeable element in everything.

  But it would not stop him.

  He was just reanalyzing all his actions when the first blaring brass bars of “Hail to the Chief” began.

  “We’re on,” the president said with relish. “This is a grand moment, Dr. Tremont. Let’s make the most of it.”

  “Agreed, Mr. President. And thank you again for the honor.”

  Ushered by the secret service, he and the president stepped out. Applause began with a trickle and quickly grew thunderous. The two men smiled and waved. Following instructions given him earlier, Tremont hung back so the president could march first toward the platform. He followed, trying to memorize the details of this exciting occasion. The platform was decorated with yards of red, white, and blue bunting. The podium was fronted by the presidential seal in blue and gold. Behind the platform rose a towering closed-circuit TV screen so everyone could view the dignitaries from around the world who would participate with live speeches.

  The president first, they mounted the stairs to continuing applause. The six rows of seated dignitaries sprang to their feet to greet the president. There were all the members of the cabinet, including a beaming Nancy Petrelli; the chairman of the Joint Chiefs with his executive aide, Maj. Gen. Nelson Caspar; the New York congressional delegation; and the ambassadors of fifty nations.

  At the podium, Surgeon General Jesse Oxnard, his massive head and mustache dominating everything, clapped with the others. At last he stepped to the podium to make introductions.

  5:30 P.M.

  Jon and Randi stood among the crowd a few yards apart and near the back.

  They had managed to evade their partly disabled pursuers and arrive in Long Lake a half hour ago, where they had searched along the packed sidewalks for ways to change their appearances. At last they had found an outdoor clothing store, then a toy store and a drugstore on the main street, which was one of the few highways that crossed the Adirondack Wilderness. They bought supplies at all three and used public restrooms to change. When they finally emerged, he was darker-skinned and looked as if he belonged in this mountain region. He wore bulky hunting pants, a plaid hunting coat, and a ragged black mustache detached from a child’s mask. She was in a mousy gray dress, flat heels, hair darkened with shoe polish, and a straw hat.

  There were enough foreign observers and journalists to distract everyone’s attention, so most people gave them only a few curious glances. Still, from around the periphery and up on the platform itself, the secret service, FBI, and Blanchard’s security people continually scanned the hordes, alert to any intrusion.

  Jon and Randi shifted locations frequently. They kept their heads down and quiet, friendly smiles on their faces. They made certain their muscles appeared relaxed.

  Once the band struck up “Hail to the Chief” and everyone was riveted as President Castilla and Victor Tremont strode toward the platform, Randi moved closer to Jon to whisper, “The woman with the short silver hair wearing the knit business suit is Nancy Petrelli, and the general in the second row behind Admiral Brose is Nelson Caspar.”

  “I expect Ben Sloat and old General Salonen are here somewhere, too.”

  Their plan was simple: Work their way far enough forward to get the president’s personal attention, and they would try to shout out their story. To wave their documents. To accuse Tremont and his cohorts to their faces with everyone as witnesses, and maybe to make one or more of them panic and reveal themselves. At least, to convince the president to hear. After all, this was a public gathering.

  That was at the best.

  At the worst, they wanted to give Marty a chance to break into the closed-circuit broadcast so Mercer Haldane could confirm everything they claimed.

  But first, they had to slip through the crowd without attracting the sharp eyes of the hundreds of public and private security who were watching for interlopers, troublemakers, terrorists … and them.

  5:09 P.M.

  Lake Magua

  Muttering wildly to himself in the small TV studio, Marty worked feverishly at the computer in the state-of-the-art control room.

  “Where are you, you beast! I know you’re in there somewhere. Give me the code name and the password, damn you! Once more, the telephone company is …”

  Mercer Haldane waited out in the studio with the four technicians and a series of blowups of the computer records. Behind them was a photographic backdrop of an Adirondack woodland scene, the high peaks of Whiteface and Marcy in the distance. Haldane’s cheeks were sweating. He continually mopped them as he watched Marty through the control room window. He glanced often and nervously at his watch.

  “ … All right, yes! I have you. I’m into the telephone company. Now the line into the local TV cable station. Come on … come on … I know you want me to find you … yes, that’s it … damnation! …”

  At the studio door, Peter kept guard on the corridor, listening for any sounds of warning from Samson. He also glanced from time to time at his watch while he observed Marty’s frantic efforts.

  “ … Ah-ha! Got you. Now, the control room. Here we go … here we … Zounds and putridity! You won’t stop me … you can’t …” Sweat dripped from Marty’s face, and his fingers pounded the keyboard as he frantically searched for the key into the system.

  5:12 P.M.

  Long Lake Village

  As the surgeon general continued to talk, extolling the virtues of Victor Tremont and the wisdom of the president, Jon and Randi edged forward in parallel paths, slowly converging again as they advanced. Jon saw Victor Tremont’s pockmarked killer, Nadal al-Hassan, in deep conversation with a man who looked as if he were the chief FBI agent present. Al-Hassan’s arm swept over the crowd as he held a sheaf of photos in his lean hand. Jon did not have to guess whom the photos pictured. He repressed a worried groan.

  The surgeon general’s introduction ended, and the president stepped to the podium. His face was solemn as his gaze slowly traversed the faces in the audience and turned to do the same to all the dignitaries seated behind him. He continued on in a full circle across the vigilant backs of the secret service and Tremont’s security team until he again faced the rapt crowd.

  “These are terrible times,” he began. “The world suffers. Millions die. And yet we are here to celebrate. And it is entirely fitting that we should do so. The man we come to honor will go down in history not only as visionary but as a great humanitarian. He …”

  As the president continued in rousing, cadenced tones, Jon and Randi moved inexorably forward, sometimes only a few steps, other times several feet at a time. They were careful to make no one angry. To attract no undue attention. And to appear to be enthralled with the president’s speech as it came quickly to its peroration: “ … It is my eternally grateful pleasure to present the nation’s highest civilian award to Dr. Victor Tremont, a giant sun that will soon shed light on this great darkness into which we have all been plunged.”

  Attempting to appear solemn but honored, humble but strong, while suppressing his real response of a loud, triumphal laugh, Victor Tremont moved toward the podium with what came out as a grotesque grimace. The medal was presented and accepted with a modest embarrassment, and the giant TV screen sprang to life with the image of the British prime minister towering over them all.

  5:16 P.M.

  Nadal al-Hassan’s mirrored black eyes slowly traversed the surging crowd.
His face was expressionless, and his dark, narrow head moved like a praying mantis as his cold gaze paused on a face that resembled one or the other of his quarries, on a shoulder that looked familiar, on a military posture among the packed throng.

  They would be here, he was sure. Smith had proved to be a far more resourceful and dangerous adversary than he had ever expected. He had little faith in the state or local police of this rustic town, in McGraw’s private security force of old soldiers and retired policemen, or in the FBI, and he was well aware that the secret service agents would confine their vigilance to the immediate safety of the president. The protection of Victor Tremont and the Hades Project rested on his shoulders.

  His eyes were hooded as they continued to work the crowd. In the cold twilight, the pocks in the tall man’s skin seemed deeper in the hollows of his face. He inhaled the pungent odor of wood smoke carried in the cold evening air. The scent reminded him of his nomadic youth around the campfires of northern Iraq. Those were not memories he cared to dwell on. He had come far from those poor beginnings, and the Hades Project would be the culmination of his long escape. No one was going to stop his success.

  As he thought that, he saw them.

  Smith had disguised himself in bulky hunting pants, a plaid hunting coat, and a ragged black mustache. The CIA woman wore a gray dress, hair darkened with shoe polish, and a straw hat. But they could not hide from him.

  He whispered to McGraw and started forward, fighting the crowd. Excitement spread through him.

  5:16 P.M.

  Lake Magua

  His eyes haggard, his back bent, his face so close to the keyboard his sweat dripped onto the keys, Marty battled to overcome the last barrier and assume control of the cable transmission. He had long since ceased to mutter and cry out. He had lapsed into a deep and determined silence as he struggled.