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.
___________________
CHAPTER
THIRTY FIVE
___________________
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."
"Them?" This was even better than he had hoped. "Zellerbach and the Englishman are there, too?"
Al-Hassan's smile faded. "Unfortunately, no. He was accompanied by some CIA agent. A woman we believe was working underground there."
Inwardly, Tremont swore. An additional complication. "Whatever Smith has learned, she'll know by now. Destroy her. What about the other two?"
"We will have them soon. Zellerbach and the Englishman were discovered early this morning by our person inside USAMRIID---"
"This morning?" Tremont scowled angrily. "Why wasn't I told?"
Al-Hassan dropped his gaze. "Our agent at Detrick was alone at first and too involved following them. When Maddux and his men took over, they were kept so busy simply maintaining contact with this Howell that they had no chance to call. I received the full report only an hour ago. I have castigated him and impressed on him the need to keep me completely informed." Al-Hassan described Peter Howell's break-in search, Marty Zellerbach's downloading of Sophia's file, and the pair's subsequent trip to Princeton. "Maddux reports they have driven north and are now outside Syracuse."
Tremont paced across his office, thinking. Then he understood: "Zellerbach and Howell must be backtracking Sophia Russell's history." He paused, furious. "'They could learn about her undergraduate trip to Peru and, from that, about her relationship with me." He glared, controlling his anger. He prided himself on his understanding of human nature, and as he stared at the Arab he reminded himself that this enigmatic man from another land was all that stood between him and discovery by Jonathan Smith and his allies. Inwardly he nodded: Yes, he had to make certain al-Hassan succeeded in destroying Smith. Suddenly he an idea: "You should have stopped them long ago, Nadal. You've failed me."
Just as Tremont had hoped, the hatchet-faced al-Hassan winced. The Arab stood motionless and silent, not quite able to speak, and Tremont had a sense of the man's discomfort, almost humiliation, because he had failed. This was exactly the reaction on which Tremont had been counting.
Al-Hassan's voice was flinty. "It will not happen again, Dr. Tremont." He straightened, and respect radiated from him. "I have a plan." He left the office as silently as death itself.
__________
8:21 P.M.
Near Syracuse, New York
Dressed again in his black SAS uniform but without the hood or equipment belt, Peter pensively mulled everything over as he drove the big RV along the dark highway toward the distant twinkling lights of Syracuse. Behind him, Marty worked intently on the computer. The virus's sudden explosion across the world terrified both men. They must find something that clicked with the Prince Leopold report in Syracuse, or Marty had to turn up Sophia's missing phone calls or Bill Griffin's hideout.
They had heard nothing from Jon. This did not surprise Peter, but it concerned him. It could mean Jon was in trouble and unable to get back to the embassy in Baghdad, or it could mean nothing at all.
Soon after they had left Princeton, Peter had the uneasy sense they were being followed. To be certain, he had driven a circuitous route on secondary roads from New Jersey into New York. Well inside the state, he entered the thruway. If there had been a tail, he figured he should have exposed or lost it by now. Still, the uneasiness would not leave. These people were experienced and skillful.
Twice he pulled off at rest stops to search the RV's exterior for a tracking device. He found none. But the concern persisted, and he had learned long ago to trust his feelings. That was why he exited the thruway early to take the slower but less traveled back roads into Syracuse itself.
For the first five miles he saw only occasional lights behind, and those vehicles had driven straight on when he pulled off to watch. He had changed direction more than once, going west for a time, then south, then east, then back north, and finally west again toward the city. Now he was driving through the outer suburbs. Since he had still seen no evidence of surveillance, he began to relax.
The sky was starry and black, with charcoal clouds low and ominous beneath the moon. To their right, a woodsy state park extended along the road, its split-rail fence like ghostly broken bones in the night. The park appeared to be densely forested, with picnic tables and fireplaces dotting open areas. There was little traffic at this hour.
Then from out of nowhere a gray pickup passed the RV at high speed. It pulled in front, its brake lights instantly glowed blood red, and it slowed, forcing Peter to hit his own brakes. Peter instantly checked his rearview mirror. High headlights were closing in fast. It had to be another truck or SUV. Right on the RV's tail.
Peter called out, "Hold on, Marty!"
"What are you up to now?" Marty complained.
"Pickup in front. SUV or pickup in back. Bastards think they're going to trap us like chopped liver in a sandwich."
Marty's round face flushed pink. "Oh." He instantly locked down the computer, tightened his seatbelt, and gamely grabbed the table, which was bolted into the RV's frame. He steeled himself and sighed. "I suppose I'm actually growing accustomed to these emergencies."
Peter pumped the brake and yanked the steering wheel right. The left wheels tilted up like a yacht in a high wind. Marty let out a surprised yell. The RV skidded on the two others, landed hard, and tore into the lighted picnic grounds. Behind them, brakes shrieked and rubber burned. The high headlights bounced across grass, roared over a sapling, and bla
sted through brush to emerge again on the park road. The gray pickup was close behind.
Marty watched through the windows, his heart palpitating with fear. Still, he was riveted by the spectacle. Although the Englishman was intellectually inferior, he had an uncanny ability where anything physical, particularly violence, was concerned.
Robert Ludlum - CO 1 - The Hades Factor Page 31