“Also the government,” Haldane said furiously. “Nancy Petrelli. She's Health and Human Services. And there's Congressman Ben Sloat.”
Marty was still searching. “These seem to be year-by-year statistics of progress on the project. Reports of operations, I guess.” He paused. “Here are data about antibiotic shipments.”
Jon and Haldane leaned closer.
Haldane was surprised. “Those are Blanchard antibiotics. All of them. And the figures appear to be our total shipments for each year.”
Puzzled, they read on until Smith suddenly inhaled sharply. He stood up, radiating rage. “That's it!” His face was tight, his high cheekbones prominent under the harsh overhead fluorescent lights. His dark blue eyes had blackened into bottomless pits. He seemed to be fighting disbelief, violence, and grief.
Mercer Haldane looked up, and Randi turned to stare.
“What is it, my boy?” Peter had been sitting off to the side, weary and in pain, but the look on Jon's face had snapped him out of his exhaustion.
Jon's voice was arctic. “Marty, print it out. All of it. Start with the corporate progress reports. And do it fast!”
“Jon?” Randi was watching his drawn face and empty eyes. He was worrying her. “What does it mean?”
Everyone focused on him. The lab was silent as his gaze slowly took in the test tubes, microscopes, and benches where so much despicable work had been done over the past decade. His chest burned, and his stomach felt as if a Mack truck had just slammed into it. He began to talk.
CHAPTER FORTY SIX
Jon's voice was hoarse, and he spoke slowly, as if he had to make certain he was precise in each word. “Those antibiotic shipments of Blanchard's tell the story. Remember when I explained that the virus isn't very contagious? So that led me to the question of how so many millions of people could get so terribly sick and die at about the same time. The answer is what we guessed ― Victor Tremont.” He hesitated. His hands balled into fists at his sides. He growled, “The bastard shipped the virus across the world in all of Blanchard's antibiotics. Antibiotics that were meant to cure people were also infecting them with an untreatable, deadly illness.” His eyes were haunted. “Tremont and his gang set it all in motion ten years ago. The Hades Project. For a decade he's been contaminating Blanchard's antibiotics to infect millions even though he knew he might never have a cure when the virus went into its fatal stages!”
“Bloody hell,” Peter said, his voice unbelieving.
Jon went on as if he had not heard. “They sent the virus out to create an epidemic that'd start ten years later, working to change the virus so that every year it would mutate into its lethal stage earlier and earlier. All so it would turn lethal to millions and millions this year, and they could cure it and make billions of dollars in profit. That was before they could know whether they'd ever have a serum, or that it'd be effective enough, or that it'd be stable and could be even shipped. They condemned millions of people to certain death on the gamble they could make them pay to save their lives.”
Randi shook her head, shocked. “It was all so Blanchard and Tremont could make billions of dollars. Get rich. Live well.” Her voice broke. “That's why Sophia died. She was in Peru and must've met Tremont there. That's the missing phone call. When she started studying the unknown virus, she remembered something, and she called Tremont. No wonder he had to stop her investigation.”
Jon looked at Randi as tears slid down her cheeks. His eyes grew moist and his throat thickened. She reached out and took his hand. He nodded and squeezed hers.
Haldane stood up, trembling with the horror of it. “Great Lord. I never imagined anything so obscene. All those poor sick people who needed our antibiotics. Trusting science and medicine to ease their suffering. Trusting Blanchard.”
Jon turned on the former CEO in fury. “How much were you going to make, Haldane, before your sudden change of heart?”
“What?” Haldane blinked at him. His wrinkled face became as angry as Jon's. “Victor forged my name. He tricked me! He made it look as if I'd approved everything. What was I supposed to do? He had me cornered, powerless. He was going to take my company. I deserved something! I―” He stopped as if hearing his own words, and he fell back down onto the stool. His voice dropped in shame. “I didn't know then what he'd done, how horrible the consequences would be. When I saw what it meant, I couldn't stay silent.” He laughed a derisive laugh at himself. “Too little, too late. That's what they'll say. As greedy as the rest, he found too little conscience, too late.”
“Sounds about right,” Jon said in revulsion. He turned his back on Haldane to face Peter and Randi. “We've got to―”
“Jon!” The cry was so loud and appalled that everyone whirled to its source. All but forgotten in the horror of the revelation, Marty had continued working the keyboard and peering at the screen. “They never stopped. Oh, no, no, no. They've not only put the virus in the antibiotics every year since, they're still doing it! It says here a shipment of contaminated medicine will go out today at the same time as the first antiviral serum shipment!”
A thunderous silence filled the room. They looked at one anotherJon, Randi, Marty, Peter, and Mercer Haldane ― as if they had not heard correctly. Could not have.
Jon's voice was stunned. “He's creating a pandemic that will go on and on.”
Randi added, “And make a nuclear bomb seem like a child's toy.”
Peter's pale blue eyes pierced the lab. He gripped his injured arm as if the pain had suddenly increased. “Then we must mess up the arsehole's plans.”
“We'd better hurry.” Marty was still reading from the computer screen. “Blanchard will have a little over two billion dollars in payments wired electronically from many countries as well as America the instant the first shipment leaves the plant.” He swiveled around. His eyes snapped with outrage. “And your Victor Tremont appears to have recently opened a bank account in the Bahamas. Probably in case of an unexpected emergency, wouldn't you think?”
“So if we don't stop him today,” Randi said, “another shipment of the virus goes out, and Tremont probably flies the coop with a billion dollars or so.”
“But how?” Mercer Haldane groaned, seeing any chance for redemption in the pages of history vanishing. “Victor gets the medal, and the shipment goes out in an hour! And the president will be at Blanchard with the secret service and FBI and every policeman the state and village can spare.”
Jon nodded. “The president!” A plan was forming in his mind. “That's how we stop Tremont. We show the president what he's done.”
“If we can get to him,” Randi said.
“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 s
ee 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 M16s, 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 again, “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.
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