worked hard and long for more than a decade, had risked their professions and livelihoods on this one visionary gamble, and none had any intention of losing the riches that were now within reach.
“Unfortunately,” Tremont went on, “we were unsuccessful in doing the same to her fiance and research partner. He escaped us, and it's possible she had time to speak to him before she died.”'
Jack McGraw understood. “That's why al-Hassan is here. I knew something was up.”
Tremont shook his head. “Don't make more of this than there is. I sent for al-Hassan to report on how we stood. While I have the most to lose, we're all in it together.”
The silence in the room was louder than any noise.
Xavier broke it. “Okay. Let's hear what he's got to say.”
The fire had died down to glowing coals and a few flickering flames. Tremont moved to the side of the stone fireplace. He pressed a button in the carved mantlepiece. First Nadal al-Hassan and then Bill Griffin entered the cavernous room. Al-Hassan joined Victor Tremont before the fireplace, while Griffin remained unobtrusive in the background. Al-Hassan related details of Sophia Russell's call to Tremont, her death, and his removal of everything that could connect the virus to the Hades Project. He described Jonathan Smith's reactions. He detailed Griffin's blackmailing of Lily Lowenstein and the subsequent erasure of all electronic evidence.
“Nothing remains to connect us to Russell or the virus,” al-Hassan finished, “unless she told Colonel Smith.”
Jack McGraw growled, “That's a pretty damn big `unless.' ”
“That is what I think,” al-Hassan agreed. “Something has made Smith suspicious that her death was not an accident. He has been investigating vigorously, ignoring his share of the scientific work on the virus itself.”
“Can he find us?” the accountant, George, asked nervously.
“Anyone can find anyone if they look long enough and hard enough. That is why I think we must eliminate him.”
Victor Tremont nodded to the rear of the room. “But you don't agree, Griffin?”
Everyone rotated to stare at the former FBI man, who was leaning against a wall behind them. Bill Griffin was thinking about Jon Smith. He had done his damnedest to warn his friend off. He had used his old FBI credentials to learn from Jon's office that he was out of town, and then he had gone through a Rolodex of agencies acquiring one bit of information after another until he had finally uncovered which conference Jon was attending and, from there, where in London he had been staying.
So as his canny gaze swept the five who stared at him, he did what he had to do to save himself, while trying to distract the heat from Jon: He shrugged, noncommittal. “Smith's been working so hard to find out what happened to the Russell woman that I think she must've told him nothing about Peru or us. Otherwise, he'd likely be here right now, knocking on the door to talk to you, Mr. Tremont. But our mole inside USAMRIID says Smith's stopped investigating her death and is back concentrating on the virus with the team. He's even flying to California tomorrow to do the routine interviews with the family and friends of Major Anderson.”
Tremont nodded thoughtfully. “Nadal?”
“Our contact in Detrick says General Kielburger ordered Smith to California, but he refused,” al-Hassan reported. “Later he volunteered to go, and that is a very different matter. I believe he is seeking corroboration in California for what he already suspects.”
Griffin said, “He's a doctor, so he was at the autopsy. No big deal. They found nothing. There's nothing to suspect. You've taken care of everything.”
“We do not know what Smith found at the autopsy,” al-Hassan said.
Griffin grimaced. “Kill him, then. That solves one problem. But every new murder increases the danger of questions and discovery. Especially the murder of Dr. Russell's fiance and research partner. And especially if he's already told General Kielburger about the attacks on him in D.C.”
“To wait could be too late,” al-Hassan insisted.
The silence in the room seemed heavy enough to crush the lodge itself. The conspirators glanced at one another and settled their uneasy gazes on their aristocratic leader, Victor Tremont.
He paced slowly in front of the fire, a frown creasing his forehead.
At last he decided, “Griffin could be right. Better we not risk another killing involving the Detrick staff so soon.”
Again they looked at one another. This time they nodded. Nadal alHassan watched the silent vote, then he moved his hooded eyes to study Bill Griffin where the ex-FBI agent lurked in the room's shadows.
“Well,” Tremont said, smiling, “that's settled. We'd better get some sleep. With final plans to make, tomorrow will be a busy day.” He shook each man's hand warmly, the gracious host and leader, as they exited the imposing living room.
Al-Hassan and Griffin were last.
Victor Tremont gestured them to him. “Watch Smith carefully. I don't want him to shave without your knowing when, where, and how close.” He looked down at the glowing coals of the fire as if they were oracles for the future. Suddenly he lifted his head. Al-Hassan and Griffin were just turning away to leave. He called them back.
When they stood close in front of him, he said in a low, hard voice, “Don't misunderstand me, gentlemen. If Dr. Smith proves to be trouble, of course he has to be purged. Life is a balance of risk and security, victory and loss. What we might lose in a few pointed questions about the coincidences of his and his fiancee's deaths could prove to be more than offset by stopping him from revealing the circumstances of her death.”
“If he's really digging around.”
Tremont aimed his analytical gaze at Bill Griffin. “Yes, if. It's your job to discover that, Mr. Griffin.” His voice was abruptly cold, a warning. “Don't disappoint me.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
The C-130 transport from Andrews Air Force Base touched down at the Southern California Logistical Airport near Victorville at 1012 on a warm, windy morning. A military police Humvee met Smith on the runway.
“Welcome to California, sir,” the driver greeted Smith as he grabbed his bag and held the vehicle's door open.
“Thanks, Sergeant. Are we driving to Irwin?”
“To the helicopter landing area, sir. There's a chopper from Irwin waiting for you there.”
The driver heaved Smith's bag into the rear, climbed behind the wheel, and careened off across the tarmac. Smith hung on as the big combat vehicle bounced across ruts and potholes until it reached a waiting helicopter ambulance marked with the logo of the Eleventh Armored Cavalry Regiment ? a rearing black stallion on a diagonal red-and-white field. Its rotors were already pivoting for takeoff.
An older man wearing the gold leaf of a major and a medical caduceus stepped out from beneath the long blades. He held out his hand and shouted, “Dr. Max Behrens, Colonel. Weed Army Hospital.”
An enlisted man took Smith's bag, and they climbed into the vibrating ambulance chopper. It lurched into the air and banked at a steep angle, low across the desert. Smith looked down as they passed over two-lane highways and the buildings of small towns. Soon they were following the broad four lanes of Interstate 15.
Dr. Behrens leaned toward him to yell over the wind and noise “We've kept close watch on all units on the base, and no other cases of the virus have appeared.”
Smith said loudly, “Mrs. Anderson and the others ready to talk with me?”
“Yessir. Family, friends, everyone you need. The colonel of OPFOR said you're to have anything you want, and he'd be glad to speak with you himself if that'd help.”
“OPFOR?”
Behrens grinned. “Sorry, forgot you've been at Detrick awhile. That's our mission ? Opposing Force. What the Eleventh Cav does here is act the role of enemy to all the regiments and brigades that come through for field training. We give them one hell of a hard time. It entertains us and makes them better soldiers.”
