Another touch of the remote opened a trapdoor hidden under the tub. His chest tight with fear, he climbed down the ladder past the house's crawl space and into a well-lighted tunnel. With two clicks of his remote, the door closed above him and, out of his view, the tub lowered back into place.
Marty inhaled, relieved. In his rolling gait, he swayed and bumped along to another trapdoor overhead.
Seconds later he emerged in a nearly identical bungalow he also owned on the next street. This one was unmodified and empty. It was a deserted house with a perpetual FOR SALE sign and nothing in it except a telephone. Behind him, across the hedge between the bungalows, he could hear curses and yelps of pain. But he also heard the telltale noise of glass shattering, and he knew the attackers would soon be inside his house, searching for his escape route.
Afraid, he grabbed the phone and dialed.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Georgetown University was founded by Jesuits in 1789, the first Roman Catholic university in the United States. Handsome eighteenth- and nineteenth-century buildings stood among the trees and cobbled lanes, reminders of a time when science knew little of viruses, but education was beginning to be seen as a solution to the violent problems of modern society. Through the window of Georgetown's faculty lounge, Smith thought about this as he admired the old campus under the big trees.
He said, “So you're on the faculty here?”
“Associate professor of history.” Marjorie Griffin shrugged sadly. “I suppose Bill never told you what I did. I was at NYU when we met. Then I applied down here.”
“He never talked much about his private life,” Smith admitted. “Mostly our work and shared past. The old days.”
Absentmindedly she stirred her tea. “The few times we saw each other recently, it wasn't even that much. Something's happened to Bill over the last few years. He's become silent, moody.”
“When did you last get together, Marjorie?”
“Twice in just the past few days. On Tuesday morning he appeared on my doorstep. And then again last night.” She drank tea. “He was nervous, edgy. He seemed worried about you. When he came inside, the first thing he did was go to the front windows and watch the street. I asked him what he was looking for, but he didn't answer. Suggested a cup of tea instead. He had brought a bag of croissants from the French bakery on M Street.”
“A spur-of-the-moment visit,” Smith guessed. “Why?”
Marjorie Griffin did not answer at once. Her face seemed to sag as she studied the parade of students outside the windows on the cobbled lane. “Touching base, maybe. I hate to think he was saying good-bye. But that could've been it.” She looked up at Smith. “I'd hoped you'd know.”
She was, Smith realized almost with a shock, a beautiful woman. Not like Sophia, no. A calm beauty. A certain serenity in herself and in who she was. Not passive, exactly, but not restlessly seeking either. She had dark gray eyes and black hair caught in a French knot at the nape of her neck. An easy style. Good cheekbones and a strong jawline. A body between thin and heavy. Smith felt a stirring, an attraction, and then it was gone. It died before it could do more than appear in a flash, unexpected and unwanted, immediately followed by a sharp stab of sorrow. A throb of anguish that was Sophia.
“Two days ago, almost three now,” he told her, “he warned me I was in danger.” He described the meeting in Rock Creek park, the attacks on him, the virus, and the death of Sophia. “Someone has the live virus, Marjorie, and they killed Sophia, Kielburger, and his secretary with it.”
“Good God.” Her fine face redrew itself in lines of horror.
“I don't know who or why, and they're trying to stop me from finding out. Bill's working with them.”
She covered her mouth with her hand. “No! That's not possible!”
“It's the only way he could've known to warn me. What I'm trying to figure out is whether he's undercover or with them on his own.” He hesitated. “His closest friend in the FBI says he isn't undercover.”
“Lonny Forbes. I always liked Lonny.” She pressed her lips together and shook her head sadly. “Bill's grown harder. More cynical. The last two times I saw him, something was really bothering him. It seemed to me it was about something he's not proud of but won't stop doing because of the way the world is.” She picked up her teacup, found it empty, and stared into it. “I'm just guessing about him, of course. I'll never marry again. I see a nice man now and then, but that's all it'll ever be. Bill was my great love. But his great love was his work, and somehow it failed him. What I do know is he feels betrayed. He's lost his faith, you could say.”
Smith understood. “In a world with no values except money, he wants his share. It's happened to others. Scientists who sell out for big bucks. Put a monetary value on eradicating disease, curing ills, saving lives. Unconscionable.”
“But he can't betray you,” Marjorie said. “So he's torn apart by the conflict.”
“He's already betrayed me. Sophia's dead.”
As she opened her mouth to protest, Smith's cell phone rang. Throughout the faculty lounge, annoyed heads turned.
Smith grabbed the phone from his pocket. “Yes?”
It was Marty, and he sounded both excited and terrified. “Jon, I always said the world was unsafe.” He paused and gasped. “Now I've proved it. Personally. There's a whole group of intruders. Well, four actually. They've broken into my house. If they find me, they'll kill me. This is your area of expertise. You've got to save me!”
Smith kept his voice low. “Where are you?”
“At my other house.” He gave the address. Suddenly his voice broke. It shook with terror. “Hurry!”
“I'm on my way.”
Smith apologized to Marjorie Griffin, scribbled his cell phone number for her, and asked her to call if Bill turned up again. He ran out of the lounge.
As Smith drove worriedly past Marty's house, he saw a gray van parked in the driveway. No one appeared to be in the van, and the high hedge and curtains hid the house's interior. He surveyed all around and saw nothing suspicious. There were the usual traffic noises. Smith scanned constantly for trouble as he continued on around the block and pulled into the driveway of a bungalow that was directly behind Marty's. In the front lawn stood a white metal FOR SALE sign rusting around the edges.
From the house's front window, a shade peeled upward, and Marty's frightened face peeked out just above the sill.
Smith ran to the front door.
Marty opened it, clutching a sheaf of papers and a remote control to his chest. “Come in. Hurry. Hurry.” He stared fearfully past. “If you were Florence Nightingale, I'd be dead by now. What took you so long?”
“If I were Florence Nightingale, I wouldn't be here. We'd be in different centuries.” Smith locked the door and scanned the empty room as Marty checked the front window. “Fill me in. Tell me everything that happened.”
Marty dropped the window shade and described the four strangers, their weapons, and their attempts to break in. Meanwhile, Smith strode through the house, checking locks on doors and windows, and Marty followed in his rolling gait. The drapes and curtains were drawn, and the rooms were shadowy with sunlight and dust motes. The place was empty, and as secure as any ordinary house could be. Which was not very.
At last Marty finished his story with a stream of speculations.
“You're right,” Smith said soberly, “they'll start searching the neighborhood soon.”
“Swell. Just what I wanted to hear.” Marty grinned weakly. It came out as a macabre grimace, but it was a brave try.
Smith squeezed his friend's shoulder, trying to keep the urgency from his voice. “How did they know about us, Marty? Did you tell anyone?”
