“Mart!” Smith grabbed his shoulder.
Marty whirled like a wild animal, teeth bared. And saw Smith. He suddenly collapsed in upon himself, drooping limp in his chair. He stared up with anguish. “Nothing! Nothing. I've found nothing. Nothing! ”
“That's okay, Marty,” Smith said in a soothing voice. “What didn't you find? Bill Griffin's address?”
“Not a trace. I was so close, Jon. Then nothing. The phone calls, too. I'm in my computer, using my own software. Just another step. It's there, I know it! So close?”
“We knew it was a long shot. What about the virus? Anything new at Fort Detrick?”
“Oh, I had that in minutes. Officially, there have now been fifteen deaths and three survivals here in America.”
Smith jerked alert. “More deaths? Where? And survivors? How? What kind of treatment?”
“No details. Had to break through a brand-new security wall to find what I did. The Pentagon has all its data shut down, except to me.” He chortled. “No information to the public except through the military.”
“That's why we didn't hear about the survivors. Can you locate them?”
“I haven't seen a whisper of who they are or where they are. Sorry, Jon!”
“Not at Detrick or the Pentagon?”
“No, no. Neither place. Terrible. I think those Pentagon bandits are keeping the information off- system!”
Smith thought rapidly. His first instinct had been to find the survivors and try to get close enough to interview them. It seemed like the easiest, most direct route.
The reason the government had shut down the information was probably to avoid panicking people ? standard operating procedure ? and the situation was likely a lot worse than fifteen deaths. Scientists would be studying the three survivors around the clock to find answers before going public. Which meant every possible American human and technological security would be assigned.
Inwardly he sighed, frustrated. No way was he or even Peter Howell going to get past that.
Besides, the survivors would be the first place army intelligence, the FBI, and the murderers would expect him to go. They would be waiting. He inhaled and nodded. There was no choice. The only survivors he had a chance to reach were in Iraq. That locked-down country did not expect him, and they did not have the technological wizardry of the U.S. government. His best and fastest hope of finding out what was behind all this was to go there.
Marty was saying excitedly, “There! Almost got you! Just another minute.”
Smith came out of his reverie to see him screaming at the console, hunched toward the screen like a hunter who sees his prey only a few feet ahead.
Fear tightened Smith's chest. Suddenly the mechanics of what Marty was doing made terrible sense. He snapped, “How long have you been connected to your computer in Washington?”
Howell appeared in the doorway. His wiry body went rigid. “He's been online through his own computer?”
“How long, Mart?” Smith repeated tensely.
Marty came out of his thrilled trance. He blinked and checked the time on the screen. “An hour, perhaps two. But it's fine. I'm using a series of relays all over the world, just as we're supposed to. Besides, it's my own computer. I?”
Smith swore. “They know where your computer is! They could be in your bungalow right now, inside your computer, teasing you on! Was the trail through the telephone company there the first time you cracked in?”
“Heck, no! I located a whole new path. I found a new one for Bill Griffin, too, but that led nowhere. This one in the phone company keeps opening up to new avenues. I know I can?”
Peter Howell's voice was crisp. “Do they have people in California?”
“I'd bet the farm on it,” Smith told him.
“His meds are on the way.” Howell spun on his heel. “Your killers can trace the phone line to Lee Vining and to me. Not my real name, of course. They'll have to locate the cabin, get out here, find the road, and reach us. I'd say an hour at worst. With luck two. We'd be wise to be away in less than one.”
CHAPTER TWENTY THREE
Victor Tremont adjusted his dinner jacket and straightened his black tie in the mirror of his suite in the Waldorf-Astoria tower. Behind him, still stretched naked on the rumpled bed, was Mercedes O'Hara. She was beautiful ? all curves and lush, golden skin.
She fixed her dark eyes on him in the mirror. “I do not like to be hung in the bedroom closet with the suits until you decide I am to be used again, Victor.”
Tremont scowled into the mirror. Neither patient nor reserved, the tall woman with the cascade of red hair falling across her breasts had been a mistake. Tremont rarely made that misjudgment. In fact, he could think of only one other time. That woman had killed herself when he had told her he would never marry her.
“I have a meeting, Mercedes. We'll go to dinner when I get back. The table is reserved at Le Cheval, your favorite. If that doesn't suit you, leave.”
Mercedes would not kill herself. The Chilean woman owned extensive vineyards and a world-renowned winery in the Maipo Valley, sat on the boards of two mining companies and in the Chilean parliament, and had been a cabinet minister and would be again. But like all women, she demanded too much of his time and sooner or later would insist on marriage. None understood he did not need or want a companion.
“So?” She continued to observe from where she reclined on the bed. “No promises? One woman is the same as another. We are all a nuisance. Victor can love only Victor.”
Tremont found himself annoyed. “I wouldn't say?”
“No,” she interrupted, “that would require for you to understand.” She sat up on the bed, swung her long legs over the edge, and stood. “I think I am tired of you, Dr. Tremont.”
He stopped adjusting his black tie and watched in disbelief as she strode to her clothes and dressed without looking at him again. A surge of unexpected anger took hold of him. Who did she think she was? Such disgusting arrogance. With a powerful effort he repressed his rage. He returned to arranging his tie and smiled at her in the mirror.
“Don't be ridiculous, my dear. Go and have a cocktail. Put on that green evening gown that makes you look so wonderful. I'll meet you at Le Cheval in an hour. Two at the most.”
Dressed in the black Armani suit that made her red hair flame, she laughed. “You are such a sad man, Victor. And such a fool.”
Before he could respond, she had walked out of the bedroom, still laughing.
He heard the outer suite door slam.
Rage swept down over him like a mountain avalanche, and he felt himself actually shake. He took two swift steps toward the open bedroom door. No one laughed at Victor Tremont. No one! A woman. He would… would ?
His face burned as if he had a fever. His fists clenched at his sides as if he were still a schoolboy.
Then he gave a short laugh. What the hell was he doing? The stupid woman.
She had saved him the tedium of correcting his mistake. He had thought this one was intelligent, but, in the end, none was. With relief, he saw now there would be no dramatic and tearful scenes of abandonment. He would not have to give her any expensive farewell gifts. She would walk away with nothing. Who was the fool now?
Grinning broadly, he returned to the mirror, finished adjusting his tie, smoothed his dinner jacket, took one last appraising glance at himself, and turned to leave the room for his meeting. Before he reached the door, his private cell phone rang. He hoped it was al-Hassan with news of Jon Smith and Marty Zellerbach.
“Well?”
The Arab's voice was reassuring. “Zellerbach connected to his own computer to continue searching for the Russell woman's phone call to you. Xavier held him on long enough for McGraw to trace him to Lee Vining,
