serum, an awful lot of their people are going to die everywhere. That's the simple answer.”
General Caspar nodded appreciatively. “Who dares, wins.”
“Ah, yes. The motto of the SAS.” Tremont nodded recognition to the general and added drily, “But I'd like to think we take our risks for much larger and more realistic rewards than a few medals and a pat on the back from the queen, eh?”
Tremont swung his leg as he watched the four wrestle with the enormity of it. Conscience makes cowards of us all. Shakespeare's words, or close enough, echoed through his mind. But screw your courage to the sticking point, we shall not fail. But it was not courage or Shakespeare that had made them accept the risk of the potential slaughter. Not at the beginning of the twenty-first century. It was power and wealth.
General Salonen said bluntly, “But none of us or our families will die. We have the serum.”
They had all thought it, but only Salonen had the bravery or perhaps the insensitivity to say it. Tremont continued to wait.
“How long until it begins?” Nancy Petrelli asked.
Tremont considered. “I'd say in three or four days the reality of a pandemic will strike the global conscience like a bolt of lightning.”
There was a murmur. Whether it was pity or greed it was hard to tell.
“When it does,” Tremont continued, “I want each of you to emphasize the danger to humanity. Hit the panic buttons. Then we make our announcement of the serum.”
“And ride to the rescue.” General Caspar gave a coarse laugh.
All their doubts vanished as the four conspirators united in their vision of the goal they had dreamed of for so long. It was close. Very close. Just on the other side of the horizon. For the moment, any fear of an opposition, of Bill Griffin's potential treachery, or of Jonathan Smith's determined investigation flew from their minds.
“Beautiful,” someone breathed.
CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR
“Oh, look!” Marty cried. “That's so beautiful!” He came to an abrupt halt in the hallway, turned, and his awkward body rolled and thumped into a dim, cavernous room near the back of Peter Howell's Sierra hideaway. He gazed transfixed at the opposite wall, his green eyes shining.
On the wall, about ten feet above the floor, transparent electronic maps glowed. Each nation was alight in a different color. Tiny blinking bulbs moved continuously across the maps. Rows of multicolored lights blazed after each name on a roster that hung next to the maps. Beneath it all, state-of-the-art computer equipment filled the wall. In the center of the room waited a leather-and-steel command chair. On either side of it stood a large globe and a file cabinet.
Smith studied the maps ? Iraq, Iran, Turkey, and the parts of all three that formed the historic land of the Kurds. Then there was East Timor. Colombia. Afghanistan. Southern Mexico and Guatemala. El Salvador. Israel. Rwanda. The hot spots of tribal conflict, ethnic strife, peasant revolt, religious militancy, popular insurgency.
“Your control room?” Jon asked Peter.
“Right.” Peter nodded. “Good to keep busy.”
It was more than any one private citizen should ? or could ? have. Obviously, Peter Howell was still working for somebody.
Marty rushed toward the computer installation. “I knew your PC had far too much power to be ordinary. It must be connected to this Goliath. It's gorgeous! I want maps like yours for my bungalow. You're monitoring activities in these countries, aren't you? Are you linked directly to centers in each one? You must show me what you're doing. How the maps are linked. How?”
“Not now, Mart.” Jon tried to be patient. “We're on our way out. We're evacuating, remember?”
Marty's face fell. “What's so important about leaving? I want to live in this room.” The sullen expression vanished. His round face was as alight as the maps above. “That's what I'm going to do! It's perfect. The whole world will come to me here. I'll never have to leave or?”
“We're leaving right now,” Jon said firmly, pushing him toward the door. “You could help us load, okay?”
“As long as we're here, I'll take my files.” Peter grabbed a stack of brown files from the top of the free- standing cabinet. As he walked out the door, he pressed a finger against the frame. Jon heard a quiet click. “You two take what food you like from the kitchen to tide us over a day or so. We'll need weapons and ammo, and the whiskey, of course.”
Jon nodded. “We have things in our car, too. How the hell do we carry it all?”
“Ah, trust me.”
A low crooning sound came from the control room. Marty had slipped away from Jon and now sat in Peter's power chair before the wall-sized console. He rocked from side to side, his gaze locked on the shifting array of lights on the transparent wall maps. He was beginning to understand what they all meant, how they interconnected. It was intriguing. He could almost feel the lights pulse in rhythm with his brain ?
Jon touched his shoulder. “Mart?”
“No!” He whirled as if bitten. “I'll never leave! Never! Never! Nev…”
Jon tried to hold him as he kicked and writhed. “He needs to go back on his meds, pronto,” he told Peter.
Wild with rage, Marty lashed out with his fists, swearing incoherencies. Jon gave up and grabbed him in a bear hug, lifted him so that his feet were off the floor, and moved him away from the console as he continued to kick and shout.
Peter frowned. “We don't have time for this.” He stepped forward and slugged Marty on the chin.
Marty's eyes widened, and then he collapsed in Jon's arms, unconscious.
Peter's wiry frame trotted back out into the hallway. “Bring him.”
Jon sighed. He had a feeling Marty and Peter were not going to get along. He picked up Marty, who had a peaceful expression on his round face. He dropped him over his shoulder and followed the ex-SAS trooper and MI6 agent through the rear door in the kitchen into what turned out to be a garage.
Parked and waiting was a medium-sized RV.
“There's another road,” Jon realized. “Of course, there has to be. You're not going to live anywhere where you know you're trapped.”
“Right. Never have only one way out. It's a dirt road. Not on the map, not maintained well, but it'll do. Stash Marty in the RV.”
Jon deposited Marty on one of the three bunk beds fastened in a stack in the back. The rest of the RV's interior was the usual ? kitchen, dining nook, bath, all in miniature, except for the living room. That was the heart of the vehicle. It was a compact version of the map-and-computer center from the house, complete with wall maps, console, and tiny colored lights that came to life as Jon watched.
“Adding a final boost to the batteries,” Peter said as Jon returned to the garage. The Brit had hooked up the RV to the house current.
For the next hour they carried food, whiskey, guns, and ammo from the house. While Jon packed it away, Peter vanished to make arrangements. Finally Marty moaned on the bunk and flopped one arm. At the same time, Jon heard the approaching engine of a low-flying aircraft.
He pulled out his Beretta and raced into the house.
“Relax,” Peter told him.
They went out front to stand together and look up at the mountain sky. A single-engine Cessna swooped low and roared over the cabin. A small steel tube dropped from it into the clearing. Moments later, Peter returned with the tube.
“The little man's medicine.”
Inside the RV, Jon sat the groaning Marty up on the bunk, gave him a pill and a glass of water, and watched
