take me to Jon.”
Marty's round face was anguished as he admitted, “I'm not sure where he is.”
Griffin swore. “Wait. Okay, think. Where could he be? You must've arranged somewhere to meet. You're some kind of genius. Geniuses always think of things like that.”
Marty was suddenly suspicious. “How did you find me?” He had never liked Bill Griffin. Bill had been a loudmouth and know-it-all back when they had been in school together, even though ? at least in Marty's opinion ? Bill was really just above average. Plus, Bill had vied with Marty for Jon's attention. Marty cringed back against the wall. “You could be one of them!”
“I am one of them. By now, Jon knows it, too. But he's in a lot more danger than he thinks, and I don't want him killed. I've got to help him.”
Marty wanted to help Jon, too, which made him want to trust Griffin. But could he? How could he be sure?
Griffin studied Marty. “Look, I'm going to get you out of here safely. Will you believe me then and tell me where you were supposed to meet Jon? We'll go there together.”
Marty cocked his head. His gaze grew sharp and analytical. “All right.” It was a simple matter, he told himself. If he decided he did not trust Griffin, he would simply lie.
“Good. Come on.”
“Can't. They chained me to the wall.” Forlornly, Marty held up his hands and shook his right leg. Thin, strong chains were attached to brackets on the wall. Each was secured by a powerful padlock.
“I should've suspected something like this when they didn't leave someone behind to guard you.”
“It's been unpleasant,” Marty admitted.
“I'll bet.” He got out his picklocks once more and quickly opened the padlocks.
As Marty rubbed his wrists and ankles, Griffin whistled low for the Doberman.
The dog padded toward them, his back nose high and sniffing.
“Friend,” Griffin said to the dog and touched Marty. “Good. Protect.”
With amazing patience, the usually nervous Marty swung his legs off the cot and sat quietly as the powerful Doberman smelled his clothes, his hands, and his feet.
As the big animal stepped back, Marty asked, “Does he have a name?”
“Samson.”
“Suits him,” Marty decided. “A big bruiser of a dog.”
“That he is.” Griffin ordered, “Scout.”
Samson trotted out into the corridor, looked both ways, and angled off toward the stairs.
“Come on,” Griffin said.
Griffin helped Marty until he was out of the room, and then Marty shook him off. With Griffin in the lead and Marty half-running in his usual rolling gate, they moved quickly up the stairs and through the deserted corridors to the rear door where Griffin had parked his car. Marty's brain was working at full speed now, and his emotions were ratcheted to a fine pitch. He had mixed emotions about Bill Griffin, but at least Griffin had gotten him out of that disgusting dungeon.
As Griffin paused at the door, Marty grabbed his arm and whispered, “Look. A moving shadow.” He pointed out the small side window.
The Doberman's head was up, alert, his ears rotating as he listened. Griffin gave a hand signal that told the Doberman to stay. At the same time, he pulled Marty down. They hunched together on the floor.
Griffin spoke in a husky whisper. “It's just one of the security guards. He was clocking in at a key station. He'll be gone in three minutes. Okay?”
“You don't have to ask my permission, if that's what you mean,” Marty said tartly. He was definitely feeling better.
Griffin raised his eyebrows. He pulled himself up and looked out the window. He nodded to Marty. “Let's go.” As soon as Marty was on his feet, Griffin pushed him outside. The Doberman ran ahead toward the red Jeep Cherokee. Bill pulled open the door, and Samson leaped in. Marty clambered aboard while Griffin slid behind the steering wheel.
As Griffin turned on the motor, he ordered, “Get down on the floor.”
Marty had been through enough emergencies in the past week that he no longer objected when someone who understood the unfathomable world of violence told him what to do. He crouched on the floor in the back. Samson sat above him on the seat. Marty reached out a tentative hand. When the muscular dog dipped his head and slid his nose under it, Marty smiled and patted the warm muzzle.
“Nice doggie,” he cooed.
Griffin drove swiftly away, breathing deeply with relief. Another security guard waved as he sped out of the compound, and he waved back. It had been less than twenty minutes since he had returned, and he felt confident no one would remember his earlier departure. Now he concentrated on one goal: reaching Jon before Randi Russell could kill him.
“Okay, we're out. Now where do we go?”
“Syracuse. I'll tell the rest when we get there.”
Griffin nodded. “We'll have to fly. Rent a car there.”
But in his haste and relief, he had forgotten about the vital third guard, who had been hidden in a stand of poplars. As the guard watched the Cherokee disappear down the road, he spoke quietly into a cellphone. “Mr. Tremont? He's taken the bait. He's busted that Zellerbach guy out, and they're driving out of here. Yes, sir. We planted the tracking device, we've got the airport covered, and Chet's waiting at the country road.”
CHAPTER FORTY TWO
“Dammit all!” Peter Howell's wiry frame was bent over his computer as he stared in frustration at the glowing monitor. “There's precious little in Blanchard company's files about the veterinarian serum or the monkey virus. What there is looks bloody completely on the up-and-up.” As the wind blew through the RV's broken windows, he ran his gnarled brown hand through his gray hair in disgust.
“Nothing about tests on humans?” Smith was sitting on the sofa nearby, his arms crossed over his chest, his legs extended. He had been dozing as Peter had searched for information. The Beretta was tucked into his belt, easily reachable.
“Or Iraq?” Beside him, Randi stretched. She had been sleeping, too, until Peter's loud curse had jerked her awake. Suddenly she was aware of Jon and how closely they were sitting together. She adjusted her weight, tactfully putting more space between them. Her Uzi was beneath the sofa, just behind her heels. When she tapped back, she could feel its comforting hardness.
“Not a syllable,” Peter growled as he continued to stare intently at the screen. “I suppose it's possible we're on the wrong track ? that Blanchard's clean as a boatswain's whistle and they don't have the virus. That their serum is simply what it looks like ? a fortuitous coincidence.”
“Oh, please.” Randi shook her head in disbelief.
“That doesn't explain the initial twelve human test subjects,” Jon said. “Whoever set that experiment in motion ten years ago had the virus then and the serum last year to cure the Iraqis and then, last week, the three Americans.”
They considered some other explanation for the experiment.
“There must be another set of records.” Peter rotated in his chair. He gave them a baleful look and scratched his leathery cheek.
“Unless they just didn't keep written records,” Randi suggested.
“Impossible,” Smith disagreed. “Research scientists have to keep notes, results, speculations, every piece of paper, each bit of an idea, or they can't move forward in their work. Besides, their supervisors have to monitor progress, set goals, and go after funding, and their bookkeepers have to keep accurate financial accountings.”
