and frowned. “How do you know Detrick's got a new virus? Is that what this is all about? You figure they told me all about it while I was away, and now you want to tap me for information?”
Griffin's face revealed nothing. He scrutinized the night. “Calm down, Jon.”
“Calm down?” Smith was incredulous. “Is the FBI so interested in this particular virus that they sent you to pump me in secret? That's damn stupid. Your director can call my director. That's the way these things are done.”
Griffin finally looked at Smith. “I don't work for the FBI anymore.”
“You don't…?” Smith stared into the steady eyes, but now there was nothing there. Bill Griffin's eyes, like the rest of his featureless face, had gone empty. The old Bill Griffin was gone, and for a moment Smith felt an ache in the pit of his stomach. Then his anger rose, every sensor of his military and virus-hunter experience sounding loudly. “What's so special about this new virus? And what do you want information for? Some sleazy tabloid?”
“I'm not working for any newspapers or magazines.”
“A congressional committee, then? Sure, what better for a committee looking to cut science funding than using an ex-FBI man!” Smith took a deep breath. He did not recognize this man whom he had once thought of as his best friend. Something had changed Bill Griffin, and Griffin was showing no signs of revealing any of it. Now Griffin seemed to want to use their friendship for his own ends. Smith shook his head. “No, Bill, don't tell me who or what you're working for. It doesn't matter. If you want to know about any viruses, go through army channels. And don't call me again unless you're my friend and nothing more.” Disgusted, he stalked away.
“Stay, Smithy. We need to talk.”
“Screw you, Bill.” Jon Smith continued toward the moonlight.
Griffin gave a low whistle.
Suddenly a large Doberman bounded in front of Jon Smith. Snarling, it spun to face him. Smith froze. The dog planted all four paws, lifted his muzzle, and growled long and deep. His sharp teeth glistened white and moist, so pointed that with one slash they could tear out a man's throat.
Smith's heart thundered. He stared unmoving at the dog.
“Sorry.” Griffin's voice behind him was almost sad. “But you asked if there was bad trouble. Well, there is ? but not for me.”
As the dog continued to make low growls of warning in his throat, Smith remained immobile, except for his face. He sneered in contempt. “You're saying I'm in some kind of trouble? Give me a break.”
“Yes.” Griffin nodded. “That's exactly what I'm saying, Smithy. That's why I wanted to meet. But it's all I can tell you. You're in danger. Real danger. Get the hell out of town, fast. Don't go back to your lab. Get on a plane and?”
“What are you talking about? You know damn well I'd never do that. Run away from my work? Damn. What's happened to you, Bill?”
Griffin ignored him. “Listen to what I'm saying! Call Detrick. Tell the general you need a vacation. A long vacation. Out of the country. Do it now, and get as far away as possible. Tonight!”
“That won't cut it. Tell me what's so special about this virus. What danger am I in? If you want me to act, I've got to know why.”
“For Christ's sake!” Griffin exclaimed, losing his temper. “I'm trying to help. Go away. Go fast! Take your Sophia.”
Before he had finished speaking, the growling Doberman abruptly lifted his front paws off the path and whirled, landing ninety degrees south. His gaze indicated the far side of the park.
Griffin said softly, “Visitors, boy?” He gave a hand signal, and the dog raced into the trees. Griffin turned on Smith and exploded, “Get out of here, Jon! Go. Now!” He dashed after the Doberman, a stocky shadow moving with incredible speed.
Man and dog vanished among the thick trees of the dark park.
For a moment Smith was stunned. Was it for him Bill was afraid or for himself? Or for both of them? It appeared his old friend had taken a great risk to warn him and to ask him to do what neither would have once considered ? abandon job and accountability.
To go this far, Bill's back had to be slammed up against a very unyielding wall.
What in God's name was Bill Griffin mixed up in?
A shiver shot up Smith's spine. A pulse at his temple began to throb. Bill was right. He was in danger, at least here in this dark park. Old habits resettled themselves on him like a long-forgotten cloak. His senses grew acute, and he expertly surveyed the trees and lawns.
He sprinted away along the edge of the dark trees while his mind continued to work. He had assumed the way Bill had found him was through FBI channels, but Bill was no longer in the FBI.
Smith's stay at the Wilbraham Hotel had been known only to his fiancee, to his boss, and to the clerk who had made his travel arrangements at Fort Detrick. No way would any of them have revealed his whereabouts to a stranger, no matter how convincing the stranger was.
So how had Bill ? a man who claimed to be out of government ? managed to learn where he had been staying in London?
An unlighted black limousine lurked in the shadow of the old mill near the Tilden Street entrance to Rock Creek park. Alone in the backseat sat Nadal al-Hassan, a tall man with a dark face as narrow and sharp as a hatchet. He was listening to his subordinate, Steve Maddux, who leaned inside the window, reporting.
Maddux had been running, and his face was red and sweaty. “If Bill Griffin's in that park, Mr. al-Hassan, he's a goddamn ghost. All I saw was the army doc taking a walk.” He breathed hard, trying to catch his breath.
Inside the luxury car, the bones and hollows of the tall man's face were deeply pocked, the mark of a rare survivor of the once-dreaded smallpox. His black eyes were hooded, cold, and expressionless. “I have told you before, Maddux, you will not blaspheme while you work for me.”
“Hey, sorry. Okay? Jesus Chr-”
Like a cobra striking, the tall man's arm snaked out, and his long fingers clamped on Maddux's throat.
Maddux went pasty with fear, and he made strangling sounds as he bit off the curse. Still, the unsaid syllables hung in the darkness through an ominous silence. Finally, the hand on his throat relaxed a fraction. Sweat dripped off Maddux's forehead.
The eyes inside the car were like mirrors, glistening surfaces no one could see behind. The voice was deceptively quiet. “You wish to die so soon?”
“Hey,” the scared man said hoarsely, “you're a Muslim. What's wrong with?”
“All the prophets are sacred. Abraham, Moses, Jesus. All!”
“Okay, okay! I mean, Jes-” Maddux quaked as the claw tightened on his throat. “How'm I s'posed to know that?”
For another instant, the fingers squeezed. Then the tall man let go. His arm withdrew. “Perhaps you are right. I expect too much from stupid Americans. But you know now, yes, and you will not forget again.” It wasn't a question.
Wheezing, Maddux gasped, “Sure, sure, Mr. al-Hassan. Okay.”
The sharp-faced man, al-Hassan, examined Maddux with his cold, mirrored eyes. “But Jon Smith was there.” He sat back in the gloom of the car, talking softly as if to himself. “Our man in London finds Smith changed his flight and was missing from London all day. Your men pick him up at Dulles, but instead of driving home to Maryland, he comes here. At the same time, our esteemed colleague slips away from our hotel and I follow him to this vicinity before he eludes me. You fail to find him in the park, but it is a strange coincidence, wouldn't you say? Why is the associate of Dr. Russell here if not to meet our Mr. Griffin?”
Maddux said nothing. He had learned most of his boss's questions were spoken aloud to some unseen part of himself. Nervously he let the silence stretch. Around the limo and the two men, the wild park seemed to breathe with a life of its own.
Eventually al-Hassan shrugged. “Perhaps I am wrong. Perhaps it is a mere coincidence, and Griffin has nothing to do with why Colonel Smith is here. It does not really matter, I suppose. The others will take care of Colonel Smith, yes?”
“You got it.” Maddux nodded emphatically. “No way he gets out of D.C.”
