heinous conspirators?”
Everyone stared at the white-haired executive. He nodded enthusiastically, seeing a chance to reclaim his self-respect. “Yes. I like that. I want to tell the president everything.” Then his eagerness faded. “But Victor would never let me get close.”
“I'm not sure anyone could personally reach the president today,” Randi agreed.
Jon pursed his lips, thinking. “Which leaves us back where we started. But we've got to stop Tremont some damn way.”
“And very soon,” Peter warned. “That bloody al-Hassan and his troops could show up here any second. Then where are we?”
“Who else will be at the ceremony?” Randi wondered. “The surgeon general? Secretary of state? The president's chief of staff?”
“They'll be just as well guarded,” Smith knew. “Besides, Tremont's people will see to it we don't get close. Tremont's security uses violence as their tool of choice. In some ways, they're a worse obstacle than the secret service.”
Randi ruminated, “I wish some of those foreign leaders were going to be there in person. We might have a chance to?”
“Wait.” Jon suddenly had another idea. He sat on the stool next to Marty. “Mart, can you break into a closed-circuit TV transmission?”
“Sure. Once I broke into a CNN transmission.” He laughed, remembering the prank. “Of course, that was only a local cable station, and I was in another studio in the building. I don't know about a national cable company. What's the company? What are the computer codes? Of course, I'd need a TV camera here, too.”
Mercer Haldane suggested, “There's a local studio in Long Lake village.”
“They'll be routing the feed through there,” Randi objected. “There'll be technicians everywhere.”
“We'll go in shooting if we have to. Could you tap into the cable from there, Mart?”
“I think so.”
“Okay, that's what we'll do.”
Peter was doubtful. “The whole village is going to be crawling with police tripping on each other's shoes.”
Movement at the perimeter of the room drew their attention. The older male technician who had brought the medical kit to Jon was walking slowly toward them. They had forgotten to lock him back into the conference room. His face was drained of color.
“I didn't know any of what you've just found out. All I do is routine analysis.” He held out a hand as if asking forgiveness. “I've taken Blanchard antibiotics myself. I have a family who?” He swallowed. “They've taken them, too, off and on over the years. I… maybe you should know Mr. Tremont has a small TV studio in the lodge. He had it installed to connect to the plant and to the local studio for making publicity and inspirational videos and live broadcasts. It's state-of-the-art. I can show you where it is.”
“Marty?” Jon asked.
“I'll probably need more time from there.” He was doubtful.
After the first shock of Tremont's monstrous plan had begun to wear off, Smith's mind had been clear and precise. Now it seemed as if his faculties had never been sharper. He checked his watch and barked orders. “We've got forty minutes. Randi, we're going to the ceremony to try to give the printouts of all the records to the president. If we can't get near, at least we can cause a disturbance and give Marty more time.” He turned to Peter. “You and Samson stay here to protect Mart and Haldane. Haldane, once you're on camera, you're going to give the speech of your life.”
“I will.” The former CEO nodded. “You can count on it.”
Pale from his wound, Peter murmured, “Piece of cake.”
“Take the lab technician to show you where the TV studio is, and we'll leave the three others locked up. We'll take the M-16s in case we need to make a lot of noise. All set?”
Everyone nodded. For a brief moment they gazed around at each other, as if for reassurance. Then they were a blur of action as they ran out of the lab. Peter, Marty, and Haldane followed the technician into the rear corridor. Jon and Randi sprinted outside to their rented car.
Randi drove fast along the mountain road in the late-afternoon sunlight. It was a shock to see how normal and beautiful the world looked. Less than a half mile from the lodge, they saw dust clouds rising ahead.
“Pull off!” Jon snapped.
Tires screeching, she sped the car off the road into the tall pines. A branch ripped off an outside mirror. With her Uzi and one of the M16s, and he with the other two M-16s, they leaped out of the car and ran back fifty feet. As they turned to look through the trees, they saw three SUVs racing along the road.
“There he is.” Jon recognized the lean Nadal al-Hassan from the Sierras in the front seat of the lead SUV. “No surprise.”
“Al-Hassan,” Randi agreed, remembering him from outside Peter's battered RV.
“Shoot at them with everything we have so they'll think there's a lot of us, but don't hit the tires.”
“Why the hell not?” Randi demanded.
“We need to make them follow us and leave the lodge alone.”
Using both hands, they dodged from side to side and fired their weapons. They hit mostly air but still caused enough damage to send all three vehicles careening off the road. As soon as the tires of the third SUV skidded to the side, Jon and Randi loped back to their car. Randi pulled out onto the road again and, as they sped past al- Hassan and his men, they saw one of the three SUVs had its front tires shot out. It was out of commission, abandoned in the trees.
“Damn!” Jon swore.
“Peter and Samson will handle them if they have to.”
The two other SUVs had smashed windows but no major damage. They bumped back onto the road. As they watched in the rearview mirror, two men ran from the disabled vehicle and clambered aboard the others as they turned to chase Jon and Randi toward the county highway, a mile and a half ahead.
“Stay ahead until we hit Long Lake village,” Smith said. “Keep them chasing us.”
“Piece of cake,” Randi replied in Peter's voice, smiling grimly.
CHAPTER FORTY SEVEN
The sun was low in the mountain sky, and it was one of those beautiful afternoons in the Adirondacks that sent shivers of pleasure into the souls of any nature lover. Rich autumn colors showed in the leaves of the towering hardwoods. The pines seemed to grow straight up to the blue sky. The air was crisp and clean. Daisies were still in bloom. Outside on the lawn in the center of the sprawling complex that was Blanchard Pharmaceuticals' headquarters, an audience of dignitaries sat in white folding chairs at the back of the raised platform, waiting eagerly for the formalities of this notable occasion to begin. Before the platform stood an animated crowd.
As he waited in the tent erected to protect him, President Samuel Adams Castilla contemplated the festivities with satisfaction. Composed of local citizens of the rural region, representatives from most nations on earth, and editors, columnists, and reporters from all the major news media everywhere, the audience was everything a president who had an election to win could have wanted. This historic ceremony being telecast to every corner of the world and, more important, to the American people should assure his reelection by a landslide.
Next to him stood Victor Tremont, whose gaze moved slowly across the surging throng. His thoughts were far less sanguine. He was consumed with an uneasy foreboding, as if his father stood over his shoulder saying again, “No one can have everything, Vic.” He knew there was no realistic basis for such defeatism, but he could not seem to shake off the worry. That infernal Smith and the stupid Russell woman's CIA sister had once again escaped
