His four clandestine associates were ready and eager for the payoff.
Tremont held the pause another beat. “The virus has surfaced here in the United States. Soon it’s going to appear across the world. Country by country. An epidemic. The press doesn’t know about it yet, but they will. No way to stop them or the virus. The only recourse governments will have is to pay our price.”
The four men grinned. Their eyes shone with dollar signs. Big dollar signs. But there was something else, too— triumph, pride, anticipation, and eagerness. They were already professional successes. Now they were going to be financial successes, hugely wealthy, achieving the pinnacle of the American dream.
Tremont said, “George?”
George abruptly reset his face. He looked sad, crestfallen. “The profit projection for the stockholders is ready any time.” He hesitated. “I’m afraid it’s less than we’d hoped. Perhaps only five… six at best… billion dollars.” And laughed uproariously at his joke.
Xavier Becker, frowning severely at George’s levity, did not wait to be asked. “What about the secret audit I discovered?”
“Jack says that only Haldane has actually seen it,” Tremont told them, “and I’ll handle him when we meet before the board dinner at the annual meeting. What else, Xavier?” Mercer Haldane was chairman of Blanchard Pharmaceuticals.
“I’ve manipulated the computer logs to show we’ve been working on the cocktail of recombinant antibodies that form our serum the whole ten years, improving it since we got the patent, and that we’ve finished our final tests and submitted it for FDA approval. The logs also now show our astronomical costs.” Excitement was in Xavier’s voice. “Supply’s in the millions of doses and climbing.”
Adam laughed. “No one suspects a damn thing.”
“Even if they suspect, they’ll never find the trail.” Jack McGraw, the security chief, rubbed his hands, pleased.
“Just tell us when to move!” George begged.
Tremont smiled and held up his hand. “Don’t worry, I’ve got a complete timetable based on how fast they realize they’ve got an epidemic on their hands. I’ll make my move on Haldane before the board meeting.”
The five men drank, their futures growing brighter every second.
Then Tremont put down his brandy. His face grew somber. He again raised a hand to silence them. “Unfortunately, we’ve run into a situation that could be more of a problem than the audit. How big or small the danger is, or whether there’s any danger at all after some, ah, steps we were forced to take, we can’t be certain yet. But rest assured it’s being watched and thoroughly dealt with.”
Jack McGraw scowled. “What kind of problem, Victor? Why wasn’t I told?”
Tremont eyed him. “Because I don’t want Blanchard even remotely connected.” He expected Jack to be jealous of security, but in the end Tremont made all decisions. “As for the problem, it was simply one of those events no one could anticipate. When I was in Peru on that expedition where I found the virus and the potential serum, I ran into a group of young undergraduates on a field trip. Beyond being polite, we paid little attention to each other because we were interested in different studies.” He shook his head in wonderment. “But three days ago one called. When she said her name, I vaguely recalled a student who had shown a lot of interest in my work. She went on to become a cell and molecular biologist. The problem was she’s now at USAMRIID, which is studying the first deaths. As we expected, they hadn’t been able to figure out the virus. But the unique combination of symptoms suddenly brought that trip to Peru back into her mind. She remembered my name. She called me.”
“Jesus!” George exclaimed, his ruddy face gone white.
“She tied the virus to you?” Jack McGraw growled.
“To us!” Xavier exploded.
Tremont shrugged. “I denied it. I convinced her she was wrong, that there’d been no such virus. Then I sent Nadal al-Hassan and his people to eliminate her.”
There was a collective relaxation in the giant living room. Sighs of relief as the tension eased. They had worked hard and long for more than a decade, had risked their professions and livelihoods on this one visionary gamble, and none had any intention of losing the riches that were now within reach.
“Unfortunately,” Tremont went on, “we were unsuccessful in doing the same to her fiancé and research partner. He escaped us, and it’s possible she had time to speak to him before she died.”‘
Jack McGraw understood. “That’s why al-Hassan is here. I knew something was up.”
Tremont shook his head. “Don’t make more of this than there is. I sent for al-Hassan to report on how we stood. While I have the most to lose, we’re all in it together.”
The silence in the room was louder than any noise.
Xavier broke it. “Okay. Let’s hear what he’s got to say.”
The fire had died down to glowing coals and a few flickering flames. Tremont moved to the side of the stone fireplace. He pressed a button in the carved mantlepiece. First Nadal al-Hassan and then Bill Griffin entered the cavernous room. Al-Hassan joined Victor Tremont before the fireplace, while Griffin remained unobtrusive in the background. Al-Hassan related details of Sophia Russell’s call to Tremont, her death, and his removal of everything that could connect the virus to the Hades Project. He described Jonathan Smith’s reactions. He detailed Griffin’s blackmailing of Lily Lowenstein and the subsequent erasure of all electronic evidence.
“Nothing remains to connect us to Russell or the virus,” al-Hassan finished, “unless she told Colonel Smith.”
Jack McGraw growled, “That’s a pretty damn big `unless.’ ”
“That is what I think,” al-Hassan agreed. “Something has made Smith suspicious that her death was not an accident. He has been investigating vigorously, ignoring his share of the scientific work on the virus itself.”
“Can he find us?” the accountant, George, asked nervously.
“Anyone can find anyone if they look long enough and hard enough. That is why I think we must eliminate him.”
Victor Tremont nodded to the rear of the room. “But you don’t agree, Griffin?”
Everyone rotated to stare at the former FBI man, who was leaning against a wall behind them. Bill Griffin was thinking about Jon Smith. He had done his damnedest to warn his friend off. He had used his old FBI credentials to learn from Jon’s office that he was out of town, and then he had gone through a Rolodex of agencies acquiring one bit of information after another until he had finally uncovered which conference Jon was attending and, from there, where in London he had been staying.
So as his canny gaze swept the five who stared at him, he did what he had to do to save himself, while trying to distract the heat from Jon: He shrugged, noncommittal. “Smith’s been working so hard to find out what happened to the Russell woman that I think she must’ve told him nothing about Peru or us. Otherwise, he’d likely be here right now, knocking on the door to talk to you, Mr. Tremont. But our mole inside USAMRIID says Smith’s stopped investigating her death and is back concentrating on the virus with the team. He’s even flying to California tomorrow to do the routine interviews with the family and friends of Major Anderson.”
Tremont nodded thoughtfully. “Nadal?”
“Our contact in Detrick says General Kielburger ordered Smith to California, but he refused,” al-Hassan reported. “Later he volunteered to go, and that is a very different matter. I believe he is seeking corroboration in California for what he already suspects.”
Griffin said, “He’s a doctor, so he was at the autopsy. No big deal. They found nothing. There’s nothing to suspect. You’ve taken care of everything.”
“We do not know what Smith found at the autopsy,” al-Hassan said.
Griffin grimaced. “Kill him, then. That solves one problem. But every new murder increases the danger of questions and discovery. Especially the murder of Dr. Russell’s fiancé and research partner. And especially if he’s already told General Kielburger about the attacks on him in D.C.”
“To wait could be too late,” al-Hassan insisted.
The silence in the room seemed heavy enough to crush the lodge itself. The conspirators glanced at one another and settled their uneasy gazes on their aristocratic leader, Victor Tremont.
He paced slowly in front of the fire, a frown creasing his forehead.
At last he decided, “Griffin could be right. Better we not risk another killing involving the Detrick staff so soon.”
Again they looked at one another. This time they nodded. Nadal alHassan watched the silent vote, then he moved his hooded eyes to study Bill Griffin where the ex-FBI agent lurked in the room’s shadows.
“Well,” Tremont said, smiling, “that’s settled. We’d better get some sleep. With final plans to make, tomorrow will be a busy day.” He shook each man’s hand warmly, the gracious host and leader, as they exited the imposing living room.