That deserved some respect. Even though Marty had never personally liked Griffin, he had to hand it to him now. So he sat back, crossed his arms, and smiled, not touching his computer for a full thirty agonizing seconds. It was his way of giving the guy some respect.
Then with a flourish he opened a blank file dedicated to Bill Griffin himself. He was not accustomed to failure in the cyberworld, and it both annoyed and inspired him. Bill Griffin had blown him away. But this was not the end. It was the beginning! There was nothing quite so delicious as a new challenge from a worthy opponent, and Griffin was proving to be just that. So Marty grinned. He scratched his chin and willed his brain to leap into the stratosphere. To find a solution in his soaring imagination. That was what he could do off his meds— take flight.
But just as an idea began to form, he jumped, startled. His computer radiated a high-pitched tone and flashed a dazzling red signal:
INTRUDERS! INTRUDERS! INTRUDERS!
More excited than nervous, Marty pressed a key. This could be amusing. The screen revealed:
LOCATIONS A AND X
Eagerly he tapped a button, and two high-resolution monitors came to life on the wall above. At Location A, which was behind the bungalow, two men searched for a way to squeeze through the thick hedge. But it was too dense to be penetrated and too high to climb over. Marty watched their feeble attempts and hooted.
But Location X was another matter. He swallowed hard and stared: An unmarked gray van had stopped in his hidden driveway. Two muscled strangers stepped from it, both holding large semi-automatic pistols as their gazes swept his property. With a jolt of terror, Marty’s catalog brain identified one gun as an old Colt .45 1911, while the other was a l0mm Browning of the type used now by the FBI. These intruders were not going to be easily scared off.
Marty’s short, stubby body shuddered. He hated strangers and violence of any kind. His round face, so bright and excited seconds ago, was now pale and trembling. He studied the screen as the mechanical voice challenged the men in the front yard.
Just as he suspected, they decided to ignore the warning. They ran toward the front steps— an assault.
In an instant, Marty’s mood improved. At least he could have fun for a little while. He snapped his fingers and bounced up and down in his chair as his automatic security system released a cloud of eye-stinging gas. The two men grabbed their faces. They jumped back, coughing and swearing.
Marty laughed. “Next time, listen when someone gives you good advice!”
In the rear, the second pair of strangers had stacked garbage cans from the neighbor’s yard to climb up over the hedge. Marty watched intently. At just the right moment… just as they reached the top of the hedge… he tapped a key.
A barrage of heavy rubber bullets knocked them off. They fell hard, flat onto their backs in the neighbor’s yard.
Marty had time only to chuckle, because the two in front had recovered enough to stumble through the gas and reach the front door.
“Ah, the pièce de résistance!” Marty promised.
He watched eagerly as a stream of Mace from the ports over the door sent the men staggering and howling back again. He clapped his hands. The short, burly one who seemed to be the leader recovered enough to lurch for the doorknob.
Marty leaned forward eagerly. The knob held a stun device. It sent a shock into the guy’s hand. He screamed and jumped.
Marty chortled and spun in his chair to check the other pair. The two in the backyard showed resourcefulness. They had rammed their car through the hedge and were on their feet and moving forward again, crawling under the sweep of lasers.
Marty grinned as he thought about what waited for them: stun devices in the other doors and windows, and cages that would trap them if they got inside.
But all the defenses, diabolical though they were, were not lethal. Marty was a nonviolent man who had never had reason to expect serious danger. His security was aimed at pranksters, trespassers, and tormenters— against outsiders invading his peaceful isolation. He had constructed, invented, bought, and built a child’s game of brilliant comic-strip mayhem and secret escape routes.
But none would, in the end, stop determined killers in a real world.
Clammy fear gripped his chest. His heart pounded. But being a genius had its advantages. He had designed a plan a dozen years ago for just this sort of emergency. He grabbed the remote control and the printouts for Jon, and then he rushed into the bathroom. He pressed a button on the remote, and the bathtub reared up against the wall. Another touch of the remote opened a trapdoor hidden under the tub. His chest tight with fear, he climbed down the ladder past the house’s crawl space and into a well-lighted tunnel. With two clicks of his remote, the door closed above him and, out of his view, the tub lowered back into place.
Marty inhaled, relieved. In his rolling gait, he swayed and bumped along to another trapdoor overhead.
Seconds later he emerged in a nearly identical bungalow he also owned on the next street. This one was unmodified and empty. It was a deserted house with a perpetual FOR SALE sign and nothing in it except a telephone. Behind him, across the hedge between the bungalows, he could hear curses and yelps of pain. But he also heard the telltale noise of glass shattering, and he knew the attackers would soon be inside his house, searching for his escape route.
Afraid, he grabbed the phone and dialed.
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CHAPTER
EIGHTEEN
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11:07 A.M.
Washington, D.C.
Georgetown University was founded by Jesuits in 1789, the first Roman Catholic university in the United States. Handsome eighteenth- and nineteenth-century buildings stood among the trees and cobbled lanes, reminders of a time when science knew little of viruses, but education was beginning to be seen as a solution to the violent problems of modern society. Through the window of Georgetown’s faculty lounge, Smith thought about this as he admired the old campus under the big trees.
He said, “So you’re on the faculty here?”
“Associate professor of history.” Marjorie Griffin shrugged sadly. “I suppose Bill never told you what I did. I was at NYU when we met. Then I applied down here.”
“He never talked much about his private life,” Smith admitted. “Mostly our work and shared past. The old days.”
Absentmindedly she stirred her tea. “The few times we saw each other recently, it wasn’t even that much. Something’s happened to Bill over the last few years. He’s become silent, moody.”
“When did you last get together, Marjorie?”
“Twice in just the past few days. On Tuesday morning he appeared on my doorstep. And then again last night.” She drank tea. “He was nervous, edgy. He seemed worried about you. When he came inside, the first thing he did was go to the front windows and watch the street. I asked him what he was looking for, but he didn’t answer. Suggested a cup of tea instead. He had brought a bag of croissants from the French bakery on M Street.”
“A spur-of-the-moment visit,” Smith guessed. “Why?”
Marjorie Griffin did not answer at once. Her face seemed to sag as she studied the parade of students outside the windows on the cobbled lane. “Touching base, maybe. I hate to think he was saying good-bye. But that could’ve been it.” She looked up at Smith. “I’d hoped you’d know.”
She was, Smith realized almost with a shock, a beautiful woman. Not like Sophia, no. A calm beauty. A certain serenity in herself and in who she was. Not passive, exactly, but not restlessly seeking either. She had dark gray eyes and black hair caught in a French knot at the nape of her neck. An easy style. Good cheekbones and a strong jawline. A body between thin and heavy. Smith felt a stirring, an attraction, and then it was gone. It died before it could do more than appear in a flash, unexpected and unwanted, immediately followed by a sharp stab of sorrow. A throb of anguish that was Sophia.
“Two days ago, almost three now,” he told her, “he warned me I was in danger.” He described the meeting in Rock Creek park, the attacks on him, the virus, and the death of Sophia. “Someone has the live virus, Marjorie, and they killed Sophia, Kielburger, and his secretary with it.”
“Good God.” Her fine face redrew itself in lines of horror.
“I don’t know who or why, and they’re trying to stop me from finding out. Bill’s working with them.”
She covered her mouth with her hand. “No! That’s not possible!”
“It’s the only way he could’ve known to warn me. What I’m trying to figure out is whether he’s undercover or with them on his own.” He hesitated. “His closest friend in the FBI says he isn’t undercover.”