Jon and Randi stared at each other.
“The article says it was a decade-long project,” he said.
“You’re thinking about Desert Storm.”
“You bet I am,” he said angrily. “Nineteen ninety-one. Maybe they had nothing to do with infecting the twelve victims. This is a monkey virus, and we can’t be sure it’s the same virus that we’ve been working on, even though the serum apparently cures it. But I’ve got to wonder. Now they come forward with a serum? Very convenient.”
“Too convenient,” she agreed. “Especially since we know three were cured last year in Iraq and three here just last week. But as far as we know, it’s a different virus.”
“Suspicious as hell.”
She said, “You don’t believe it’s a different virus.”
“As a scientist, it’s such a remote possibility that the only alternative that comes to mind is some madman from the company stole it and decided to play God. Or Satan, if you will.”
“But how did the epidemic break out? Awfully good timing that Blanchard happens to have a serum that works on monkeys and apparently on people. How could Blanchard or anyone know it’d break out now, or ever?”
He grimaced. “I’ve been wondering the same thing.”
They stared at each other in silence.
That was when they heard a faint sound behind the RV. A twig snapped.
Randi swept up her Uzi, and Jon pulled the big Beretta from his waistband. In the cramped RV, they listened intently. No more twigs broke, but there was a light rustle of something moving among fallen leaves.
It could have been the wind or an animal, but Randi did not believe it. Her chest tightened. “One,” she estimated. “No more.”
Jon agreed, but: “It could be a scout sent ahead, the rest watching. Maybe from the trees back there.”
“Or a diversion, and the others out front.”
The sound ceased. There was nothing but the distant traffic.
“You take the back,” he said. “I’ll take the front.”
He flattened against the wall next to a front window, inched to the edge, and looked out toward the door and studied the row of used RVs. He saw no movement.
“Quiet back here,” Randi whispered as she scrutinized the woods that formed the back perimeter of the lot.
“There’re too many blind spots,” he decided. “We’ll have to go out.”
Randi nodded. “You go left. I’ll go right. I’ll lead.”
“I’ll lead.” He raised the Beretta and reached to fling open the door.
Suddenly there was a loud click and a scraping of wood on wood behind them.
They whirled like a pair of synchronous swimmers at the Olympics, their weapons ready.
Surprised, they watched four squares of the large geometric pattern on the vinyl floor swing up, instantly followed by a Heckler & Koch MP5 submachine gun.
Jon instantly recognized the weapon. “Peter!” He forced himself to relax the finger on his trigger. “It’s okay, Randi.”
She frowned and stared suspiciously as the lined, leathery face of Peter Howell emerged as far as his shoulders. He wore a trench coat over his black commando clothes.
Instantly he pointed the H&K at Randi. “Who?”
Jon said, “Randi Russell. Sophia’s sister. She’s CIA. It’s a long story.”
“Tell me later,” Peter said. “They’ve got Marty.”
___________________
CHAPTER
FORTY
___________________
10:32 A.M.
Lake Magua, New York
Marty’s head rotated as he gazed around the windowless room with its dank basement smell and single cot. He concentrated hard to see it. Where he sat tied to a chair with thin nylon rope, his mind was floating in a luminescent cloud above everyone’s heads, dazzling and airy and all-knowing. He loved the feeling of floating, his heavy body so light he seemed effervescent. Part of him knew he had been too long between doses of Mideral, but the rest of him did not care.
He was annoyed. “You must realize all this is absolutely ridiculous at your ages. Cops and robbers! Really! I assure you I have much more important matters to attend to than sitting here answering your stupid questions. I demand you take me back to the pharmacy instantly!”
His voice was firm, even arrogant, and in the chair in the basement room of Victor Tremont’s grand lodge he drew himself up defiantly. These people would not intimidate him! With whom did they think they were dealing? Zounds, the rascals and poltroons would soon know that it was unwise, even dangerous, to attempt to do battle with him!
“We do not play games, Mr. Zellerbach,” Nadal al-Hassan said coldly. “We will know where Smith is, and we will know at this moment.”
“No one can know where Jon Smith is! The world cannot contain him or me. We fly through a different time, in another universe. Your puny world does not have enough gravity to hold us. We are infinite! Infinite!” Marty blinked up at the pockmarked Arab. “My goodness, your face. How terrible. Smallpox, I should guess. You’re lucky to have survived. Do you know how many died over the centuries from that dreadful scourge? How long and at what cost it has taken the world to eradicate the disease? There are still two or three test tubes of it in deep freezers. Why—”
Marty rambled on as if sitting at his ease in some armchair and discoursing with a group of students on the history of viral diseases. “There’s a new virus breaking out right now. It’s deadly, Jon tells me. He says he thinks someone actually has it and is killing people with it. Can you imagine?”
“What else does Jon say about this virus?” Victor Tremont asked, smiling and friendly.
“Oh, a great deal. He’s a scientist, you know.”
“Perhaps he knows who has it? What they plan to do with it?”
“Well, I assure you, we—” Marty stopped and his eyes narrowed.
“Ah, you are trying to trick me! Me! You fools, you cannot outwit The Paladin! I will speak no more.” He clamped his lips tightly together.
Exasperated, al-Hassan muttered an Arabic curse and raised his fist.
Victor Tremont put out a hand. “No. Not yet. The medicine he got at the pharmacy where Maddux found him is Mideral, one of a new family of central nervous system stimulants. With what you learned from his doctor, we know he has a type of autism. From his behavior, I’d say he’s off the medicine and irrational.”
“Then can we learn nothing about where Jonathan Smith is?” al-Hassan asked.
“On the contrary. Administer his Mideral. Within twenty minutes, he will calm and come crashing back to reality. If his condition is Asperger’s syndrome, he may be exceptionally intelligent. But the Mideral will slow him down and make him a little dull. At the same time, he’ll be able to recognize he’s in danger. We should be able to get what we need from him then.”
Marty sang loudly. He barely noticed when al-Hassan untied one of his hands and gave him a pill and a glass of water. He stopped to swallow the pill then resumed singing as al-Hassan tied him again.
Victor Tremont and the Arab watched as his vocalizing slowly faded, his arrogant pose slumped against the ropes, and his feverishly bright eyes turned quiet.
“I think you can question him now,” Tremont said.
Al-Hassan smiled his wolf smile and walked around to face Marty. “So, let us begin again, Mr. Zellerbach, eh?”
Marty looked up at the lean, dour Arab. He cowered on the chair. The man was too close, and he looked evil. The other man— the tall one— stood on Marty’s other side. He was too close as well, and too menacing. Marty could smell them. Strangers. He could barely breathe. He wanted to make them go away. Leave him alone.
“Where is your friend Jon Smith?”
Marty quavered in the chair. “Ir-Iraq.”
“Good. He was in Iraq. But he is now back in America. Where will he go now?”
Marty blinked up at them as they leaned closer, eager. He remembered posting the message to Jon on the Web site. Maybe Jon had already found it and was heading toward the RV. He fervently hoped so.
He felt his teeth grind. No! No, he would not tell them. “I— I don’t know.”
The Arab muttered another curse and swung his fist. Marty screamed with fear.
Pain exploded in his head, and a great wave of black rolled over him.
“Damn.” Victor Tremont knotted his fists. “He’s unconscious.”
“But I did not strike him with that much force,” al-Hassan protested.
Tremont scowled with disgust. “We’ll have to wait until he comes to and try something less physical.”
“There are ways.”
“But with him, it will be tricky not to kill him. You saw how excitable he is.”
They stared in frustration at the silent Marty, whose head hung limply forward, his body lashed to the chair.
“Or,” Victor Tremont began to smile. He paused as his shrewd mind worked on an idea. “I have a much better way to find what we need to know.” He nodded. “Yes, a much better idea.”