The result was nature would strike back anyway, as it always did, with famines, plagues, wars, and cosmic disasters.
What did it matter if he and Victor and the company grew wealthy on the deaths of millions?
He sighed, because the truth was . . . it mattered to him.
A person controlled his fate. He remembered what the Prussians said: A man’s worth began only when he was willing to die for his principles.
Mercer Haldane had been trained on principles. At one time, he had cherished them. If he still had a soul to save, the only way he could do it was to stop Victor Tremont.
Inwardly he continued his war, his eyes closed, his neck against the chair pillow. As the conflict raged on, he felt ever more weak and miserable. But in the end, he knew he was going to tell the surgeon general everything. He had to. He would pay any cost to know he had done the right thing.
When he heard the door open, he uncovered his eyes and swung around in the chair. “Is something wrong with the connection, Mrs. Pendragon?”
“Lost your nerve, Mercer?”
Victor Tremont stood in the office. He was a towering figure in his expensive business suit and polished kid shoes. His thick, iron-gray hair glowed in the overhead lights, and his distinctive face with its aquiline features and faintly haughty expression glowered down on Haldane. He radiated the kind of self-assurance that commanded boardrooms with the ease of a great maestro before a world-class orchestra.
Haldane lifted his old eyes to gaze at his former protégé. He said evenly, “Found my conscience, Victor. It’s not too late for you to rediscover yours. Let my call to the surgeon general go through.”
Tremont laughed. “I believe it was Shakespeare who wrote a conscience was a luxury that made cowards of us all. But he was wrong. It makes us victims, Mercer. Losers. And I have no intention of being either.” He paused and scowled. “A man is either the wolf or the deer, and I plan to do the eating.”
Haldane raised his hands, palms up. “For God’s sake, Victor, we help people. Our goal is to relieve suffering. `First, do no harm.’ We’re in the healing business.”
“The hell we are,” Tremont said harshly. “We’re in the money business. Profits. That’s what counts.”
Haldane could contain himself no longer. “You’re an egotistical freak, Victor!” he exploded. “A fiend! I’ll tell the surgeon general everything…. I’ll—”
“You’ll do nothing,” Tremont snapped. “That call’s never going to go through. Mrs. Pendragon knows a winner when she sees one.” He slid his hand inside his jacket and withdrew a dark, lethal Glock 9mm pistol. “Nadal!”
Mercer Haldane’s old heart pounded. Sweat suddenly bathed him as a tall, pockmarked Arab entered the room. He, too, carried a large pistol.
Paralyzed with fear, Mercer stared from one to the other, speechless.
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CHAPTER
FORTY ONE
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11:02 A.M.
Lake Magua, New York
The Christmaslike odor of pine needles permeated the spacious living room of Victor Tremont’s lodge. Through the windows, the lake reflected crystalline blue surrounded by the thick green forest. Near the giant fireplace where flames licked high, Bill Griffin sat in a leather club chair. His stocky body gave every appearance of being relaxed. As usual, his brown hair hung limp and unruly to his jacket collar. He crossed his legs and lighted a cigarette.
He smiled a slow smile at Victor Tremont and Nadal al-Hassan and explained calmly, “The trouble was, all of us were working at cross-purposes. Ever since you gave me the order to eliminate Jon Smith, I’ve been watching three places at once— his house in Thurmont, the Russell woman’s condo in Frederick, and Fort Detrick. No wonder you had a hard time contacting me.”
It was all a lie. He had been hiding in a walk-up apartment in Greenwich Village that belonged to a woman friend from the old days in New York. But when he had seen the news story about the president’s honoring Blanchard Pharmaceuticals and the orders that were rolling in for the serum, he had known he had to return to make certain he received his fair share.
And there was still the issue of Smith. “I’d expected to take out Smith when he left Detrick,” he explained, “but I couldn’t get a decent opportunity, and after that night he never showed up again at any of the other places. He vanished into thin air. Maybe he gave up or took leave. Or went somewhere to grieve for the woman.” He hoped that was true, but knowing Jon, he doubted it.
Victor Tremont stood looking out the picture window at the trees as the sun reflected scattered bursts of light on the lake’s surface. His voice was thoughtful. “No. He hasn’t taken leave to mourn.”
Nadal al-Hassan sat one hip of his emaciated frame onto the arm of the high sofa that faced the fireplace. “In any case, it is irrelevant now. We know where he is, and he will soon be no more problem.”
Griffin’s cheeks widened in another smile. “Hell, that’s a relief.” He added almost as an afterthought, “Maddux on him?”
Tremont left the window and bent to his humidor to extract a cigar. He offered the humidor to Griffin, who lifted his cigarette and shook his head. Nadal al-Hassan, as a strict Muslim, did not smoke.
As Tremont lighted the cigar, he spoke over his hands and the rising smoke and aroma: “Actually, Maddux has captured one of Smith’s friends. A computer geek named Martin Zellerbach. We’ll soon make Zellerbach divulge where Smith is hiding in Syracuse.”
“Smith is in Syracuse?” Griffin seemed alarmed. He gazed accusingly at al-Hassan. “That close to us? How the hell did he get so near?”
Al-Hassan’s voice was mild. “By checking back through Russell’s life and education. She did her undergraduate work at Syracuse.”
“Where she was studying when she went on the trip to Peru?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“Then he knows about us!”
“I don’t think so. At least, not yet.”
Griffin’s voice rose. “But, dammit, he will. I’ll stop him. This time, I’ll—”
Tremont interrupted, “You needn’t worry about Smith. I have another job for you. Jack McGraw is up to his nostrils preparing security for the president. The ceremony this afternoon is, of course, a great honor, but it was a last-minute decision. Everyone’s scrambling. Plus there are all the media people to deal with. We don’t want any interlopers crashing the party. You have FBI experience, so you should be the one to coordinate with the Secret Service.”
Griffin was puzzled. “Of course. You’re the boss. But if you’re still worried about Smith, then I think—”
“That won’t be necessary.” Al-Hassan’s voice was definite. “We have it taken care of.”
“How? Who?” Griffin glanced doubtfully at the Arab while inwardly he worried.
“General Caspar has managed to plant a CIA agent with Colonel Smith. She is Russell’s sister, and she has a strong personal hatred for him from some old insult. She has been told Smith is a grave danger to the country. She will have no qualms about eliminating him.” AlHassan studied Griffin. “I think we should consider the task completed. For us, Smith is dead.”
Bill Griffin’s face remained unchanged. He took a long drag on his cigarette.
Then he nodded, feigning satisfaction tinged with doubt to be consistent with the stance he had taken since he had discovered Smith was a target. They had suspected him since the night he had warned Jon. His failure to kill him had deepened their distrust. Now they had captured Zellerbach, whom he remembered from high school as a genius, but also as weak and easily frightened. Sooner or later, Marty would break and betray Jon. Plus they had planted Sophia Russell’s sister, Randi. That was especially bad. He had heard Jon speak about how much the woman hated him. She would be capable of killing. Any CIA field agent had to be.
With Marty’s capture and the infiltration of Randi Russell, Tremont and al-Hassan had their problems under control. Or so they thought.
Griffin stood up, a stocky man with a bland face. “Sounds like the perfect assignment for me. I’ll get right on it.”
“Good.” Tremont gave him a dismissive nod of the head. “Use the Cherokee. Nadal and I’ll take the Land Rover after we finish our business here. Thanks for coming in, Bill. We were worried about you. Always a pleasure to see you.”
But as Griffin exited, Tremont’s expression changed. His gaze cold, he watched the traitor disappear out the door.
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Bill Griffin drove the Jeep Cherokee off the road and parked in a dense stand of oaks and birch trees. As he pulled brush around the Cherokee to camouflage it from the road, his mind was a maelstrom of conflict. Somehow he must reach Jon and warn him about Randi and Marty. But at the same time, he did not want to lose everything he had worked for since he had met Victor Tremont and joined the Hades Project two years ago. He was entitled to his share of the good things along with all the other thieving bastards who ran this world. More than entitled after his years of service to the goddamn ungrateful cheats and liars who ran the Bureau and the country.