“What do you have to report?”
“FBI beat us to the drugstore guy, but all he knows anyways is there was two of ’em, an’ when they left they took a taxi. We’re checking the cab companies, an’ so’s the local cops and the FBI. Hotels, motels, roomin’ houses, car rentals, an’ other drugstores, too. So far nothin’. An’ the cops an’ FBI ain’t doin’ no better.”
“I will be at the Hotel Monaco near Union Square. Call me the instant you find anything.”
“You want us checkin’ all night?”
“Until you find them, or the police do.”
The slovenly man shrugged. “It’s your money.”
Al-Hassan caught a taxi to the newly renovated downtown San Francisco hotel with its small, elegant lobby and dining room decorated to look like a continental city in the 1920s. As soon as he was alone in his room, he phoned New York and reported everything the sloppy man had told him.
Al-Hassan said, “He cannot use army resources. We are covering all Smith’s and Zellerbach’s friends as well as everyone connected to the virus victims.”
“Hire another detective agency if you have to,” Victor Tremont ordered from his New York hotel room. “Xavier’s found what this Zellerbach person was doing for him.” He recited the discoveries in Marty’s computer logs. “Apparently, Zellerbach found the Giscours memo, and he uncovered reports about the virus in Iraq. Smith has probably figured out we have the virus, and now he wants to know what we’re going to do with it. He’s no longer a potential threat, he’s a menace!”
Al-Hassan’s voice was a promise. “Not for much longer.”
“Keep in touch with Xavier. This Zellerbach person tried to trace the Russell woman’s phone call to me. We expect he’ll try again. Xavier is monitoring Zellerbach’s computer. If he uses it, Xavier will keep him online long enough to initiate a phone trace through our local police in Long Lake.”
“I will call Washington and give him my cell phone number.”
“Have you located Bill Griffin?”
AI-Hassan was quiet, embarrassed. “He has contacted no one since we assigned him to kill Smith.”
Tremont’s voice cracked like a whip. “You still don’t know where Griffin is? Incredible! How could you lose one of your own people!”
Al-Hassan kept his voice low, respectful. Victor Tremont was one of the few heathens in this godless country he respected, and Tremont was right. He should have kept a closer eye on the ex-FBI man. “We are working to find Griffin. It is a point of pride with me that we find him quickly.”
Tremont was silent, calming himself. At last he said, “Xavier tells me Martin Zellerbach was also looking for Griffin’s most recent address, obviously for Smith. As you suggested, there is a connection somewhere. Now we have evidence of it.”
“It is interesting that Bill Griffin has made no attempt to contact or approach Jon Smith. On the other hand, Smith visited Griffin’s ex-wife yesterday in Georgetown.”
Tremont considered. “Perhaps Griffin is playing both sides. Bill Griffin could turn out to be our most dangerous enemy, or our most useful weapon. Find him!”
__________
7:00 A.M.
San Francisco Mission District
Marty and Smith were awake and checked out by 7:00 A.M. By 8:00 they had driven across San Francisco’s glistening bay and were heading east on I-580. After Lathrop, they crossed to 99 and 120 and headed south through fertile inland farmlands to Merced, where they stopped to eat a late breakfast. Then they turned east again, straight toward Yosemite on 140. The day was cool but sunny, Marty was still calm, and as they reached the higher elevations the sky seemed to grow a translucent blue.
They climbed steadily to the three-thousand-foot Mid Pines Summit, picked up the rushing Merced River, and entered the park at El Portal. Marty had been watching quietly out the window. As they climbed two thousand feet beside the rapidly falling river and into the famed valley, his gaze continued to drink in the stunning mountain scenery.
“I think I’ve missed getting out,” he decided. “Indescribably beautiful.”
“And few people to interfere with the view.”
“Jon, you know me too well.”
They drove past the towering stream of Bridal Veil Falls, wreathed in its own rising mists, and the sheer cliffs of El Capitan. In the distance was legendary Half Dome and Yosemite Falls. They turned sharply onto the north fork of the valley drive and continued on Big Oak Flat Road to its junction with high-elevation Tioga Road, which was closed to all traffic from November to May and often far into June. They continued east through patches of snow and the magnificent scenery of the high country of the untamed Sierras. At last they headed down the eastern slope, the land growing drier and less lush.
As they descended, Marty began singing old cowboy tunes. The meds were wearing off. A few miles before Tioga Road reached Highway 395 and the town of Lee Vining, Smith turned onto a narrow blacktop road. On either side were parched, grassy open slopes with barbed-wire fences marking property lines. Cattle and horses grazed under trees whose black silhouettes stood stark against the gold-velvet mountains.
Marty burst into song: “Home, home on the range, where the deer and the antelope play! Where seldom is heard a discouraging word and the skies are not cloudy all day!”
Smith drove the car up dizzying switchbacks, crossed several streams on rickety wood bridges, and ended at the edge of a deep ravine with a broad creek roaring below. A narrow steel footbridge crossed the ravine to a clearing and a log cabin hidden among towering ponderosa pine and incense cedar. The snow-capped peak of thirteen-thousand-foot Mount Dana towered like a sentinel in the distance.
As Smith parked, Marty continued to fly through his mind, stimulated by the remarkable range of scenery— from ocean to mountains to cattle land. But now he realized they must be near their destination, and he would be expected to stay here. Sleep here. Maybe live here quite a while.
Smith came around and opened his door, and he climbed reluctantly out. He shrank from the footbridge, which swayed slightly in the wind. The ravine it crossed plunged thirty feet.
He announced, “I’m not putting a toe on that flimsy contraption.”
“Don’t look down. Come on, over you go.” Smith pushed.
Marty clutched the handrails all the way. “What are we doing in this wasteland anyway? There’s only that old shack over there.”
As they started up the dirt trail toward it, Jon said, “Our man lives there.”
Marty stopped. “That’s our destination? I will not stay five seconds in anything so primitive. I doubt it has indoor plumbing. It certainly has no electricity, which means no computer. I must have a computer!”
“It also has no killers,” Smith pointed out, “and don’t judge a book by its cover.”
Marty snorted. “That’s a cliché.”
“On with you.”
When they reached the ponderosas, they plunged into the gloom under the thick branches that towered high above. The aroma of pine filled the air. Ahead through the tall trees the shack stood silent. Every time Marty looked at it, he shook his head in dismay.
Suddenly a high-pitched snarl froze them in their tracks.
A full-grown mountain lion sprang from a tree ahead and crouched ten feet away. Its long tail whipped, and its yellow eyes glared.
“Jon!” Marty cried and turned to run.
Smith grabbed his arm. “Wait.”
A voice with an English accent spoke from somewhere ahead. “Stand quite still, gentlemen. Don’t raise a weapon, and he won’t hurt you. And perhaps neither will I”
___________________
CHAPTER
TWENTY TWO
___________________
1:47 P.M.
Near Lee Vining,
High Sierras, California
From the low-roofed porch of the cabin, a lean man of medium build stepped out of the shadows holding a British Enfield bullpup automatic rifle. His words were addressed to Smith, but his gaze was fixed on Marty Zellerbach. “You said nothing about bringing anyone with you, Jon. I don’t like surprises.”
Marty whispered, “I’d be happy to leave, Jon.”
Smith ignored him. Peter Howell was not Marty Zellerbach. His defenses were lethal, and you took them seriously. Smith spoke quietly to the man with the gun. “Whistle up the cat, Peter, and put down the armament. I’ve known Marty a lot longer than I’ve known you, and right now I need you both.”
“But I don’t know him,” the wiry man said just as quietly. “There’s the rub, eh? Are you saying you know all there is to know about him and that he’s clean?”
“Nobody cleaner, Peter.”
Howell studied Marty for a long minute, his pale blue eyes cool, clear, and as penetrating as an X-ray machine. Finally he gave a harsh sound somewhere between blowing air and clearing his throat. “Ouish, Stanley,” he said softly. “Good cat. Go on with you.”
The mountain lion turned and padded away behind the cabin, glancing back occasionally over his shoulder as if he hoped he would be called upon to pounce.