The Hades Factor

EPILOGUE

Santa Barbara…. Land of palms and magenta sunsets. Of diving seagulls and glossy yachts with white sails afurl on the turquoise channel. Of lovely young women and handsome young men in the briefest of swimware. Jon Smith, M.D., formerly of the U.S. Army, tried to occupy his mind with the languid beauty of this soft paradise where effort seemed trivial and appreciation of life, nature, and dreams was all.

It had been a fight to resign his commission. They had not wanted him to go, but he knew there was no other way for him to find a reason to live. He had said good-bye to his friends at USAMRIID, pausing a long time in Sophia's former office. Already an eager young man with a closetful of credentials had scattered his things where her pens, notes, and perfume had lain. Jon had stopped in his own office, which was empty, waiting for its next occupant, with less sadness. Then he had gone to say farewell to the new director. As he had stepped inside the office door, he could almost hear the noisy bombast of General Kielburger, who had turned out to have a strain of decency no one had suspected.

Then he had paid a company to pack up his house and put it on the market. He knew he would never be able to live there again, not without Sophia.

The whole sordid incident of the Hades Project had occupied the news media for weeks as more and more revelations of Victor Tremont's plans were made public and more arrests of once-respected private and public officials were reported. Legal charges against Jon Smith, Randi Russell, Martin Zellerbach, and a mysterious Englishman were quietly dropped. All refused interviews or any official gratitude for their roles. Details were swept under the mantle of national security. He was not pleased when an enterprising newswoman dug up some of his history at USAMRIID, Somalia, West Berlin, and Desert Storm and tried to draw a connection between it and his ability to face down the criminal activities of Victor Tremont and his cohorts. He was consoled by the fact that time would pass, other news would take over the headlines, and if he went far enough away and severed his ties as completely as he had managed… interest in him would dwindle. He would not be considered for even a footnote in history.

He had stopped for a day in Council Bluffs, Iowa, to see once again the river town of his birth. He walked through the downtown park with its water fountain and big graceful trees and went out to Bennett Avenue to sit in the parking lot and stare at Abraham Lincoln High School, remembering Bill and Marty and the days of their youth. It all had been so much simpler then. The next day, he had flown on to California to this tranquil resort pueblo with its distinctive red-tiled roofs and easy ambience. He had rented a beachside cottage next to the Remaks' house in Montecito and played poker twice a week there with a group of university professors and writers. He ate at local restaurants, walked the breakfront, and never struck up a conversation with strangers. He had nothing to say.

Today he was sitting on his deck barefoot and wearing shorts as he stared out at the cloud-rimmed islands. The air tasted of sea salt, and although the day was cool, the beaming sun seemed to warm him to the bones.

When the phone rang, he picked it up.

“Hi, soldier.” Randi's voice was bright and cheery. In the beginning, she had called nearly every day. There was the business of disposing of Sophia's belongings and condo, which the two of them had worked through as quickly as possible, each choosing important mementoes to hold Sophia's memory close. But then Randi had continued to phone a couple of times a week, and he had realized she was checking on him.

Amazingly, she was worried.

“Hi, spy,” he retorted. “Where are you now?”

“D.C. The big city. Remember it? Working away at my lowly, boring job here at the think tank. Oh, for a life of adventure. I don't think I'm going to have a new assignment for a while, but I get the sense they're cooking up something big. Meanwhile, they seem to think I need my rest. Why don't you visit for Christmas? All that sunshine and good weather must be getting on your nerves.”

“On the contrary. It suits me just fine. It's going to be just me and Santa. We'll have a jolly old time.”

“You'll miss me and Marty. I know you will. I'm having Christmas dinner with him. Of course, there's no way to blast him out of that little bungalow of his, so I have to go there.” She chuckled. “He's made Samson part of his fortress routine. You should see them together. Marty's particularly fond of the way Samson can make his fangs drip. At least, Marty claims Samson has control over that particular involuntary bodily function.” She paused. “You're a doctor. What do you think?”

“I think they're both crazy. Who's cooking?”

“I am. Unlike them, I'm not crazy. I want something edible. What do you like ― traditional turkey? Maybe a standing rib roast? How about a Christmas goose?”

It was his turn to laugh. “You're not going to talk me into going back. At least not yet.” He gazed out at the tranquil Pacific, rippling with sunshine. Santa Barbara was where Sophia and Randi had grown up. He had driven past their childhood home the day he arrived. It was a beautiful hacienda perched atop a cliff with panoramic ocean views. Randi had never asked whether he had visited it. There were still areas neither wanted to discuss.

Their conversation continued about five minutes longer before they said good-bye. As they hung up, Jon thought about Peter, who had returned to his California aerie as soon as he had gotten permission to leave Washington. His wounds had been as superficial as Jon's initial diagnosis had suggested, and only the cracked rib had given him continuing pain. Last week, Jon had called to see how he was feeling, but a machine had answered. He had left a message. Within the hour, some officious clerk had phoned to inform him that Mr. Howell was on an extended vacation and could not be reached for a month or more. But don't get discouraged, Dr. Smith. Mr. Howell would be in touch as soon as he was available.

Translation: Peter was off on some operation.

Jon crossed his arms and closed his eyes. A warm offshore wind ruffled his hair and sent the glass chimes at the corner of the deck into a series of tinkling tones. In the distance on the beach, a dog barked. Children laughed. Seagulls called. He propped his bare feet up on the rail and felt himself grow drowsy.

Behind him, a voice asked, “Had enough peace and quiet yet?”

Jon jumped. He had not heard a door open or footsteps tread across the raised-wood floor of the house he had rented. Automatically he reached for his Beretta, but it was locked in a safety-deposit box in Washington.

For just that instant, he was back on the trail of Victor Tremont, wary and alert… and alive.

“Who the hell!” He turned.

“Colonel Smith, good afternoon. I'm an admirer of yours. My name is Nathaniel Frederick Mein.”

In the open sliding-glass doorway between the house and the deck stood a man of medium height, dressed in a rumpled charcoal suit. He held a calfskin briefcase in his left hand. With his right, he dropped picklocks into his jacket pocket. He had a receding hairline, wirerimmed glasses pushed up high on his long nose, and pale skin that had not seen the sun for any length of time since summer.

“Dr. Smith,” Jon corrected him. “Just get in from Washington?”

Klein gave a short smile. “Dr. Smith, then. Yes, came straight here from the airport. Care to keep guessing?”

“I don't think so. You look like a man with a lot to say.”

“Do I?” He sat in a deck chair. “Very astute of you. But then, from everything I've learned, that's one of the characteristics that makes you most valuable.” He rattled off a short history of Jon's life, from birth through education and the army.

As he talked, Jon felt himself sinking deeper into his deck chair. He closed his eyes again. He sighed.

When Klein finished, Jon opened his eyes. “Got that all in your briefcase, I expect. Memorized it on the flight.”

Klein allowed himself a smile. “Actually, no. I've got a month's worth of magazines. I'm behind in my reading. The flight gave me a chance to catch up. Field and Stream. That sort of thing.” He loosened his tie, and his shoulders slumped with weariness. “Dr. Smith, I'll come right to the point. You're what we call a mobile cipher―”

“A what?”

“Mobile cipher,” he repeated. “You're at loose ends. You've just had a terrible tragedy that has irrevocably changed your life. But you're still a doctor, and I know that's important to you. You have training in arms, science, and intelligence, and I'm wondering what else is important to you. You have no family, and only a few close friends.”

“Yeah,” Jon said drily. “And I'm unemployable.”

Klein chuckled. “Hardly. Any of the new international private investigative agencies would welcome you. Obviously none of that appeals to you. One look at your resume is enough to convince anyone with common sense that you're something of a maverick, which means that despite your years in the army, you're really a self-starter. You like to run your own show, but you still have a strong sense of patriotism and a commitment to principle that made the army attractive, and you won't find that in any business.”

“I have no plans to start a business.”

“Good. You'd probably fail at it. Not that you wouldn't enjoy starting one. You've got an entrepreneurial nature. If you were driven to do it, you'd go through all the hell of setting up a business, make it hugely successful, and then once it was running smooth as hot butter, you'd either sell it or run it into the ground. Entrepreneurs by definition make lousy managers. They get bored too easily.”

“You think you've got me figured out. Who the hell are you?”

“We'll get to that in a minute. As I said, `mobile cipher,' I think we've established the `mobile' part. The `cipher' refers to how the unfortunate events in October altered you. The external changes are easy to tally ― quits job, sells house, goes on a pilgrimage to the past, refuses to see old friends, is living clear across the country. Have I left anything out?”

Jon nodded to himself. “Okay, I'm hooked. Let's get to the internal changes. But if this is a free therapy session, believe me, I'm not interested.”

“Touchy, too. That's to be expected. As I was saying, we don't know ― indeed, you probably don't know either ― how much this has changed you inside. You are, in effect, at this moment a cipher to yourself as well as to everyone else. If I'm right, you feel at odds with the world, as if you've lost your place in it. Also, that you can't seem to find a reason to go on living.” Klein paused, and his voice softened. “I lost my wife, too. To cancer. So please know that I have tremendous sympathy for you.”

Jon swallowed. He said nothing.

“And that's why I'm here. I've been authorized to offer you employment that should interest you.”

“I don't need or want a job.”

“This isn't about `job' or money, although you'll be well paid. This is about helping people, governments, environments, whoever or whatever is in crisis. You asked who I am, and I can't completely divulge that information unless you're willing to sign a secrecy agreement. I will tell you this: There are interested parties, high up in government, who have taken a personal interest in you. They are forming a very small, very elite group of self-starters like yourself ― mavericks who have strong ethics but few encumbrances in the world. It might mean occasional hardship, travel certainly, and danger. Not everyone would be interested. Even fewer would be capable. Do you find this idea at all appealing?”

Jon studied Klein. Sunlight glinted off his glasses, and his expression was solemn. Finally he asked, “What's this group called?”

“At the moment, Covert-One. Officially part of the army, but really independent. Nothing glamorous about it or the work, although the work will be vital.”

Jon turned away to gaze at the ocean as if he could see the future. He still carried the pain of Sophia's death, but as the days passed, he was learning to live with it. He could not imagine ever falling in love again, but perhaps someday he would think differently about it. He remembered the brief moment when Klein had surprised him: He had reached for his Beretta. It had been a completely automatic response, and he never would have guessed that he would have done that.

“You've come a long way for an answer,” Jon said noncommittally.

“We think it's an important question.”

He nodded. “Where do I get in touch with you if I decide that I'm interested?”

Klein stood. He gave off the air of a roan who had accomplished what he had set out to do. He reached inside his jacket and pulled out a simple white business card. On it was his name and a Washington phone number. “Don't be put off by whatever business answers. Just tell them your name and that you'd like to speak to me. We'll take it from there.”

“I didn't say I was going to do this.”

Klein nodded knowingly. He looked across the expansive view. A white seagull flew past, its feet tucked high as it rode the ocean air. “Nice here. Too many palm trees for my taste though.” He picked up his briefcase and headed into the house. “Don't bother to get up. I know my way out.” And he was gone.

Jon sat there another hour. Then he opened the gate on his porch and walked down onto the sand. It was warm on his feet. Automatically he turned east for his daily walk. The sun was behind him, and ahead the beach seemed to stretch into infinity. As he strolled, he thought about the future. He figured it was time.