Hal Burke sat at the desk in his study, listening to the rain beat down on the roof of what he sardonically termed his “occasional weekend country retreat.” One of his great-uncles had farmed this piss-poor patch of land for decades before the constant toil and frustration finally killed him. After his death, it had passed through the hands of several slow-witted cousins before it landed in the CIA officer’s lap ten years ago as partial repayment of an old family debt.
He had neither the money nor the time to put in any crops, but he valued the seclusion the farm offered. No uninvited guests ever came knocking on his door out here—not even the local Jehovah’s Witnesses. It was so far off the beaten track that even the fast-growing tentacles of the northern Virginia suburbs had passed it by. When the weather was clear, Burke could walk outside at night and see the sickly orange glow made by the lights of Washington, D.C., and its sprawling bedroom communities. They stained the sky in a vast arc to the north, northeast, and east, a constant reminder of the hive culture and the bogged-down bureaucracy he so despised.
Over the poor backcountry roads and traffic-clogged highways, travel to and from Langley was often long and torturous, but an array of secure communications equipment—installed at federal expense—allowed him to work from the farm should any sudden crisis arise. The gear functioned well enough for official CIA use. More advanced pieces of hardware and software, supplied by others, made it possible for him to control the far-flung elements of TOCSIN in greater security. He had come straight here after his midnight meeting with Hanson. Events were moving fast now and he needed to stay in close touch with his agents.
His computer chimed, signaling the arrival of an encrypted situation report from the security unit working in New Mexico. He frowned. They were late.
Burke rubbed at his eyes and typed in his password. The jumble of seemingly random characters, letters, and numbers instantly changed shape, forming coherent words and then whole sentences as the decoding program did its job. He read through the message with increasing alarm.
“Damn it,” he muttered. “Who the hell is this bastard?” Then he picked up the secure phone next to his computer and dialed his FBI counterpart. “Kit, listen up,” he said urgently. “There’s a situation I need you to handle. A corpse has to disappear. Permanently and pronto.”
“Colonel Smith?” Pierson asked levelly.
Burke scowled. “I wish.”
“Fill me in,” she said. He could hear rustling in the background as she threw on her clothes. “And no evasions this time. Just the facts.”
The CIA officer briefed her rapidly on the failed ambush. Pierson listened in icy silence. “I’m growing rather tired of cleaning up the messes left by your private army, Hal,” she said bitterly after he finished.
“Smith had backup,” Burke snapped. “That was something we didn’t anticipate. We all thought he was operating as a lone wolf.”
“Any description of this other man?” she asked.
“No,” the CIA officer admitted. “It was too dark for my people to get a good look at him.”
“Wonderful,” Pierson said coldly. “This just gets better and better, Hal. Now Smith will be sure there’s something fishy about the terrorist SUV buy I’ve linked to the Movement. Why don’t you just go ahead and paint a big, fat bull’s-eye on my forehead?”
Burke resisted the urge to slam the phone down. “Constructive suggestions would be more welcome, Kit,” he said finally.
“Shut TOCSIN down,” she told him. “This whole operation has been a disaster right from the start. And with Smith still alive and sniffing around my heels, I don’t have the maneuvering room I need to push this investigation toward Lazarus.”
He shook his head. “I can’t do that. Our people already have their next orders. We’re in more danger if we try to abort now than we are if we go ahead.”
There was a long silence.
“Let’s be clear about one thing, Hal,” Pierson said tightly. “If TOCSIN comes apart at the seams, I’m not going to be the only one taking the fall, understand?”
“Is that a threat?” Burke asked slowly.
“Call it a statement of fact,” she replied. The phone went dead.
Hal Burke sat staring at his screen for several minutes, considering his next move. Was Kit Pierson losing her nerve? He hoped not. He had never really liked the dark-haired woman, but he had always respected her courage and her will to win at all costs. Without them, she would be only a liability—a liability TOCSIN could not afford.
He made a decision and began typing fast, composing a new set of instructions to the remnants of the unit in New Mexico.
Lazarus Movement Secure Videoconference
Around the world, small groups of men and women of every color and race gathered in secret. They met in front of satellite-linked monitors and video cameras. They were the elite of the Lazarus Movement, the leaders of its most important action cells. All of them appeared on-edge, straining at the leash—eager to launch the operations they had been planning for many months.
The man called Lazarus stood at ease in front of a huge display, one that showed him the pictures relayed from each assembled group. He knew that none of them would see his real face or hear his real voice. As always, his advanced computer systems and software were busy constructing the different, idealized images fed to each Movement cell. Equally sophisticated software provided simultaneous language translation.
“The time has come,” Lazarus said. He smiled slightly, seeing the shiver of anticipation ripple through each of his distant audiences. “Millions of people in Europe, Asia, Africa, and the Americas are flocking to our cause. The political and financial strength of our Movement is increasing by leaps and bounds. In short order, whole governments and corporations will tremble before our growing power.”
His confident statement drew nods of approval and murmurs of excitement from the watching Movement leaders.
Lazarus held up a hand in warning. “But do not forget that our enemies are also on the move. Their secret war against us has failed. So now the open war I have long predicted has begun. The slaughters in Santa Fe and in Chicago are surely only the first of many atrocities they plan.”
He stared directly into the cameras, knowing that it would appear to each of the widely dispersed cells that his eyes were focused solely on them. “The war has begun,” he repeated. “We have no choice. We must strike back, swiftly and surely and without remorse. Wherever possible, your operations should avoid taking innocent life, but we must destroy these nanotech laboratories—the breeding vats of death—before our enemies can unleash more horrors on the world, and on us.”
“What about the facilities of Nomura PharmaTech?” the head of the Tokyo cell asked. “After all, this corporation, alone among all the others, has already agreed to our demands. Their research work is at an end.”
“Spare Nomura PharmaTech?” Lazarus said coldly. “I think not. Hideo Nomura is a shrewd young man—too shrewd. He bends when the wind is strong, but does not break. When he smiles, it is the smile of a shark. Do not be taken in by Nomura. I know him far too well.”
The leader of the Tokyo cell bowed his head, accepting the reproof. “It shall be as you command, Lazarus.”
When at last the conference screens went dark, the man called Lazarus stood alone, savoring his moment of triumph. Years of planning and preparation were coming to fruition. Soon the hard and dangerous work of reclaiming the world would begin. And soon the harsh, but necessary, sacrifices he had made would be redeemed.
His eyes clouded over briefly, full of remembered pain. Softly he recited the poem, a haiku, that often lingered close to the edge of his waking mind:
“Sorrow, like mist, falls
On a father forsaken
By his faithless son.”
Chapter
Twenty-Three
North of Santa Fe
The morning sun, rising ever higher in a cloud-streaked azure sky, seemed to set the big,
flat-topped hill looming above the Rancho de Chimayó aflame. Piñon pines and junipers along its crest stood starkly outlined against the dazzling golden light. Sunshine spread down steep slopes and threw long shadows across the old hacienda’s sprawling apple orchards and terraced patios.
Still wearing his jeans, boots, and corduroy jacket, Jon Smith walked through the crowded dining rooms of the ancient adobe house and out onto a stone-flagged patio. Set in the foothills roughly twenty-five miles north of Santa Fe, the Rancho de Chimayó was one of the oldest restaurants in New Mexico. Its owners traced their lineage back to the original wave of Spanish colonists in the Southwest. Their family had first settled at Chimayó in 1680, during the long and bloody Pueblo Indian revolt against Spanish rule.
Peter Howell was seated there already, waiting for him at one of the patio tables. He waved his old friend into the empty chair across from him. “Take a pew, Jon,” he said kindly. “Damned if you don’t look all in.”
Smith shrugged, resisting the temptation to yawn. “I had a long night.”
“Any serious trouble?”
Jon shook his head. Collecting his laptop and other gear from the Fort Marcy suites had proved unexpectedly easy. Wary at first of FBI or terrorist surveillance, he had used every trick he knew to flush any tail—without spotting anyone. But doing that right took time, and lots of it. Which meant he had not checked into his new digs, a cheap fleabag motor lodge on the outskirts of Santa Fe, until close to dawn. Then he had phoned Fred Klein and told him about the unsuccessful attempt on his life. All in all, he had scarcely had time to close his eyes before Peter called to set this clandestine rendezvous.
“And no one followed you? Then or now?” the Englishman asked after listening intently to Smith’s account of his actions.
“Not a soul.”
“Most curious,” Peter said, arching a shaggy gray eyebrow. He frowned. “And more than a little worrying.”
Smith nodded. Try as he might, he could not understand why the FBI had been so eager to track his movements all yesterday—and then seemingly called off its team only hours before four gunmen tried to kill him. Maybe Kit Pierson’s agents had simply assumed he was in his suite to stay and packed it in for the night, but that seemed uncharacteristically sloppy.
“What about you and Heather Donovan?” he asked. “Did you have any trouble getting her away safely?”
“Not a bit,” Peter said easily. He checked his watch. “By now the lovely Ms. Donovan is winging her way across America—bound for her aunt’s home on the shores of the Chesapeake.”
“You never thought she was in serious danger, did you?” Smith asked quietly.
“Once the shooting stopped, you mean?” the older man said. He shrugged. “No, not really, Jon. You were the primary target, not her. Ms. Donovan is just what she seems—a somewhat naive young woman with a good heart and a decent brain. Since she has no real knowledge of whatever it is that the upper echelons of the Lazarus Movement are planning, I doubt very much that they will view her as a serious threat. So long as the young lady stays well away from you, she ought to be perfectly safe.”
“And there you have the story of my love life,” Smith said with a twisted smile.
“Occupational hazard, I’m afraid,” Peter said lightly. He grinned. “I mean, of the medical life, naturally. Perhaps you should try intelligence work instead. I understand spies are all the rage this season.”
Smith ignored the gentle tweak. He knew the Englishman was sure he worked for one of the various U.S. intelligence agencies, but Peter made it a point of professional courtesy never to pry too deeply. Just as he tried to avoid asking too many inconvenient questions about the older man’s occasional work for Her Majesty’s government.
Peter looked up as a smiling waitress in a frilled white blouse and long flowing skirt approached, bearing a large tray crowded with plates and a pot of hot, fresh coffee. “Ah, the grub,” he said happily. “Hope you don’t mind, but I took the liberty of ordering for both of us.”
“Not at all,” Smith said, suddenly aware that he was desperately hungry.
For several minutes the two men ate rapidly—feasting on eggs cooked with slices of chorizo sausage, black beans, and spicy pico de gallo, a salsa made with red and green chilies, tomatoes, onions, cilantro, and small dollops of sour cream. To help tame the fiery taste of the salsa, the restaurant provided a basket of homemade sopaipillas, light pillows of puffy fried bread best served warm with drizzled honey and melted butter poked through a hole on top.
When they finished, Peter sat back with a contented look on his craggy face. “In some parts of the world, a prodigious belch right now would be considered a compliment to the chef,” he said. His eyes twinkled. “But for the moment, I’ll refrain.”
“Believe me, I’m grateful,” Smith told him drily. “I’d actually like to be able to eat here again sometime.”
“To business, then,” Peter said. He pointed to the mass of long gray hair on his head. “No doubt you’ve been wondering about my changed appearance.”
“Just a bit,” Smith admitted. “You look sort of like an Old Testament prophet.”
“I do rather,” the Englishman agreed complacently. “Well, look your last upon this hoary mane of mine and weep, for like Samson I shall soon be shorn.” He chuckled. “But it was all in a good cause. Some months ago, an old acquaintance asked me to poke my long nose into the inner workings of the Lazarus Movement.”
For “old acquaintance” read MI6, the British Secret Intelligence Service, Smith thought.
“Well, that sounded like a bit of fun, so I grew the old locks somewhat shaggy, changed my name to something appropriately biblical and impressive-sounding, and drifted into the outer ranks of the Movement—posing as a retired Canadian forestry official with a radical grudge against science and technology.”
“Did you have any luck?” Smith asked.
“In penetrating the Movement’s inner core? No, alas,” Peter said. His expression turned more serious. “The leadership is damned fanatical about its security. I never quite managed to break through its safeguards. Still, I learned enough to worry me. Most of these Lazarus followers are decent enough, but there are some very hard-edged types manipulating them from behind the scenes.”
“Like the guys who tried to nail me last night?”
“Perhaps,” Peter said reflectively. “Though I would characterize them as more brawn than brains. I had my eye on them for several days before they attacked you—ever since they first arrived at the Lazarus rally, in fact.”
“Any particular reason?”
“At first, simply the way they moved,” Peter explained. “Those fellows were like a pack of wolves gliding through a flock of grazing sheep. You know what I mean. Too careful, too controlled … too aware of their surroundings at all times.”
“Kind of like us?” Smith suggested with a thin smile.
Peter nodded. “Precisely.”
“And were your ‘friends’ in London able to make anything out of the material you sent them?” Jon asked, remembering the digital photos and fingerprints Howell had taken of the shaven-headed gunman he had killed.
“I’m afraid not,” Peter said regretfully. “So far my inquiries have drawn a complete blank.” He reached into the pocket of his sheepskin coat and then slid a computer disk across the table toward Smith. “Which is why I thought you might care to take your own stab at identifying the fellow you so efficiently put down last night.”
Smith looked steadily back at him. “Oh?”
“There’s no need to play coy, Jon,” Peter told him with a hint of amusement. “I’m quite sure you have your own friends—or friends of friends—who can run those pictures and prints through their databases … as a personal favor to you, of course.”
“It may be possible,” Smith admitted slowly. He took the disk. “But I’ll have to find a connection for my computer first.”
The older man smiled openly now. “Then you’ll be
pleased to hear that our hosts have access to a wireless Internet node. This charming hacienda may date back to the seventeenth century, but its owners’ business sense is very firmly rooted in our modern age.” Peter pushed his chair back and stood up. “And now I’m sure you’d like some privacy, so like a good little guard dog I’ll go and prowl around the rest of the grounds.”
Jon watched him go, shaking his head in hopeless admiration at the Englishman’s ability to get what he wanted from almost anybody. “Peter Howell could con a tribe of cannibals into turning vegetarian,” CIA officer Randi Russell, a mutual friend of theirs, had once told him. “And probably persuade them to pay him for the privilege.”
Still amused, Smith dialed Fred Klein’s number on his encrypted cell phone.
“Yes, Colonel,” the head of Covert-One said.
Smith relayed Peter’s request for help in identifying the dead gunman. “I’ve got the disk with the photos and fingerprints right here,” he finished.
“What does Howell know?” Klein asked.
“About me? He hasn’t asked,” Smith said forcefully. “Peter is sure that I’m working for Army Intelligence, or one of the other Pentagon outfits, but he’s not pushing for specifics.”
“Good,” Klein said. He cleared his throat. “All right, Jon, send me the files, and I’ll see what we can dig up. Can you stay on where you are? This could take a while.”
Smith looked around the quiet, restful terrace. The sun was high enough now to provide some real warmth. And the sweet scent of flowers hung in the fresh air. He signaled the waitress for another pot of coffee. “No sweat, Fred,” he said into the phone with an easy, relaxed drawl. “I’ll just sit here and suffer.”
The head of Covert-One called back within the hour. He didn’t waste time in pleasantries. “We have a serious problem, Colonel,” he said grimly.