Smith crawled over to join him as fast as he could, feeling terribly exposed along every inch of the way. He wriggled the last few feet into the weeds and lay still, breathing heavily.
Peter leaned close to his ear and motioned to the window. “Pierson is definitely inside.”
Smith smiled tightly. “Glad to hear it. I’d sure hate to have just wrecked my knees for nothing.” He rolled onto his side and tugged a handheld laser surveillance kit out of one of the Velcro-sealed pouches on his combat vest. He slipped on the attached headset, flipped a switch to activate the low-powered IR laser, and carefully aimed the device at the window above them.
If he could hold it steady enough, the laser beam would bounce back off the glass and pick up the vibrations induced in it by anyone talking inside the room. Then, assuming everything worked right, the electronics package should be able to translate those vibrations back into understandable sounds through his headphones.
Almost to his surprise, the system worked.
“Damn it, Kit,” he heard a man’s voice growl angrily. “You can’t back out of this operation now. We’re going ahead, whether you like it or not. There are no other options. Either we destroy the Lazarus Movement—or it destroys us!”
Chapter
Thirty
Lazarus’ Private Office
The man called Lazarus sat calmly behind a solid, age-darkened teak desk in his private office. The room was quiet, cool, and dimly lit. A ventilation system hummed softly in the background, bringing in air rigorously scrubbed clean of any trace of the outside world.
Much of the desk was taken up with a large computer-driven display. With the gentle flick of a finger on his keyboard, Lazarus switched rapidly between views relayed from cameras around the globe. One, apparently mounted aboard an aircraft, showed the winding trace of a river unrolling two or three thousand feet below. Villages, roads, bridges, and tracts of forest came into view and then slid off-camera. Another camera showed a dingy street crowded with stripped and vandalized automobiles. The street was lined with drab concrete-block buildings. Their windows and doors were heavily barricaded with steel bars.
Below the images on his display, three digital readouts showed the local time, the time in Paris, and the time along the eastern seaboard of the United States. A secure satellite phone system sat next to the computer. Two blinking green lights indicated pending connections to two of his special action teams.
Lazarus smiled, reveling in the exquisite sensation of watching a complex, intricately crafted plan unfolding with absolutely perfect timing. With one command, he had set in motion the last of his needed field experiments—the tests so necessary to refine his chosen instruments of the planet’s salvation. With another, he would begin the series of actions intended to throw the CIA, the FBI, and the British Secret Intelligence Service into self-destructive chaos.
Soon, he thought coldly, very soon. As the sun rose higher today, a horrified world would start to see its worst fears about the United States confirmed. Alliances would shatter. Old wounds would reopen. Long-held rivalries would burst again into open conflict. And by the time the full magnitude of what was really happening became clear, it would be impossible for anyone to stop him.
His internal phone chimed once. Lazarus tapped the speaker button. “Yes?”
“Our drones are within fifty kilometers of the target,” reported the voice of his senior technician. “Both are operating within the expected norms.”
“Very good. Continue as planned,” Lazarus ordered. He tapped the button, cutting the circuit. Another gentle flick of his finger completed the satellite connection to one of his action teams.
“The Paris operation is under way,” he told the man waiting patiently on the other end. “Be ready to carry out your instructions on my next signal.”
Rural Virginia
Three big 4×4 trucks were parked just inside a patch of scrub pines growing along the crest of a ridge several hundred yards west of Burke’s ramshackle farm. Twelve men wearing black jackets and sweaters and dark-colored jeans waited in the shelter of this clump of stunted trees. Four of them were posted as sentries at different points around the outside edge, keeping watch through British-made Simrad night-vision binoculars. Seven squatted patiently on the sandy soil farther inside the grove. They were busy making last-minute weapons checks on their assortment of assault rifles, submachine guns, and pistols.
The twelfth, the tall green-eyed man named Terce, sat in the cab of one of the 4×4s. “Understood,” he said into his secure cell phone. “We are standing by.” He hung up and went back to monitoring a heated conversation relayed through his radio set. An angry voice sounded in his headset. “Either we destroy the Lazarus Movement—or it destroys us!”
“Melodrama doesn’t suit you, Hal,” a woman’s voice answered icily. “I’m not suggesting that we surrender to the Movement. But TOCSIN itself is no longer worth the price we’re paying—or the risks we’re running. And I meant what I said over the phone earlier: If this lousy operation blows up in my face, I don’t plan to be the only one taking a fall.”
Listening to the transmission from a bug he had planted earlier that night, the second member of the Horatii nodded to himself. The CIA officer was quite right. FBI Deputy Assistant Director Katherine Pierson was no longer reliable. Not that it mattered very much anymore, he thought with a trace of grim amusement.
Automatically Terce checked the magazine on his Walther, screwed on the silencer, and then slid the pistol back into his coat pocket. He glanced at the luminous dial of his watch. There were only minutes at most remaining before he would need to act.
A soft, insistent beep signaled a priority call from one of his sentries. He switched channels. “Go ahead.”
“This is McRae. There’s something moving up near the house,” the lookout warned in a soft lowland Scots burr.
“I’m on my way,” Terce said. The big man slid out of the 4×4, ducking his head to clear the frame, and hurried to the edge of the pine woods. He found McRae crouched behind a fallen tree trunk overgrown with vines and moved low into position beside him.
“Take a look for yourself. In those bushes and tall grass close to the front door,” the short, wiry Scot said, pointing. “I can’t make out anything now, mind you, but I saw movement there just a minute ago.”
The green-eyed man raised his own binoculars, slowly scanning the south side of Burke’s house. Two man-shaped blotches leaped immediately into focus, bright white thermal blooms against the cooler gray of the dense vegetation in which they lay hidden.
“You have very good eyes, McRae,” Terce said calmly. The night-vision gear used by his sentries worked by amplifying all available ambient light. They turned night into eerie, green-tinted day, but they could not see “heat” in the way his special equipment could. Weighing over five pounds and with a price tag of nearly sixty thousand dollars, his French-made “Sophie” thermal-imaging binoculars were top-of-the-line in every way and far more effective. At night, under these overcast skies, the best passive light intensifier systems had a maximum range of three or four hundred yards, and often much less. In contrast, using thermal imaging he could detect the heat signature made by a human being up to two miles away—even through thick cover.
Terce wondered whether it was mere coincidence that these two spies appeared so soon after Kit Pierson arrived. Or had she brought them with her—either knowingly or unknowingly? The big man shrugged away the thought. He did not believe in coincidences. Nor, for that matter, did his ultimate employer.
Terce considered his options. For a moment he regretted the Center’s decision to transfer his specialist sniper to the Paris-based security force. It would have been simpler and far less dangerous to eliminate these two enemies with a pair of well-aimed long-range rifle shots. Then he quickly realized wishing would not alter the circumstances. His team was trained and equipped for close-quarters action—so those were the tactics he would have to employ.
Terce handed the binoculars to McRae. “Keep an eye on those two,” he ordered coolly. “Let me know if they make any sudden moves.” Then he pulled out his cell phone and hit a preset number.
The phone on the other end rang once. “Burke here.”
“This is Terce,” he said quietly. “Do not react openly in any way to what I am about to say. Do you understand me?”
There was a short pause. “Yes, I understand you,” Burke said at last.
“Good. Now then, listen carefully. My security team has detected hostile activity near your house. You are under close observation. Very close observation. Within meters, in fact.”
“That’s very … interesting,” the CIA officer said tightly. He hesitated briefly. “Can your people handle this situation on their own?”
“Most definitely,” Terce assured him.
“And do you have a time frame for that?” Burke asked.
The big man’s bright green eyes gleamed in the darkness. “Minutes, Mr. Burke. Only minutes.”
“I see.” Again Burke hesitated. Finally, he asked, “Should I consider this an interagency matter?”
Terce knew that the other man was asking if Kit Pierson was somehow responsible for the snoopers now almost literally on his doorstep. He smiled. At this point, whether that was true or not was immaterial. “I think it would be wise to do so.”
“That’s too bad,” the CIA officer said edgily. “Really too bad.”
“Yes, it is,” the big man agreed. “For now, hold tight where you are. Out.”
Terce flipped the phone shut. Then he retrieved his thermal-imaging binoculars from McRae. “Go back to the vehicles and bring the others here,” he said. “But I want them to come quietly.” He grinned wolfishly. “Tell them they’re going hunting.”
“Who was that, Hal?” Kit Pierson asked, clearly puzzled.
“The duty officer at Langley,” Burke told her, speaking slowly and distinctly. His voice sounded strained and unnatural. “The NSA just sent over a courier with a few Movement-related intercepts. …”
Jon Smith listened closely. He frowned. Still holding the laser microphone aimed at the window above him, he glanced at Peter Howell. “Something’s wrong,” he whispered. “Burke just got a phone call and now he’s gone all stiff. He’s just bullshitting, not really saying anything.”
“Do you think he’s tumbled to us?” Peter asked quietly.
“Maybe. But I don’t see how.”
“We may have underestimated this fellow,” Peter said. The corners of his mouth turned down. “A cardinal sin in this line of work, I’m afraid. I suspect Mr. Burke of the CIA has more resources available to him here than we had hoped.”
“Meaning he has backup?”
“Quite possibly.” The Englishman dug the USGS survey map out of one of the pockets on his vest and studied it, tracing the contour lines and terrain features with one gloved finger. He tapped the outline of a wooded ridge not far off to the west. “If I wanted to keep a good, close eye on this house, that’s where I would put my observation post.”
Smith felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise. Peter was right. That ridge offered a clear view of most of the ground around the farmhouse, including their current position. “What do you suggest?”
“An immediate retreat,” the pale-eyed man said crisply, stuffing the survey map back into his vest pocket. He pulled the Heckler & Koch MP5 submachine gun over his head and yanked back on the cocking handle, chambering a 9mm round. “We don’t know how strong the opposition is, and I don’t see any point in loitering about to learn the hard way. We’ve acquired some useful information, Jon. Let’s not push our luck further tonight.”
Smith nodded, already putting the laser microphone and its associated gear away. “Good point.” He readied his own submachine gun.
“Then follow me.” Peter rolled to his feet and then, bent almost double, scurried back to the cover offered by the two cars parked close to the house. Smith followed him, moving as fast as he could while also staying low to the ground. At any second he expected to hear a startled shout or feel the sudden impact of a bullet. But he heard and felt only the silence of the night and the pounding of his own accelerating pulse.
From there, they moved past the ruined barn and on down the slope into the bramble-choked field below, trying to keep the bulk of the little hill between them and the higher ridge to the west. Peter led the way, ghosting quietly through the snarled clumps of thorns and waist-high weeds with a grace born out of years of training and experience.
They were close to the edge of the stagnant pond when the Englishman suddenly went prone, hugging the dirt behind a patch of raspberry bushes. Smith dropped flat behind him and then crawled forward, using his elbows and knees while cradling the MP5 against his chest. He tried hard not to breathe in too deeply. They were below the level of the cool breeze whispering across the field, and the air was thick with the pent-up stench of algae and rotting fruit.
“Christ,” Peter muttered. “That’s torn it! Listen.”
Smith heard the faint noise of a powerful engine, growing steadily louder. Cautiously he raised his head to peer over the top of the closest bush. About two hundred yards away a large black 4×4 cruised slowly past on the county road, traveling east. It was driving without lights.
“You think they’ll spot our cars?” he asked softly.
Peter nodded grimly. The small stand of trees in which they had parked would not hide their vehicles from a determined search. “They’re sure to,” he said. “And when they do, all hell will break loose—if it hasn’t already.” He glanced back over his shoulder. “And it has, alas,” he murmured. “Take a look behind us, Jon. But do it slowly.”
Smith carefully turned his head and saw a skirmish line of five men wearing night-vision goggles and dark clothing slowly descending the gentle slope behind them. Each carried a submachine gun or an assault rifle cradled in both hands.
Jon felt his mouth go dry. The closest of the armed men hunting them was already just a little more than one hundred yards away. He and Peter were trapped.
“Any ideas?” Smith hissed.
“Yes. We drive those five men to ground and then we both run like rabbits,” Peter answered. “Stay away from the road, though. Not enough cover in that direction. We’ll head north.” He spun around and came up on one knee with his submachine gun at the ready, followed a second later by Smith.
For an instant Jon hesitated, pausing with his finger already on the trigger—wondering if he should shoot to kill or simply to frighten. Were these some of the same men who had already tried to kill him? Or allied to them? Or were they regular CIA personnel or private security guards roped in by Burke to guard his property?
Their sudden movement attracted the attention of one of the gunmen moving down the hill. He froze. “Contact, front!” he yelled in heavily accented English. Then he opened fire with his submachine gun, spraying a hail of 9mm bullets toward the two kneeling men.
Smith’s doubts dissolved as the incoming rounds snapped and whined through the air around him. These guys were mercenaries, and they were not trying to take prisoners. He and Peter fired back, squeezing off a series of aimed three-round bursts with their MP5s—walking their fire from opposite ends of the enemy skirmish line toward the middle. One of the five gunmen screamed suddenly and folded over, hit in the stomach. The other four dived for cover.
“Let’s go!” Peter said sharply, tapping Smith on the shoulder.
Both men jumped to their feet and sprinted off into the darkness, angling north, well away from the county road. Again, the Englishman led the way, but this time he did not waste any time trying to find easier paths through the tangle of brush and brambles. Instead, he crashed right through even the densest briar patches at full bore. Stealth was out in favor of speed. They needed to cover as much ground as possible before the surviving gunmen recovered from their surprise and started shooting again.
Smith ran fast, his heart poun
ding as he followed right in Peter’s wake. He kept his gloved hands and the submachine gun out in front of him, trying to keep his face from being lacerated by the welter of splintered branches and sharp-edged thorns. Brambles tugged and tore at his arms and legs, jabbing and slashing right through the thick cloth. Sweat trickled down his forearms, stinging like fire when it mingled with his new puncture wounds, cuts, and scrapes.
More gunfire erupted behind them. Rounds zipped through the thick undergrowth on either side—clipping off leaves and twigs and spattering the fragments in all directions.
The two men threw themselves down and wriggled round to face the way they had come, seeking cover in a slight depression worn away by runoff from the hill above them. “Determined bastards,” Peter commented coolly as rifle bullets and submachine gun rounds ripped past right over their heads. “I’ll give them that.” He listened intently. “That’s only two men firing. We hit one. So where are the other two?”
“Closing in on us,” Smith said grimly. “While their pals cover them.”
“Quite likely,” Peter agreed. He smiled suddenly. “Let’s teach them that’s not such a good idea, shall we?”
Jon nodded.
“Right,” Peter said calmly. “Here we go.”
Ignoring the bullets still tearing up the brush around them, both men reared up and began firing—again sweeping three-round bursts back and forth across the field in front of them. Smith had a quick impression of startled yells and barely glimpsed shapes diving behind clumps of tall weeds and brambles. More weapons opened up with a stuttering, clattering roar as the gunmen they had driven prone began shooting back.
Smith and Peter dropped back into the shallow drainage ditch and crawled rapidly away along its meandering trace. It fell away to the east, following the slight slope of the long-abandoned field. After moving about fifty yards, they risked poking their heads up for another quick look. One of their pursuers was still firing short bursts in their general direction in an effort to pin them down. The other three gunmen were in motion again, but they were also heading east—rapidly deploying into a dispersed firing line across the width of the forty-acre field.