Robert Ludlum's the Lazarus Vendetta

  Peter drew aside the flap and peered inside.

  He sucked in his breath, staring down at two foot-long blocks of plastic explosive wrapped together. They were wired to a detonator and a digital watch. Czech-made Semtex or American-manufactured C4, he decided, with an improvised timer. Either way, he knew that was enough plastic explosive to make one devil of a bang when it went off. And now he saw that the numbers on the watch were blinking rhythmically, steadily falling toward zero.

  Chapter

  Forty-Four

  The White House

  “Ambassador Nichols is on the phone, sir,” the White House waiter said deferentially. “The secure line.”

  “Thank you, John,” said President Sam Castilla, pushing away his plate of untouched food. With his wife away and the Lazarus crisis growing worse with every passing hour, he was taking his meals alone, usually, like tonight, on a tray in the Oval Office. He picked up the phone. “What’s up, Owen?”

  Owen Nichols, the U.S. ambassador to the UN, was one of Castilla’s closest political allies. They had been friends since college. Neither man felt any need to stand on ceremony with the other. And neither believed in sugarcoating bad news. “The Security Council is moving toward a final vote on the nanotech resolution, Sam,” he said. “I expect it within the hour.”

  “That fast?” Castilla asked in surprise. The UN almost never acted quickly. The organization preferred consensus and lengthy, almost interminable discussion. He had thought it would take the Council another day or two to bring the nanotech resolution up for a vote.

  “That fast,” Nichols confirmed. “The debate’s been strictly pro forma. Everybody knows the votes are there to pass this damned thing unanimously—unless we veto it.”

  “What about the UK?” Castilla asked, shocked.

  “Their ambassador, Martin Rees, says they can’t afford to buck the international consensus on this issue, not after the revelations that MI6 was tied into this secret war against Lazarus. They have to go against us on this one. He says the PM’s job is hanging by a thread as it is.”

  “Damn,” Castilla muttered.

  “I only wish that were the worst news I had,” Nichols said quietly.

  The president tightened his grip on the phone. “Go on.”

  “Rees wanted me to pass on something else he picked up from the British Foreign Office. France and Germany and some of the other European countries have been working on another nasty surprise for us, behind the scenes. After we veto the Security Council resolution, they plan to demand our immediate suspension from all NATO military and political roles—on the grounds that we might otherwise use NATO resources as part of our illegal war on Lazarus.”

  Castilla breathed out, trying to control the anger he felt boiling up inside. “The vultures are circling, I guess.”

  “Yes, they are, Sam,” Nichols said tiredly. “Between the massacres in Zimbabwe, Santa Fe, and Paris and now these stories about CIA-sponsored murders, our good name overseas is completely shot. So this is the perfect time for our so-called friends to cut us down to size.”

  After he finished speaking with Nichols and hung up, Castilla sat for a moment longer, his head bowed under the weight of events that were moving beyond his ability to control. He glanced tiredly at the elegant grandfather clock along one curved wall. Fred Klein had said he thought Colonel Smith was on the trail of something significant in Paris. The corners of his mouth turned down. Whatever Smith was chasing had better pan out—and quickly.

  Paris

  For a fraction of a second longer, Peter stared down at the activated demolition charge, unwillingly admiring the sheer thoroughness of the opposition. When it came to covering their tracks, he thought, these fellows never stopped at half-measures. After all, why be satisfied with killing a few potential witnesses when you could blow apart the whole building as well? The timer flickered through another second, still inexorably counting down toward its predetermined end.

  He jumped to his feet and ran toward Jon and Randi, dodging around the worktables and bullet-smashed electronics gear. “Out!” he yelled, pointing to the windows. “Get out now!”

  They stared at him, plainly mystified by the sudden urgency in his voice.

  Peter skidded to a stop beside the two perplexed Americans. “There’s at least one ruddy great bomb set to go off in this building—and probably more!” he explained fast, the words tumbling out of his mouth. Then he grabbed each of them by a shoulder and shoved them toward the two windows they had smashed open to get inside. “Go on! If we’re lucky, we might have thirty seconds!”

  Horrified understanding at last dawned on Jon’s and Randi’s faces.

  They each grabbed one of the three ropes still dangling in through the windows. “No time to waste trying to clip into a harness,” Peter told them. “Just use the bloody rope!”

  Smith nodded. He jumped up onto the stone window ledge, whipped a length of the rappel rope around behind his hip, brought it diagonally up and over the opposite shoulder, back across to the same hip, and then along his arm down to the hand he would use as a brake. He saw Peter and Randi doing the same thing with their own ropes.

  “Ready?” Peter asked.

  “Set!” Jon confirmed. Randi nodded.

  “Then go! Go! Go!”

  Smith leaned out, turned sideways toward the ground, and simply let gravity do most of the work, plunging down the side of the building in huge bounds. The ground rushed up at him at a dizzying pace. He could smell the nylon rope scorching through his leather gloves and feel it burning across his shoulder and hip.

  He was aware of Peter and Randi keeping pace with him. All three of them came hurtling down the wall at high speed.

  When he judged he was just twenty feet or so above the little cobblestone alley running behind the Movement headquarters, Smith tightened the grip of his braking hand and pulled that same arm sharply across his chest in a hard, fast movement. He did not want to risk hitting the ground at that speed, and going that fast there was no way he could brake gently or slowly. He slammed to a stop, dangling only ten or twelve feet above the ground.

  In that instant, a series of enormous explosions tore through the upper floors of the building soaring above him—rippling from one end of Number 18 rue de Vigny to the other in a growing fury of flame and glowing superheated air. Hellish tongues of fire burst through every window, scorching the night and turning the darkness as bright as day in one blinding, awful moment. Broken pieces of stone and slate and other debris tumbled high into the air, lit from beneath by the inferno consuming the Lazarus Movement headquarters.

  Smith felt his rope give way—ripped apart by the blast. He dropped, hit the ground hard, and rolled. Randi and Peter thudded down beside him. They scrabbled to their feet and ran for it, streaking down the darkened alley as fast as they could go, slipping and skidding on the dank, smooth cobblestones. Huge chunks of rubble were falling all around them—smashing onto nearby roofs or crashing down into the tight confines of the alley with killing force.

  The trio burst out of the mouth of the alley and turned onto a wider cross street. Still running at full speed, they ducked into the recessed door of a small tobacco shop, seeking cover. A new wave of white-hot debris cascaded down across the surrounding streets and buildings, punching craters in roofs and pavements and setting new fires in its wake. The shrill anti-theft alarms going off in parked cars pummeled by the falling wreckage only added to the unholy din rising on all sides.

  “Anyone have any brilliant ideas?” Randi said quickly. They could all hear sirens in the distance, drawing nearer with every passing second.

  “We need to get clear of this area and drop out of sight,” Smith said grimly. “And fast.” He looked at her. “Can you call for help on that radio of yours?”

  She shook her head. “My radio’s kaput.” She yanked off the headset with a disgusted look. “I must have landed right on the damned thing when those bombs cut my rope. It sure feels like I did, anyw
ay!”

  A blue Volvo sedan came screeching around the corner from the rue de Vigny. It swung sharply in their direction and came roaring ahead. They were caught in its glaring twin headlights, silhouetted against the locked and barred door of the little tobacco shop. They were trapped, with nowhere to run and nowhere to hide.

  Wearily Smith turned, fumbling for his SIG-Sauer, but Randi caught his arm and shook her head. “Believe it or not, Jon,” she said in amazement, “that’s actually one of ours.”

  The sedan braked hard, skidding to a stop just a few feet away. A window rolled down. They saw Max’s astonished face peering up at them from behind the wheel. He grinned weakly. “Man! When that building blew up, I never thought I’d see you folks again—not in one piece anyway.”

  “I guess it’s just your lucky day, Max,” Randi told him. She scrambled into the front seat while Jon and Peter piled into the back.

  “Where to?” the CIA agent asked her.

  “Anywhere for now,” Randi said tersely. “Just put some distance between us … and that!” She jerked a thumb over her shoulder at the blazing pillar of fire roaring high into the night sky.

  “Sure thing, boss,” Max replied quietly. He spun the steering wheel through a half-circle and pulled back onto the street. Then, keeping a wary eye on his rearview mirror, he drove away at a sedate but steady pace.

  By the time the first fire trucks and police cars pulled up outside the blazing, bomb-gutted ruins of Number 18 rue de Vigny, they were already more than a mile away and heading for the outskirts of Paris.

  The Forest of Rambouillet lay roughly thirty-five miles southwest of the city. It was a lovely expanse of woods, lakes, and ancient stone abbeys tucked away amid the tall trees. The elegant mansion and beautiful grounds of the château of Rambouillet stood in the heart of this rolling woodland. The château itself, more than six centuries old, had once been a weekend country retreat for several French kings. Now it served the same purpose for presidents of the French Republic.

  The northern fringes of the woods, however, were miles removed from the glories of the château and mostly deserted—a haven for herds of skittish deer and a few wild boars. Narrow roads wandered here and there under the trees, providing access for hikers and for the occasional government forester.

  In a small clearing just off one of those rough woodland tracks, Lieutenant Colonel Jon Smith sat on a tree stump, bandaging the reopened knife wound on his left forearm. Finished, he put aside the tape and unused gauze. Then he tested his new field dressing, rotating his arm back and forth to make sure it would stand the strain of sudden movement.

  Smith realized that at some point, the wound would need new stitches, but at least this bandage should stop the worst of the bleeding. With that accomplished, he pulled on a fresh shirt, wincing slightly as the cotton knit slid over fresh cuts, bruises, and knotted muscles.

  He stood up, stretching and twisting as he did so in an effort to clear away some of the fatigue crowding in on his exhausted mind. A half-moon hung low in the west, barely visible above the canopy of the surrounding forest. But a small hint of pale gray light on the eastern horizon signaled the slow approach of dawn. The sun would be up in a couple of hours.

  He glanced across at his companions. Peter was sleeping on the front seat of the Volvo, snatching whatever rest he could with the practiced ease of a veteran soldier. Randi stood next to a small black Peugeot parked at the far end of the clearing, quietly conferring with Max and another CIA agent—a junior officer named Lewis who had just driven out from Paris to deliver the new civilian clothes they needed. She was undoubtedly arranging for the immediate disappearance of their assault gear, weapons, and old clothing—of anything that might tie them to the carnage inside 18 rue de Vigny.

  No one was in earshot.

  Smith took out his encrypted cell phone, took a deep breath, and punched in the code for Covert-One headquarters.

  Fred Klein listened to Smith’s report of the night’s events in silence. When he finished, Klein sighed heavily. “You’re riding an awfully narrow rail between disaster and utter catastrophe, Colonel, but I suppose I can’t argue much with success.”

  “I sure hope not,” Smith said drily. “That would smack of rank ingratitude.”

  “You’re satisfied that this Abrantes was telling you the truth?” Klein asked. “About the relationship between Lazarus and the nanophages, I mean? What if he was only trying to lay another false trail—trying to send us rushing off in the wrong direction?”

  “He wasn’t,” Jon said. “The guy was dying, Fred. For all he knew, I was his sainted grandmother come down from heaven to escort him to the Pearly Gates. No, Vitor Abrantes was telling me the truth. Whoever Lazarus really is, he’s the son of a bitch who’s been behind these attacks from the beginning. Plus, he’s been throwing sand in everyone’s eyes by stage-managing both ends of this war between the Movement and the CIA and FBI.”

  There was a long silence on the other end of the phone. “To what end, Jon?” Klein asked finally.

  “Lazarus has been buying time,” Smith told him. “Time to run these perverted ‘field tests’ of his. Time to analyze the results and to reengineer the nanophages—making them more and more powerful and deadly. Time to develop and evaluate new methods of delivering them to his chosen targets.” He grimaced. “While we’ve all been running around in circles, Lazarus has been out there designing, developing, and testing a weapon that could wipe out most of the human race.”

  “At Kusasa in Zimbabwe, the Teller Institute, and now La Courneuve,” Klein realized. “All the places showing up in those passports and other travel documents Peter Howell retrieved.”

  “Exactly.”

  “And you think this weapon is ready for use?” Klein asked quietly.

  “I do,” Smith said. “There’s no other reason for Lazarus to destroy the people and equipment he was using to monitor those experiments. He’s clearing the decks—getting ready to strike.”

  “What’s your recommendation?”

  “We pinpoint Lazarus and whatever lab or factory he’s using to produce this stuff. Then we kill him and capture his nanophage stocks before they’re dispersed for any large-scale attack.”

  “Short and sweet, Colonel,” Klein said. “But not very subtle.”

  “Do you have any better ideas?” Smith demanded.

  The head of Covert-One sighed again. “No, I don’t. The trick will be finding Lazarus before it’s too late. And that’s something no Western intelligence agency has managed in more than a year of trying.”

  “I think Abrantes told me most of what we need,” Smith argued. “The trouble is: My Spanish is fair to middling, but my Portuguese is nonexistent. I need a clear translation of what he said when I asked him where Lazarus was now.”

  “I can find someone to handle that,” Klein promised. He faded from the phone a moment. There was a small click in the background, and then he came back on the line. “Okay, we’re set to record, Colonel. Go ahead.”

  “Here goes,” Smith said. From memory, and trying to make sure he used the same pronunciation he had heard the dying man use, he repeated Vitor Abrantes’ last words. “Os Açores. O console do sol. Santa María.”

  “Got it. Anything else?”

  “Yeah.” Smith frowned. “Abrantes told me he was shot by a man he described as ‘one of the Horatii.’ If I’m right, I’ve already run into two of them—first outside Teller and now here in Paris. I’d like a better read on what those big identical bastards were … and how many more of them might be out there!”

  Klein said, “I’ll see what I can dig up, Jon. But this might take a while. Can you stay where you are for a bit?”

  Smith nodded, looking around at the tall trees dappled in shadow and in fading moonlight. “Yeah. But make it as quick as you can, Fred. I have a bad feeling that the clock is running fast on this situation.”

  “Understood, Colonel. Hold tight.”

  The line went dead.
r />   Smith paced back and forth across the clearing. He could feel the tension inside mounting. His nerves were stretched almost to the breaking point. More than an hour had gone by since Klein had promised to get back to him. The gray light in the east was much stronger now.

  The sudden sound of a car engine startled him. He swung around in surprise and saw the little black Peugeot drive away, bouncing and rolling awkwardly along the heavily rutted forest track.

  “I sent Max and Lewis back to Paris,” Randi explained. She had been sitting calmly on his tree stump, watching him pace. “We don’t need them here right now, and I’d like to find out more about anything the French police have dug up inside what’s left of the Movement headquarters.”

  Smith nodded. That made sense. “I think—”

  His cell phone vibrated. He flipped it open. “Yes?”

  “Are you alone?” Klein asked abruptly. His voice sounded strained, almost unnatural.

  Jon checked his surroundings. Randi was perched just a few feet away. And, operating on some sixth sense honed by years in the field, Peter had woken up from his catnap. “No, I’m not,” he admitted.

  “That’s extremely unfortunate,” Klein said. He hesitated. “Then you’ll have to be very careful of what you say on your end. Clear?”

  “Yes,” Smith said quietly. “What have you got for me?”

  “Let’s start with the Horatii,” Klein said slowly. “The name comes from an old Roman legend—a set of identical triplets sent into single combat against warriors from a rival city. They were renowned for their courage, strength, agility, and loyalty.”

  “That sure fits,” Smith said, thinking back over his deadly encounters with the two tall green-eyed men. Both times, he had been very lucky to emerge alive. He winced. The thought of a third man with the same strength and skills still lurking out there was disconcerting.