Covert One 5 - The Lazarus Vendetta (12 page)

“Could that be the difference between the effects of these nanophages
inside a mouse and inside human beings?” Klein asked carefully.

“That's highly unlikely,” Smith told him. “The whole reason
for using lab mice for preliminary tests is their biological similarity to
humans.” He

sighed. “I can't swear to it, Fred, not
without further study, anyway. But my gut feeling is that the Harcourt
nanophages could not have been responsible for those deaths.”

There was silence on the other end of the phone for a long moment. “You
realize what that would mean,” Klein said at last.

“Yeah,” Smith agreed heavily. “If I'm right and nothing
inside the Institute could have killed all those people, then whatever did came in with the terrorists and was set deliberately—as part
of some cold-blooded plan to massacre thousands of Lazarus Movement activists.
And that doesn't seem to make any sense.”

He closed his eyes for a moment. He swayed, feeling the fatigue he had been
holding at bay gaining the upper hand.

“Jon?”

With an effort, Smith forced himself back upright. “I'm still
here,” he said.

“Wounded or not, you sound all in,” Klein told him. “You need
a chance to rest and recover. What's your situation there?”

Despite his exhaustion, Smith could not help smiling wryly. “Not great.
I'm not going anywhere soon. I've already given my statement, but the local
Feds are holding every single Institute survivor who can still walk and talk
right here, pending the arrival of their great white chief from D.C. And she's
not due in until sometime early tomorrow morning.”

“Not surprising,” Klein said. “But not
good, either. Let me see what I can do. Hold on.” His voice faded.

Smith looked out into the darkness, watching rifle-armed men in camouflage
fatigues, Kevlar helmets, and body armor patrolling the cordon between him and
the burning building. The National Guard had deployed a full company to seal
off the area around the Teller Institute. The troops had been issued
shoot-to-kill orders to stop anyone trying to break through their perimeter.

From what Smith heard, more National Guard units were tied up in Santa Fe
itself, protecting state and federal offices and trying to keep the

highways open for emergency traffic. One of the
local sheriffs had told him that several thousand people from the city were
evacuating, fleeing to Albuquerque or even up
into the mountains around Taos
in search of safety.

The police also had their hands full keeping tabs on survivors from the
Lazarus Movement rally. Many had already fled the area, but a few hundred dazed
activists were wandering aimlessly through the streets of Santa Fe. Nobody was sure if they were really
in shock or if they were only waiting to cause more trouble.

Fred Klein came back on the line. “It's all arranged, Colonel,” he
said calmly. “You have clearance to leave the security zone—and a ride
back to your hotel.”

Smith was deeply grateful. He understood why the Bureau wanted to secure the
area and maintain control over its only dependable witnesses. But he had not
been looking forward to spending a long, cold night on a cot in a Red Cross
tent or huddled in the back of some police squad car. As so often before, he
wondered briefly just how Klein—a man who operated only in the shadows—could
pull so many strings without blowing his cover. But then, as always, he filed
those questions away in the back of his mind. To Smith, the important thing was
that it worked.

■

Twenty minutes later, Smith was riding in the back of a State Police patrol
car heading north on Highway 84 through the center of Santa Fe. There were still long lines of
civilian autos, pickups, minivans, and SUVs inching slowly south toward the
junction with Interstate 25, the main road to Albuquerque. The message was clear. Many
locals were not buying the official line that any danger was limited to a
relatively small zone around the Institute.

Smith frowned at the sight, but he could not blame people for being scared
to death. For years they had been assured that nanotechnology was absolutely,
positively safe—and then they turned on their TV sets and

watched screaming Lazarus Movement protesters being
torn to shreds by tiny machines too small to be seen or heard.

The patrol car turned east off Highway 84 onto the Paseo de Peralta, the
relatively wide avenue ringing Santa
Fe's historic center. Smith spotted a National Guard
Humvee blocking an intersection to the right. More vehicles, troops, and police
were in position along every road heading into the downtown area.

He nodded to himself. Those responsible for law and order were making the
best use of their limited resources. If you had to pick just one place to
defend against looting or lawlessness, that area was it. There were other
beautiful museums, galleries, shops, and homes scattered around the rest of the
city, but the heart and soul of Santa Fe was its historic center—a maze of
narrow one-way streets surrounding the beautiful tree-lined Plaza and the
four-centuries-old Palace of the Governors.

The streets of the old city followed the winding trace of old wagon roads
like the Santa Fe
and Pecos Trails, not an antiseptic ultra-modern grid. Many of the buildings
lining those roads were a blend of old and new in the Spanish-Pueblo revival
style, with earth-toned adobe walls, flat roofs, small, deep-set windows, and
protruding log beams. Others, like the federal courthouse, displayed the brick
facades and slender white columns of the Territorial style—dating back to 1846
and the U.S.
conquest during the Mexican-American War. Much of the history, art, and
architecture that made Santa Fe
so unique an American city lay within that relatively small district.

Smith frowned as they drove past the darkened, deserted streets. On most
days, the Plaza was bustling with tourists taking photos and browsing through
the wares of local artists and craftsmen. Native Americans sat in the shade of
the portal, the covered walkway, outside the Palace, selling distinctive
pottery and silver and turquoise jewelry. He suspected that those places would
be eerily abandoned in the coming morning, and possibly for many days to come.

He was staying just five blocks from the Plaza, at the Port Marcy Hotel

Suites. Back when he was first assigned as an
observer at the Teller Institute, it had amused him to check into a hotel with
a military-sounding name. But there was nothing Army-issue or
drab about the Fort
Marcy suites themselves.
Eighty separate units occupied a series of one- and two-story buildings set on
a gentle hillside with views of the city or the nearby mountains. All of them
were quiet, comfortable, and elegantly furnished in a mix of modern and
traditional Southwestern styles.

The state trooper dropped him off at the front of the hotel. Smith thanked
him and limped along the walkway to his room, a one-bedroom suite nestled in
among shade trees and landscaped gardens. Few lights were on in any of the
neighboring buildings. He suspected that many of his fellow guests were long
gone —heading for home as fast as they could.

Jon fumbled through his wallet for the room card key, found it, and let himself in. With the door firmly closed, he felt himself
starting to relax for the first time in hours. He carefully shrugged out of his
bullet-ripped leather jacket and made his way into the bathroom. He splashed
some cold water on his face and then looked in the mirror.

The eyes that stared back at him were haunted, weary, and full of sadness.

Smith turned away.

More out of habit than of real hunger, he checked the refrigerator in the
suite's kitchen. None of the tinfoil-wrapped restaurant leftovers inside looked
appealing. Instead, he took out an ice-cold Tecate, twisted off the cap, and
set the beer bottle out on the dining room table.

He looked at it for a long moment. Then he swung away and sat staring
blindly out the windows, seeing only the horrors he had witnessed earlier
replaying over and over in his exhausted mind.

Malachi MacNamara paused just inside the doors of Cristo Rey Church. He stood quietly for some
moments, surveying his surroundings. Pale moonlight filtered in through windows
set high up in massive adobe walls. A large high-ceilinged nave stretched
before him. Far ahead, at the altar, he could see a large screen, a reredos,
composed of three large sections of white stone. Carvings of flowers,
saints, and angels covered the stone screen. Groups of weary men and women sat
slumped here and there among the pews. Some were weeping openly. Others sat
silent, staring into nothingness, still numbed by the horrors they had
witnessed.

MacNamara moved slowly and unobtrusively down one of the side aisles,
watching and listening to those around him. He suspected the men he was hunting
were not here, but it was best to make sure of that before moving on to the
next possible sanctuary. His feet ached. He had already spent several hours
walking the meandering streets of this city, tracking down several of the
dispersed groups of Lazarus Movement survivors. It would have been faster and
more efficient with a car, of course. But terri-

bly out of character, he reminded himself—and
bloody damn obvious. The vehicle he had brought with him to New Mexico would have to stay hidden for a
while longer.

A middle-aged woman with a pleasant, friendly face hurried up to him. She
must be one of the parishioners who had opened their church to those they saw
in need, he realized. Not everyone in Santa
Fe had panicked and run for the hills. He could see
the concern in her eyes. “Can I help you?” she asked. “Were you
at the rally outside the Institute?”

MacNamara nodded somberly. “I was.”

She put her hand on his sleeve. “I am so sorry. It was frightening
enough to watch from a distance, on the television, I mean. I can't imagine how
it must feel to have . . .” Her voice died away. Her eyes widened.

He suddenly became aware that his expression had grown cold, infinitely
forbidding. The horrors he had seen were still too close. With an effort, he
pushed away the dreadful images rising in his mind. He sighed. “Forgive
me,” he said gently. “I didn't intend to frighten you.”

“Did you lose . . .” The woman hesitated. “That is . . . are
you looking for someone? Someone in particular?”

MacNamara nodded. “I am searching for someone. For several people, in fact.” He described them for
her.

She listened attentively, but in the end she could only shake her head.
“I'm afraid there's no one here like that.” She sighed. “But you
might try at the Upaya Buddhist temple, farther up Cerro Gordo Road, back in the hills. The
monks there are also offering shelter to survivors. If you like, I can give you
directions to the temple.”

The lean blue-eyed man nodded appreciatively. “That would be most
kind.” He pulled himself upright. There are many more miles to go before
you sleep, he told himself grimly. And quite probably in
vain, too. The men he was after had undoubtedly already gone to ground.

The woman looked down at his scuffed, dust-smeared boots. “Or I could
give you a ride,” she suggested hesitantly. “If you've been walking
all day, you must be just about worn-out.”

Malachi MacNamara smiled for the first time in days. “Yes,” he
said softly. “I am extremely tired. And I would be very glad of a
lift.”

Outside Santa Fe

The safe house secured by the TOCSIN action team was high up in the
foothills of the Sangre de Cristo Mountains, not far off the road leading to
the Santa Fe Ski Basin.
A narrow drive blocked by a chain and a large keep OUT sign wound uphill
between gold-leafed aspens, oak trees covered in copper-red foliage, and
towering evergreens.

Hal Burke turned off the main road and rolled down the window of the
Chrysler LeBaron he had rented immediately after arriving at Albuquerque's international airport. He sat
waiting, careful to keep his hands in plain sight on the steering wheel.

A shadow)' figure moved out from the shelter of one of the big trees. The
dim glow of the car's headlights revealed a narrow, hard-edged, suspicious
face. One hand hovered conspicuously near the 9mm Walther pistol holstered at
his hip. “This is a private road, mister.”

“Yes, it is,” Burke agreed. “And I am a private man. My name
is Tocsin.”

The sentry drew nearer, reassured by Burke's use of the correct recognition
code. He flashed a penlight across the CIA officer's face and then into the
backseat of the Chrysler, making sure Burke was alone. “Okay. Show me some
ID.”

Burke carefully fished his CIA identity card out of his jacket pocket and
handed it over.

The sentry scrutinized the picture. Then he nodded, handed back the ID card,
and undid the chain blocking the drive. “You can go ahead, Mr. Tocsin.
They're waiting for you up at the house.”

The house, a quarter-mile up the narrow road, was a large half-timbered
Swiss-style chalet, with a steeply pitched roof designed to shed large masses
of accumulated snow. In an average winter, well over a hundred inches fell on
this part of the Sangre de Cristo range —and the win-

ter often took shape in late October. Twice that
much snow usually accumulated at the ski areas on the higher slopes.

Burke parked on a weather-cracked concrete pad close to a set of stairs
leading up to the chalet's front door. Against the darkness, lights shone
yellow behind drawn window blinds. The woods surrounding the house were silent
and perfectly still.

The front door of the chalet opened before he even finished getting out of
the car. The sentry below must have radioed ahead. A tall auburn-haired man
stood there, looking down at him with bright green eyes.

'You made good time, Mr. Burke."