Covert One 5 - The Lazarus Vendetta (24 page)

“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.”

North of Santa Fe

The morning snn, rising ever higher in a cloud-streaked azure sky, seemed to
set the big, flat-topped hill looming above the Rancho de Chimayo aflame.
Pifion 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 Chimayo 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 Chimayo 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.”