Covert One 5 - The Lazarus Vendetta (3 page)

Castilla tapped the Threat Assessment with one blunt forefinger. “I see
a whole lot of speculation in this document. What I do not see are hard
facts.” He read one sentence aloud. “'Communications intercepts of a
nonspecific but significant nature indicate that radical elements among the
demonstrators at Santa Fe may be planning violent action—either against the
Teller Institute or against the president himself.'”

He took off his reading glasses and looked up. “Care to put that in
plain English, David?”

“We're picking up increased charter, both over the Internet and in
monitored phone conversations. A number of troubling phrases crop up again and
again, all in reference to the planned rally. There's constant talk about 'the
big event' or 'the action at Teller,'” the CIA chief said. “My people
have heard it overseas. So has the NSA. And the FBI is picking up the same
undercurrents here at home. Correct, Bob?”

Zeller nodded gravely.

“That's what has your analysts in such a
lather?” Castilla shook his head, plainly unimpressed. “People
e-mailing each other about a political protest?” He snorted. “Good
God, any rally that might draw thirty or forty thousand people all the way out
to Santa Fe is
a pretty damned big event! New Mexico
is my home turf and I doubt half that many ever showed up for any speech I ever
made.”

“When members of the Sierra Club or the Wilderness Federation talk that
way, I don't worry,” Hanson told him softly. “But even the simplest
words can have very different meanings when they are used by certain dangerous
groups and individuals. Deadly meanings.”

“You're talking about these so-called 'radical elements'?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And just who are these dangerous folks?”

“Most are allied in one way or another with the Lazarus Movement, Mr.
President,” Hanson said carefully.

Castilla frowned. “This is an old, old song of yours, David.”

The other man shrugged. “I'm aware of that, sir. But the truth doesn't
become any less true just because it's unpalatable. When viewed as a whole, our
recent intelligence on the Lazarus Movement is extremely alarming. The Movement
is metastasizing and what was once a relatively peaceful political and
environmental alliance is rapidly altering itself into something far more
secretive, dangerous, and deadly.” He looked across

the table at the president. “I know you've
seen the relevant surveillance and communications intercept reports. And our analysis of them.”

Castilla nodded slowly. The FBI, CIA, and other federal intelligence
agencies kept tabs on a host of groups and individuals. With the rise of global
terrorism and the spread of chemical, biological, and nuclear weapons
technology, no one in Washington
wanted to take any more chances on being blindsided by a previously
unrecognized enemy.

“Then let me speak bluntly, sir,” Hanson went on. “Our
judgment is that the Lazarus Movement has now decided to attain its objectives
through violence and terrorism. Its rhetoric is increasingly vicious, paranoid,
and full of hatred aimed at those whom it considers enemies.” The CIA
chief slid another piece of paper across the pine table. “This is just one
example.”

Castilla put his glasses back on and read it in silence. His mouth curved
down in disgust. The sheet was a glossy printout of a page from a Movement Web
site, complete with grotesque thumbnail photos of mangled and mutilated
corpses. The banner headline across the top screamed: iwockms BUTCHKRED AT
KUSASA. The text between the pictures blamed the massacre of an entire village
in Zimbabwe on either
corporate-funded “death squads” or “mercenaries armed bv the U.S.
government.” It claimed the killings were part of a secret plan to destroy
the Lazarus Movement's efforts to revitalize organic African farming—lest they
threaten the American monopoly on genetically modified crops and pesticides.
The page ended by calling for the destruction of those who would “destroy
the Earth and all who love her.”

The president dropped it back on the table. “What a load of
horseshit.”

“True.” Hanson retrieved the printout and slid it back into his
briefcase. “It is, however, highly effective horseshit—at least for its
target audience.”

“Have you sent a team into Zimbabwe to find out what really
happened at this Kusasa place?” Castilla asked.

The director of the CIA shook his head. "That would be extremely
difficult, Mr. President. Without permission from the government there,

which is hostile to us, we'll have to go in
covertly. Even then, I doubt we'll find much. Zimbabwe is a total basket case.
Those villagers could have been murdered by anyone—all the way from government
troops on down to rampaging bandits."

“Hell,” Castilla muttered. “And if our people get caught
snooping there without permission, everyone will assume we were involved
in this massacre and that we're only trying to cover our tracks.”

“That is the problem, sir,” Hanson agreed quietly. “But
whatever really took place at Kusasa, one thing is quite clear: The leadership
of the Lazarus Movement is using this incident to radicalize its followers, to
prepare them for more direct and violent action against our allies and
us.”

“Damn, I hate to see this happening,” Castilla grow led. 1 le
leaned forward in his chair. “Don't forget, I knew many of the men and
women who founded Lazarus. They were respected environmental activists, scientists, writers . . . even a couple of politicians. They
wanted to save the Earth, to bring it back to life. I disagreed with most of
their agenda, but they were good people. Honorable
people.”

“And where are they now, sir?” the head of the CIA asked quietly.
“There were nine original founders of the Lazarus Movement. Six of them
are dead, either from natural causes or in suspiciously convenient accidents.
The other three have vanished without a trace.” He looked carefully at
Castilla. “Including Jinjiro Nomura.”

“Yes,” the president said flatly.

He glanced at one of the photographs clustered on a corner of his desk.
Taken during his first term as governor of New Mexico, it showed him exchanging bows
with a shorter and older Japanese man, Jinjiro Nomura. Nomura had been a
prominent member of the Diet, Japan's
parliament. Their friendship, founded on a shared taste for single-malt Scotch
and straight talk, had survived Nomura's retirement from politics and his turn
toward more strident environmental advocacy.

Twelve months ago, Jinjiro Nomura had disappeared while traveling to a
Lazarus-sponsored rally in Thailand.
His son, Hideo, the chairman and

chief executive officer of Nomura PharmaTech, had
begged for American help in finding his father. And Castilla had reacted
quickly. For weeks a special task force of CIA field officers had combed the
streets and back alleys of Bangkok.
The president had even pressed the NSA's ultra-secret spy satellites into
service in the hunt for his old friend. But nothing had ever turned up. No
ransom demand. No dead body. Nothing. The last of the
original founders of the Lazarus Movement had vanished without a trace.

The photo stayed on Castilla's desk as a reminder of the limits of his
power.

Castilla sighed and turned his gaze back to the two somber men seated in
front of him. “Okay, you've made your point. The leaders I knew and
trusted either are dead or have dropped off the face of the earth.”

“Precisely, Mr. President.”

“Which brings us again to the issue of just who is running the
Lazarus Movement no\\\” Castilla said grimly. “Let's cut to
the chase here, David. After Jinjiro disappeared, 1 approved your special
interagency task force on the Movement—despite my own misgivings. Are your
people any closer to identifying the current leadership?”

“Not much closer,” Hanson admitted reluctantly. “Noi
even after months of intense work.” He spread his hands.
“We're fairly certain that ultimate power is vested in one man, a man who
calls himself Lazarus— but we don't know his real name or what he looks like or
where he operates from.”

“That's not exactly satisfying,” Castilla commented drily.
“Maybe you should stop telling me what you don't know and stick to what
you do know.” I le looked the shorter man in the eye. “It might take
less time.”

I Ianson smiled dutifully. The smile stopped well short of his eyes.
“We've devoted a huge amount of resources, both human and satellite, to
the effort. So have M16, the French DOSF, and several other Western
intelligence agencies, but over the past year the Lazarus Movement has
deliberately reconfigured itself to defeat our surveillance.”

“Go on,” Castilla said.

“The Movement has organized itself as a set of ever-tighter and more
secure concentric circles,” Hanson told him. “Most of its supporters
fall into the outer ring. They operate out in the open —attending meetings,
organizing demonstrations, publishing newsletters, and working for various
Movement-sponsored projects around the world. They staff the various Movement
offices around the world. But each level above that is smaller and more
secretive. Few members of the upper echelons know one another's real names, or
meet in person. Leadership communications are handled almost exclusively
through the Internet, either by encrypted instant messaging ... or by
communiques posted on any one of the several Lazarus Web sites.”

“In other words, a classic cell structure.”
Castilla said. “Orders move freely down the chain, but no one outside the
group can easily penetrate to the inner core.”

Hanson nodded. “Correct. It's also the same structure adopted by any number
of very nasty terrorist groups over the years. Al-Oaeda.
Islamic Jihad. Italy's Red Brigades. Japan's Red Army. Just to name a few.”

“And you haven't had any luck in gaining access to the top echelons7”
Castilla asked.

The CIA chief shook his head. “No, sir. Nor
have the Brits or the French or anyone else. We've all tried, without success.
And one by one, we've lost our best existing sources inside Lazarus. Some have
resigned. Others have been expelled. A few have simplv vanished and are
presumed dead.”

Castilla frowned. “People seem to have a habit ol disappearing around
this bunch.”

“Yes, sir. A great
many.” The CIA director left that uncomfortable truth hanging in
the air.

■

Fifteen minutes later, the Director of Central Intelligence strode briskly out
of the White House and down the steps of the South Portico to

a waiting black limousine. He slid into the rear
seat, waited while a uniformed Secret Sen ice officer closed the car door
behind him, and then punched the intercom. “Take me back to Langley,” he told
his driver.

Hanson leaned back against the plush leather as the limousine accelerated
smoothly down the drive and turned left onto Seventeenth Street. He looked at the
stocky, square-jawed man sitting in the rear-facing jump seat across from him.
“You're very quiet this afternoon. I lal.”

“You pay me to catch or kill terrorists,” Hal Burke said.
“Not to play courtier.”

Amusement flickered briefly in the CIA chief's eyes. Burke was a senior
officer on the Agency's counterterrorism staff. Right now he was assigned to
lead the special task force on the Lazarus Movement. Twenty years of
clandestine fieldwork had left him with a bullet scar down the right side ot his neck and a permanently cynical view of human nature.
It was a view Hanson shared.

“Any luck?” Burke asked finally.

“None.”

“Slut.” Burke stared moodily out the
limousine's rain-streaked windows. “Kit Pierson's going to throw a
fit.”

Hanson nodded. Katherine Pierson was Burke's FBI counterpart. The pair had
worked closely together to prepare the intelligence assessment he and Zeller
had just shown the president. “Castilla wants us to push our investigation
of the Movement as hard as possible, but he will not cancel his trip to the
Teller Institute. Not without clearer evidence of a serious threat.”

Burke looked away from the window. I lis mouth was set in a thin, grim line.
“What that really means is that he doesn't want The Washington Post, I he Yew York limes,
and Fox Yews calling him gutless.”

“Would you?”

“No,” Burke admitted.

“Then you have twenty-four hours, Hal,” the CIA chief said.
"1 need you and Kit Pierson to dig up something solid that I can take back
to the

White House. Otherwise, Sam Castilla is flying to Santa Fe to confront
those protesters head-on. You know what this president is like."

“He's one stubborn son of a bitch,” Burke growled.

“Yes, he is.”

“So be it,” Burke said. He shrugged. “1 just hope it doesn't get him killed this time.”

Teller Institute for Advanced
Technology

Jon Smith took the wide, shallow steps to the Institute's upper floor two at
a time. Running up and down its three main staircases was pretty much the only
exercise he had time for now. The long days and occasional nights he spent in
the various nanotechnology labs were cutting into his usual workout routine.

He reached the top and paused for a moment, pleased to note that both his
breathing and his heart rate were perfectly normal. The sun slanting through
the stairwell's narrow windows felt comfortably warm on his shoulders. Smith
glanced at his watch. The senior researcher for Har-court Biosciences had
promised him “one seriously cool demonstration” of their most recent
advances in five minutes.

Up here, the routine hum from below—phones ringing, keyboards clicking and
clattering, and people talking—fell away to a cathedral-like hush. The Teller
Institute kept its administrative offices, cafeteria, computer center, staff
lounges, and science library on the first floor. The up-

per level was reserved for the lab suites allotted
to different research teams. Like its rivals from the Institute itself and
Nomura PharmaTech, Harcourt had its facilities in the North Wing.