Covert One 5 - The Lazarus Vendetta (5 page)

One by one, they each gave him a thumbs-up.

“Right,” Brinker said. His eyes were bright and excited. “Mark Two nanophage live subject trial numero uno. On my mark . . . three, two, one . . . now!”

The metal canister hissed.

“Nanophages released,” one of the technicians murmured, watching a readout from the canister.

For several minutes nothing seemed to happen. The healthy mice moved here
and there, seemingly at random. The sick mice stayed put.

“ATP power cycle complete,” another technician announced at last. “Nanophage life span complete. Live subject trial
complete.”

Brinker breathed out. He glanced up at Smith in triumph. “There we go,
Colonel. Now we'll anesthetize our furry friends, open them up, and see what
percentage of their various cancers we just nailed. Me, I'm betting we're
talking close to one hundred percent.”

Ravi Parikh was still watching the mice. He frowned. “I think we may
have a runaway, Phil,” he said quietly. “Take a look at test subject
five.”

Smith bent down to get a closer view. Mouse Five was one of the healthy
ones, a member of the control group. It was moving erratically, repeatedly
stumbling headlong into its fellows, mouth opening and closing rapidly.
Suddenly it fell on its side, writhed in apparent agony for a few seconds—and
then lay still.

“Crap,” Brinker said, staring blankly at the dead mouse.
“That's sure as hell not supposed to happen.”

Jon Smith frowned, suddenly resolving to recheck Harcourt Bio-science's
containment and safety procedures. They had better be as thorough as Parikh and
Brinker claimed, so that whatever had just killed a perfectly healthy mouse
stayed locked away inside this lab.

■

It was nearly midnight.

A mile to the north, the lights of Santa
Fe cast a warm yellow glow into the clear, cold night
sky. Ahead, the upper-floor windows of the Teller Institute glowed behind drawn
blinds. Arc lights mounted on the roof cast long black shadows across the
Institute's grounds. Along the northern

edge of the perimeter fence, small stands of pine
and juniper trees were wholly submerged in darkness.

Paolo Ponti slithered closer to the fence through the tall, dry grass. He
hugged the dirt, careful to stay in the shadows where his black sweatshirt and
dark jeans made him almost invisible. The Italian was twenty-four, slender, and
athletic. Six months ago, tired of his life as a part-time university student
on the dole, he had joined the Lazarus Movement.

The Movement offered his life meaning, a sense of purpose and excitement
beyond anything else he had ever imagined. At first, the secret oaths he had
sworn to protect Mother Earth and to destroy her enemies had seemed
melodramatic and silly. Since then, however, Ponti had embraced the tenets and
creeds of Lazarus with a zeal that surprised everyone who knew him, even
himself.

Paolo glanced over his shoulder, seeing the faint shape wriggling along in
his wake. He had met Audrey Karavites at a Lazarus rally in Stuttgart the month before. The
twenh-one-year-old American woman had been traveling through Europe,
a college graduation gift from her parents. Bored by museums and churches, she
had gone to the rally on a whim. That whim had changed her whole life when
Paolo swept her right off her feet, into his bed, and into the Movement.

The Italian turned back, still smiling smugly to himself. Audrey was not
beautiful, but she had curves where a woman should. More important, her rich,
naive parents gave her a generous allowance—an allowance that had bought her
and Paolo's plane tickets to Santa Fe
to join this protest against nanotechnology and corrupt American capitalism.

Paolo crawled cautiously right up to the fence, so close his fingertips
brushed lightly against the cold metal. He looked through the mesh. The cacti,
clumps of sagebrush, and native wildflowers planted there as drought-resistant
landscaping should provide good cover. He checked the luminous dial of his
watch. The next patrol by the Institute's security guards should not pass this
point for more than an hour. Perfect.

The Italian activist touched the fence again, this time curling his fin-

gers around its metal links to test their strength.
He nodded, pleased by what he found. The bolt cutters he had brought along
would do the trick quite easily.

There was a loud crack behind him—a dry, sharp sound like that of a thick
twig being snapped by strong hands. Ponti frowned. Sometimes Audrey moved with
all the grace of an arthritic hippo. He looked back over his shoulder, planning
to reprimand her with an angry glare.

Audrey Karavites lay curled on her side in the tall weeds. Her head flopped
at a sickening angle. Her eyes were wide open, forever frozen in a look of
horror. Her neck had been broken. She was dead.

Stunned, Paolo Ponti sat up, unable at first to comprehend what he saw. He
opened his mouth to cry out. . . and an enormous hand
gripped his face, shoving it back, muffling his screams. The last thing the
young Italian felt was the terrible pain as an ice-cold blade plunged deep into
his exposed throat.

■

The tall auburn-haired man tugged his fighting knife out of the dead man's
neck, then wiped it clean on a fold of Ponti's black
sweatshirt. His green eyes shone brightly.

He looked over to where the girl he had murdered lay sprawled. Two
black-clad shapes were busy rummaging through the duffel bag she had been
dragging behind her. “Well?”

“What you expected, Prime,” the hoarse whisper came back. “Climbing gear. Cans of fluorescent
spray paint. And a Lazarus Movement banner.”

The green-eyed man shook his head, amused. “Amateurs.”

Another of his men dropped to one knee beside him. “Your
orders?”

The giant shrugged. “Sanitize this site. Then dump the bodies somewhere
else. Somewhere they will be found.”

“Do you want them found sooner? Or later?” the man asked calmly.

The big man bared his teeth in the darkness. “Tomorrow morning will be
soon enough.”

Wednesday, October 13

“Preliminary analysis shows no contamination in the first four chemical
baths. Temperature and pH readouts were also all well within the expected norms.
. . .”

Jon Smith sat back, rereading what he had just typed. His eyes felt gritty.
He had spent half of last night reviewing biochemical formulas and nanophage
build procedures with Phil Brinker, Ravi Parikh, and the rest of their team. So
far the error that had wrecked the first Mark II nanophage trial had eluded
them. The Harcourt Biosciences researchers were probably still hard at it, he
knew, poring over reams of computer printouts and test data. With the president
of the United States
scheduled to laud their work—and that of the other Teller Institute labs —in a
little less than forty-eight hours, the pressure was on. No one at Harcourt's
corporate headquarters was going to want the media to show pictures of their
“lifesaving” new technology killing mice.

“Sir?”

Jon Smith swung away from his computer monitor, fighting down a sudden surge
of irritation at being interrupted. “Yes?”

A sturdy, serious-looking man wearing a dark gray suit, button-down shirt,
and pale red tie stood in the open door to his small office. He checked a
photocopied list. “Are you Dr. Jonathan Smith?”

“That's me,” Smith said. He sat up straighter, noticing the faint
bulge of a shoulder holster under the other man's suit coat. That was odd. Only
uniformed security personnel were licensed to carry firearms on Institute
grounds. “And you are?”

“Special Agent Mark Farrows, sir. U.S. Secret Service.”

Well, that explained the concealed weapon. Smith relaxed a bit. “What
can I do for you, Agent Farrows?”

“I'm afraid I have to ask you to leave your office for a short time,
Doctor.” Farrows smiled warily, anticipating his next question. “And
no, sir, you are not under arrest. I'm with the Protective Division. We're here
to conduct an advance security sweep.”

Smith sighed. Scientific institutions prized presidential visits because
they often meant a higher national profile and added congressional funding. But
there was no getting around the fact that they were also highly inconvenient.
Security checks like this one, presumably scouting for explosive devices,
potential hiding places for would-be assassins, and other dangers, always
disrupted any lab's normal routine.

On the other hand, Smith knew that it was the responsibility of the Secret
Service to protect the president's life. For the agents involved, shepherding
the nation's chief executive safely through a massive facility crammed full of
toxic chemicals, pressurized high-temperature vats, and enough high-voltage
electricity to run a small city would be a waking nightmare.

The word had already come down from the Institute's hierarchy to expect a
thorough inspection by the Secret Service. The betting had been that it would
happen tomorrow —closer to the president's arrival. The

growing army of protesters outside must have
prodded the Secret Service into acting earlier.

Smith stood up, took his jacket off the back of his chair, and followed
Farrows into the hallway. Dozens of scientists, technicians, and administrative
staff were streaming past, most of them carrying files or laptops to work on
until the Secret Service unit gave them permission to return to their labs and
offices.

“We're asking Institute personnel to wait in the cafeteria,
Doctor,” Farrows said politely, indicating the direction. “Our sweep
really shouldn't take long. Not more than an hour, we hope.”

It was nearly eleven in the morning. Somehow the prospect of sitting jammed
in the cafeteria with the others was not very appealing to Smith. He had
already been stuck inside for far too long, and one could only breathe recycled
air and drink stale coffee for so many hours without going crazy. He turned to
the agent. “If it's all the same to you, I want to grab some fresh air
instead.”

The Secret Service agent put out a hand to stop him. “I'm sorry, sir,
but it's not the same to me. My orders are very clear. All Institute employees
report to the cafeteria.”

Smith eyed him coolly. He did not mind letting the Secret Service men do
their job, but he would be damned if he would let them ride roughshod over him
for no good reason. He stood still, waiting until the other man let go of the
sleeve of his leather jacket. “Then your orders don't apply to me, Agent
Farrows,” he said calmly. “I'm not a Teller Institute employee.”
He flipped open his wallet to show his military ID.

Farrows scanned it quickly. One eyebrow lifted. “You're an Army light
colonel? I thought you were one of these scientist-types.”

“I'm both,” Smith told him. “I'm here on detached duty from
the Pentagon.” He nodded at the list the other man still held.
“Frankly, I'm surprised that little piece of information isn't on your
roster.”

The Secret Service agent shrugged. "Looks like somebody in D.C.

fouled up. It happens.“ He tapped the radio
receiver in his ear. ”Just let me clear this with my SAIC, okay?"

Smith nodded. Each Secret Service detail was commanded by a SAIC—a
special-agent-in-charge. He waited patiently while Farrows explained the
situation to his superior.

At last, the other man waved him through. “You're good to go, Colonel.
But don't stray too far. Those Lazarus Movement goofballs out there are in a
really bad mood right now.”

Smith walked past him and came out into the Institute's large front lobby.
To his left, one of the building's three staircases led up to the second floor.
Doors on either side led to various administrative offices. Across the lobby, a
waist-high marble railing enclosed the visitors' registration and information
desks. To the right, two enormous wood-paneled doors stood open to the outside.

From there a shallow set of wide sand-colored steps led down to a broad
driveway. Two big black SUVs with U.S. government license plates were
parked along the edge of the drive, right at the foot of those steps. A second
plainclothes Secret Service agent stood in the doorway, keeping an eye on both
the lobby and the vehicles parked outside. He wore sunglasses and cradled a
deadly-looking 9mm Heckler & Koch MP5 submachine gun. His head swiveled
briefly to watch Smith walk past him, but then he turned back to his sentry
duty.

Outside, Smith stopped at the top of the steps and stood quietly for a
moment, enjoying the feel of the sun on his lean, tanned face. The air was
warming up and puffs of white cloud moved lazily across a brilliant azure sky.
It was a perfect autumn day.

He took a deep breath, trying to wash the accumulated fatigue toxins out of
his system.

“LET LAZARUS
LEAD! NO TO NANOTECH! LET LAZARUS LEAD! NO TO NANOTECH! LET LAZARUS LEAD!”

Smith frowned. The rhythmic, singsong slogans hammered at his ears,
shattering the momentary illusion of peace. They were much louder and

angrier than they had been the day before. He eyed
the mass of chanting protesters pressed up close against the perimeter fence.
There were a lot more of them here today, too. Maybe even as
many as ten thousand.

A sea of bloodred and bright green banners and placards rose and fell in
time with each roar from the crowd. Protest organizers roamed back and forth on
a portable stage set up near the Institute security booth, shouting into
microphones—whipping the demonstrators into a frenzy.

The main gate was closed. A small squad of gray-uniformed security guards
stood behind the gate, nervously facing the chanting throng. Outside, much
farther down the access road, Smith could see a few patrol cars—a couple in the
black-and-white markings of the New Mexico State Police, the rest in the white,
light blue, and gold stripes of the Santa Fe County Sheriff's Office.