Covert One 5 - The Lazarus Vendetta (51 page)

Castilla and Klein listened in satisfied silence while the older Nomura
carefully and precisely recounted the details of Hideo's treachery, revealing
both his secret creation of the nanophages and his plans to use them to destroy
most of humanity so that he could make himself absolute master over the
frightened survivors. Briefed earlier by Jinjiro,
America's allies had already
begun returning to the fold —all expressing profound relief that their earlier
suspicions had proved unfounded and anxious to repair their damaged relations
with the U.S.
before the truth became widely

known. This UN speech was only the first part of a
determined campaign to unveil the subversion of the Lazarus Movement and
salvage America's
reputation.

Both men knew it would take time and a great deal of effort, but they were
also sure the wounds left by Hideo Nomura's vicious deceptions would heal. A
few isolated fanatics might cling to their belief in America's
guilt, but most would accept the truth—swayed by the calm conviction and
powerful presence of the last surviving founder of the Lazarus Movement and by
the release of documents captured inside Nomura's secret Azores
labs. The Movement itself was already crumbling, rocked by the first
revelations of its leader's lies and murderous plans. Whatever survived would
only do so by returning to Jinjiro's original vision of a force for peaceful
change and environmental reform.

Castilla felt himself beginning to relax for the first time in weeks. America and the
whole world had had an incredibly narrow escape. He sighed and saw Fred Klein
looking at him.

“It's over, Sam,” the other man told him quietly.

Castilla nodded. “I know.” He raised his glass. “To
Colonel Smith and the others.”

“To them all,” Klein echoed, raising his own glass. “Slainte.”

The Mall, Washington,
D.C.

A crisp, rain-washed autumn breeze rustled through the leaves still clinging
to the trees lining the Mall. Sunlight slanted through branches, dappling the
grass with moving patterns of red- and gold-tinged shadows.

Jon Smith walked through the shadows toward a woman standing pensively near
a bench. Her short golden hair gleamed in the afternoon light. Despite the
thick cast encasing her left arm and shoulder, she still appeared slender and
graceful.

“Waiting for me?” he called softly.

Randi Russell turned toward him. A slight smile creased her lips. “If
you're the guy who left a message on my answering machine suggesting dinner, I
guess so,” she said tartly. “Otherwise, I'll be eating alone.”

Smith grinned. Some things would never change. “How's the arm?” he
asked.

“Not bad,” she told him. “The doctors tell me this hunk of
plaster can come off in a few more weeks. Once that's done, and the collarbone
heals, a little more rehab should clear me for field duty. Frankly, I can't
wait. I'm not cut out for sitting behind a desk.”

He nodded. “Are things at Langley
still in a mess?”

Randi shrugged carefully. “The situation seems to be calming down. The
files our people snagged in the Azores have
pretty well nailed everyone involved in TOCSIN. You heard that Hanson is resigning?”

Smith nodded again. The director of the CIA had not been directly involved
in Burke and Pierson's illegal operation. But no one could doubt that his
failures of judgment and his willingness to turn a blind eye were partly
responsible. David Hanson's resignation “for personal reasons” was
purely a face-saving alternative to being fired.

“Have you heard anything from Peter?” Randi asked in turn.

“I had a call from him last week,” Smith told her. “He's back
in retirement at his place in the Sierras. For good this time, he claims.”

She raised a skeptical eyebrow. “Do you believe him?”

He laughed. “Not really. I can't imagine Peter Howell sitting idle on
his front porch for very long.”

She looked across at Jon through slightly narrowed eyes. “What about
you? Still playing spook for the Joint Chiefs? Or was it Army Intelligence this
time?”

“I'm back at Fort
Derrick, in my old post
at USAMRIID,” Smith told her.

“Back to the infectious diseases grind?” Randi asked.

He shook his head. “Not exactly. We're
developing a program to monitor potentially hazardous nanotech R&D around
the world.”

She stared at him.

“We stopped Nomura,” Smith told her quietly. “But now the
genie's out of the bottle. Someone else out there may try something similar—or
equally destructive—someday.”

Randi shivered. “I'd hate to imagine that.”

He nodded somberly. “At least this time we know what to look for.
Manufacturing biologically active nanodevices requires biochemical substances
in large quantities—and those are substances we can track.”

She sighed. “Maybe we should just do what the Lazarus Movement wanted
in the first place. Ban nanotech completely.”

Smith shook his head. “And lose out on all the potential benefits? Like
curing cancer? Or wiping out pollution?” He shrugged. “It's like any
other advanced technology, Randi. Nothing more. How we
use it—for good or ill —is up to us.”

“Now there's the scientist in you talking,” she said drily.

“It's what I am,” Smith said quietly. “Most
of the time, anyway.”

“Right,” Randi replied with a wry grin. She relented. “Okay,
Dr. Smith, you promised me dinner. Are you going to honor your promise?”

He sketched a bow and offered her his arm. “Never let it be said that
I'm not a man of my word, Ms. Russell. Dinner is on me.”

Together, Jon and Randi turned and walked back toward his waiting car. Above
them, the last clouds were drifting away, leaving behind a clear blue sky.