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 twenty-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 fingers 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.”
Chapter
Four
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.
“This is shaping up to be one hell of a mess, Colonel,” a familiar voice said grimly from behind him.
Frank Diaz came forward from his post by the door. Today the ex-Ranger noncom was wearing a bulky bulletproof vest. He had a riot helmet dangling from one hand and a twelve-gauge Remington pump-action shotgun slung over the other shoulder. A bandolier held a mixed assortment of CS (tear gas) shells and solid slugs for the shotgun.
“What has these people so revved up?” Smith asked. “President Castilla and the media aren’t due here until the day after tomorrow. Why all the outrage now?”
“Somebody offed a couple of Lazarus Movement–types last night,” Diaz said. “The Santa Fe PD found two bodies stuffed into a Dumpster. Down behind that big outlet mall on Cerrillos Road. One was stabbed, and the other had a broken neck.”
Smith whistled softly. “Damn.”
“No kidding.” The Army veteran hawked and spat. “And those fruitcakes over there are blaming us.”
Smith turned to look more closely at him. “Oh?”
“Apparently the dead guys were planning to cut through our fence last night,” Diaz explained. “For some big act of civil-fricking-disobedience. Naturally the radicals claim we must have caught the two of them and slaughtered ’em. Which is all bullshit, of course. …”
“Of course,” Smith agreed absently. He ran his eyes over the stretch of chain-link fence in sight. It seemed perfectly intact. “But they’re still dead, and you’re the designated bad guys, right?”
“Hell, Colonel,” the ex-Ranger noncom said. He sounded almost aggrieved. “If I knocked off a couple of punk-ass, eco-freak infiltrators, do you think I’d be stupid enough to just dump them in some trash bin behind a goddamned shopping mall?”
Smith shook his head. He could not stop a quick grin from flashing across his face. “No, Staff Sergeant Diaz. I really do not believe you would be that stupid.”
“Damned straight.”
“Which still leaves me wondering, who was that stupid?”
Ravi Parikh kept his attention focused closely on the highly magnified image on his monitor. The semiconducting sphere he was looking at seemed well within its design specs. He zoomed in even closer, scanning the front half of the nanophage. “I cannot find a problem with this sensor array, Phil,” he told Brinker. “Everything is just where it should be.”
Brinker nodded wearily. “Which makes ninety-nine out of the last hundred.” He rubbed at his eyes. “And the one flawed build we’ve found so far didn’t form a sensor array at all, which means the onboard power source would never have gone active.”
Parikh frowned thoughtfully. “That is a nonfatal error.”
“Yeah, for the host, at least.” Brinker stared into the monitor gloomily. “But whatever ran wild in Mouse Five was pretty damned fatal.” He fought off a yawn. “Man, Ravi, this gig is like looking for a single needle in a haystack the size of Jupiter.”
“Perhaps we will get lucky?” Parikh suggested.
“Yeah, well, we’ve got… oh, say … forty-seven hours and thirty-two minutes to do it in.”
Brinker swiveled around in his chair. Not far away stood the head of the Secret Service team assigned to secure their lab ahead of the president’s visit. He was a big man, well over six-foot-six and probably weighing 250 pounds, most of it in muscle. Right now he was busy watching two members of his unit carefully place what they called “anti-bugging” and “hazard detection” devices at various points in the lab.
The scientist snapped his fingers, trying to remember the agent’s name. Fitzgerald? O’Connor? Something Irish anyhow. “Uh, Agent Kennedy?”
The tall auburn-haired man turned his head. “The name is O’Neill, Dr. Brinker.”
“Oh, right. Sorry.” Brinker shrugged. “Well, I just wanted to thank you again for letting Ravi and me stay here while your guys do their stuff.”
O’Neill smiled back. The smile did not reach his bright green eyes. “No thanks are necessary, Dr. Brinker. None at all.”
“LET LAZARUS LEAD! NO TO DEATH! NO TO NANOTECH! LET LAZARUS LEAD!”
Malachi MacNamara stood close to the speakers’ platform, near the very heart of the angry, shouting throng. Like those around him, he rhythmically jabbed his fist in the air in rage. Like those around him, he joined each deafening chant. But all the while his pale blue eyes were busy scanning the crowd.
Now Lazarus Movement volunteers were moving through the mass of protesters, handing out new signs and posters. Eager hands grabbed at them. MacNamara pushed and shoved his way through the jostling, agitated mob to get one for himself. It carried a much-enlarged and hurriedly color-copied photo of Paolo Ponti and Audrey Karavites—a picture that must have been taken very recently indeed, because they stood silhouetted against the white peaks of the Sangre de Cristo Mountains. Scrawled above their young, smiling faces in bold red letters were the words: THEY WERE MURDERED! BUT LAZARUS LIVES!
Still chanting, the pale-eyed man nodded to himself. Clever, he thought coldly.
Quite clever.
“Jesus Christ, Colonel,” Diaz murmured, listening to the sound of raw hatred spreading through the mob outside. “It’s like feeding time at the goddamned zoo!”
Smith nodded, tight-lipped. For a moment he wished he was armed. Then he shook the thought away. If things turned ugly, fifteen 9mm rounds in a Beretta clip were not going to save his life. Nor had he joined the U.S. Army to shoot unarmed rioters.
The sight of flashing lights out on the access road attracted his attention. A small convoy of black SUVs and sedans was moving slowly up the access road, steadily forcing its way through the swelling crowds. Even at this distance, Jon could see angry fists being shaken at the vehicles. He looked over at Diaz. “You expecting reinforcements, Frank?”
The security guard shook his head. “Not really. Hell, barring the National Guard, we’ve already got every unit available within fifty miles.” He peered closely at the oncoming vehicles. The lead car had just pulled up outside the gate. “And that sure ain’t the National Guard out there.”
The Army veteran’s tactical radio squawked suddenly, loud enough for Smith to hear it.
“Sarge?” a voice said. “This is Battaglia, at the gate.”
“Go ahead,” Diaz snapped. “Make your report.”
“I’ve got some more Feds here. But I think there’s something really screwy going on. …”
“Like what?”
“Well, like these guys say they’re the Secret Service advance team. The only one,” the other guard stammered. “And there’s a Special Agent O’Neill down here who’s madder than spit because I won’t open the gate for him.”
Diaz lowered his radio slowly. He stared at Smith in utter confusion. “Two Secret Service teams? How the hell can there be two goddamned Secret Service teams?”
A shiver ran down Jon’s spine. “There can’t.”
Robert Ludlum's the Lazarus Vendetta Page 4
