“Very well,” Klein said carefully. “We’ll proceed. First, are you still convinced that the terrorists who hit the Institute were professionals?”
“No question about it,” Smith said. “These guys were smooth, Fred. They had Secret Service procedures, weapons, and ID all down cold. If the real Secret Service team hadn’t shown up early, the bad guys could have been in and out without anyone batting an eye.”
“Right up to the moment the bombs went off,” Klein suggested.
“Until then,” Smith agreed grimly.
“Which brings us to the protesters who died,” the head of Covert-One said. “The common assumption seems to be that the explosions released something from one of the labs—either a toxic chemical substance or more likely a nanotech creation that went wild. You were assigned out there to review the labs and their research. What do you think happened?”
Smith frowned. Ever since the shooting and screaming had stopped, he had been racking his brains, trying to piece together a plausible answer to that question. What could possibly have killed so many demonstrators outside the Institute so quickly and so cruelly? He sighed. “Only one lab was working on anything directly connected to human tissues and organs.”
“Which one?”
“Harcourt Biosciences,” Smith said. Speaking rapidly, he sketched in the work Brinker and Parikh had been doing with their Mark II nanophages—including their last experiment, the one that had killed a perfectly healthy mouse. “And one of the major bomb blasts went off inside in the Harcourt lab,” he concluded. “Both Phil and Ravi are missing, and presumed dead.”
“That’s it, then,” Klein said, sounding faintly relieved. “The bombs were set deliberately. But the deaths outside must have been unintended, basically a kind of high-tech industrial accident.”
“I don’t buy it,” Smith said bluntly.
“Why not?”
“For one thing, the mouse I saw die showed no signs of cellular degeneration,” Smith answered, thinking it through. “There was nothing remotely resembling the wholesale disintegration I watched this afternoon.”
“Could that be the difference between the effects of these nanophages inside a mouse and inside human beings?” Klein asked carefully.
“That’s highly unlikely,” Smith told him. “The whole reason for using lab mice for preliminary tests is their biological similarity to humans.” He sighed. “I can’t swear to it, Fred, not without further study, anyway. But my gut feeling is that the Harcourt nanophages could not have been responsible for those deaths.”
There was silence on the other end of the phone for a long moment. “You realize what that would mean,” Klein said at last.
“Yeah,” Smith agreed heavily. “If I’m right and nothing inside the Institute could have killed all those people, then whatever did came in with the terrorists and was set deliberately—as part of some cold-blooded plan to massacre thousands of Lazarus Movement activists. And that doesn’t seem to make any sense.”
He closed his eyes for a moment. He swayed, feeling the fatigue he had been holding at bay gaining the upper hand.
“Jon?”
With an effort, Smith forced himself back upright. “I’m still here,” he said.
“Wounded or not, you sound all in,” Klein told him. “You need a chance to rest and recover. What’s your situation there?”
Despite his exhaustion, Smith could not help smiling wryly. “Not great. I’m not going anywhere soon. I’ve already given my statement, but the local Feds are holding every single Institute survivor who can still walk and talk right here, pending the arrival of their great white chief from D.C. And she’s not due in until sometime early tomorrow morning.”
“Not surprising,” Klein said. “But not good, either. Let me see what I can do. Hold on.” His voice faded.
Smith looked out into the darkness, watching rifle-armed men in camouflage fatigues, Kevlar helmets, and body armor patrolling the cordon between him and the burning building. The National Guard had deployed a full company to seal off the area around the Teller Institute. The troops had been issued shoot-to-kill orders to stop anyone trying to break through their perimeter.
From what Smith heard, more National Guard units were tied up in Santa Fe itself, protecting state and federal offices and trying to keep the highways open for emergency traffic. One of the local sheriffs had told him that several thousand people from the city were evacuating, fleeing to Albuquerque or even up into the mountains around Taos in search of safety.
The police also had their hands full keeping tabs on survivors from the Lazarus Movement rally. Many had already fled the area, but a few hundred dazed activists were wandering aimlessly through the streets of Santa Fe. Nobody was sure if they were really in shock or if they were only waiting to cause more trouble.
Fred Klein came back on the line. “It’s all arranged, Colonel,” he said calmly. “You have clearance to leave the security zone—and a ride back to your hotel.”
Smith was deeply grateful. He understood why the Bureau wanted to secure the area and maintain control over its only dependable witnesses. But he had not been looking forward to spending a long, cold night on a cot in a Red Cross tent or huddled in the back of some police squad car. As so often before, he wondered briefly just how Klein—a man who operated only in the shadows—could pull so many strings without blowing his cover. But then, as always, he filed those questions away in the back of his mind. To Smith, the important thing was that it worked.
Twenty minutes later, Smith was riding in the back of a State Police patrol car heading north on Highway 84 through the center of Santa Fe. There were still long lines of civilian autos, pickups, minivans, and SUVs inching slowly south toward the junction with Interstate 25, the main road to Albuquerque. The message was clear. Many locals were not buying the official line that any danger was limited to a relatively small zone around the Institute.
Smith frowned at the sight, but he could not blame people for being scared to death. For years they had been assured that nanotechnology was absolutely, positively safe—and then they turned on their TV sets and watched screaming Lazarus Movement protesters being torn to shreds by tiny machines too small to be seen or heard.
The patrol car turned east off Highway 84 onto the Paseo de Peralta, the relatively wide avenue ringing Santa Fe’s historic center. Smith spotted a National Guard Humvee blocking an intersection to the right. More vehicles, troops, and police were in position along every road heading into the downtown area.
He nodded to himself. Those responsible for law and order were making the best use of their limited resources. If you had to pick just one place to defend against looting or lawlessness, that area was it. There were other beautiful museums, galleries, shops, and homes scattered around the rest of the city, but the heart and soul of Santa Fe was its historic center—a maze of narrow one-way streets surrounding the beautiful tree-lined Plaza and the four-centuries-old Palace of the Governors.
The streets of the old city followed the winding trace of old wagon roads like the Santa Fe and Pecos Trails, not an antiseptic ultra-modern grid. Many of the buildings lining those roads were a blend of old and new in the Spanish-Pueblo revival style, with earth-toned adobe walls, flat roofs, small, deep-set windows, and protruding log beams. Others, like the federal courthouse, displayed the brick facades and slender white columns of the Territorial style—dating back to 1846 and the U.S. conquest during the Mexican-American War. Much of the history, art, and architecture that made Santa Fe so unique an American city lay within that relatively small district.
Smith frowned as they drove past the darkened, deserted streets. On most days, the Plaza was bustling with tourists taking photos and browsing through the wares of local artists and craftsmen. Native Americans sat in the shade of the portal, the covered walkway, outside the Palace, selling distinctive pottery and silver and turquoise jewelry. He suspected that those places would be eerily abandoned in the coming morning, and possibly
for many days to come.
He was staying just five blocks from the Plaza, at the Fort Marcy Hotel Suites. Back when he was first assigned as an observer at the Teller Institute, it had amused him to check into a hotel with a military-sounding name. But there was nothing Army-issue or drab about the Fort Marcy suites themselves. Eighty separate units occupied a series of one- and two-story buildings set on a gentle hillside with views of the city or the nearby mountains. All of them were quiet, comfortable, and elegantly furnished in a mix of modern and traditional Southwestern styles.
The state trooper dropped him off at the front of the hotel. Smith thanked him and limped along the walkway to his room, a one-bedroom suite nestled in among shade trees and landscaped gardens. Few lights were on in any of the neighboring buildings. He suspected that many of his fellow guests were long gone—heading for home as fast as they could.
Jon fumbled through his wallet for the room card key, found it, and let himself in. With the door firmly closed, he felt himself starting to relax for the first time in hours. He carefully shrugged out of his bullet-ripped leather jacket and made his way into the bathroom. He splashed some cold water on his face and then looked in the mirror.
The eyes that stared back at him were haunted, weary, and full of sadness.
Smith turned away.
More out of habit than of real hunger, he checked the refrigerator in the suite’s kitchen. None of the tinfoil-wrapped restaurant leftovers inside looked appealing. Instead, he took out an ice-cold Tecate, twisted off the cap, and set the beer bottle out on the dining room table.
He looked at it for a long moment. Then he swung away and sat staring blindly out the windows, seeing only the horrors he had witnessed earlier replaying over and over in his exhausted mind.
Chapter
Eleven
Malachi MacNamara paused just inside the doors of Cristo Rey Church. He stood quietly for some moments, surveying his surroundings. Pale moonlight filtered in through windows set high up in massive adobe walls. A large high-ceilinged nave stretched before him. Far ahead, at the altar, he could see a large screen, a reredos, composed of three large sections of white stone. Carvings of flowers, saints, and angels covered the stone screen. Groups of weary men and women sat slumped here and there among the pews. Some were weeping openly. Others sat silent, staring into nothingness, still numbed by the horrors they had witnessed.
MacNamara moved slowly and unobtrusively down one of the side aisles, watching and listening to those around him. He suspected the men he was hunting were not here, but it was best to make sure of that before moving on to the next possible sanctuary. His feet ached. He had already spent several hours walking the meandering streets of this city, tracking down several of the dispersed groups of Lazarus Movement survivors. It would have been faster and more efficient with a car, of course. But terribly out of character, he reminded himself—and bloody damn obvious. The vehicle he had brought with him to New Mexico would have to stay hidden for a while longer.
A middle-aged woman with a pleasant, friendly face hurried up to him. She must be one of the parishioners who had opened their church to those they saw in need, he realized. Not everyone in Santa Fe had panicked and run for the hills. He could see the concern in her eyes. “Can I help you?” she asked. “Were you at the rally outside the Institute?”
MacNamara nodded somberly. “I was.”
She put her hand on his sleeve. “I am so sorry. It was frightening enough to watch from a distance, on the television, I mean. I can’t imagine how it must feel to have …” Her voice died away. Her eyes widened.
He suddenly became aware that his expression had grown cold, infinitely forbidding. The horrors he had seen were still too close. With an effort, he pushed away the dreadful images rising in his mind. He sighed. “Forgive me,” he said gently. “I didn’t intend to frighten you.”
“Did you lose …” The woman hesitated. “That is … are you looking for someone? Someone in particular?”
MacNamara nodded. “I am searching for someone. For several people, in fact.” He described them for her.
She listened attentively, but in the end she could only shake her head. “I’m afraid there’s no one here like that.” She sighed. “But you might try at the Upaya Buddhist temple, farther up Cerro Gordo Road, back in the hills. The monks there are also offering shelter to survivors. If you like, I can give you directions to the temple.”
The lean blue-eyed man nodded appreciatively. “That would be most kind.” He pulled himself upright. There are many more miles to go before you sleep, he told himself grimly. And quite probably in vain, too. The men he was after had undoubtedly already gone to ground.
The woman looked down at his scuffed, dust-smeared boots. “Or I could give you a ride,” she suggested hesitantly. “If you’ve been walking all day, you must be just about worn-out.”
Malachi MacNamara smiled for the first time in days. “Yes,” he said softly. “I am extremely tired. And I would be very glad of a lift.”
Outside Santa Fe
The safe house secured by the TOCSIN action team was high up in the foothills of the Sangre de Cristo Mountains, not far off the road leading to the Santa Fe Ski Basin. A narrow drive blocked by a chain and a large KEEP OUT sign wound uphill between gold-leafed aspens, oak trees covered in copper-red foliage, and towering evergreens.
Hal Burke turned off the main road and rolled down the window of the Chrysler LeBaron he had rented immediately after arriving at Albuquerque’s international airport. He sat waiting, careful to keep his hands in plain sight on the steering wheel.
A shadowy figure moved out from the shelter of one of the big trees. The dim glow of the car’s headlights revealed a narrow, hard-edged, suspicious face. One hand hovered conspicuously near the 9mm Walther pistol holstered at his hip. “This is a private road, mister.”
“Yes, it is,” Burke agreed. “And I am a private man. My name is Tocsin.”
The sentry drew nearer, reassured by Burke’s use of the correct recognition code. He flashed a penlight across the CIA officer’s face and then into the backseat of the Chrysler, making sure Burke was alone. “Okay. Show me some ID.”
Burke carefully fished his CIA identity card out of his jacket pocket and handed it over.
The sentry scrutinized the picture. Then he nodded, handed back the ID card, and undid the chain blocking the drive. “You can go ahead, Mr. Tocsin. They’re waiting for you up at the house.”
The house, a quarter-mile up the narrow road, was a large half-timbered Swiss-style chalet, with a steeply pitched roof designed to shed large masses of accumulated snow. In an average winter, well over a hundred inches fell on this part of the Sangre de Cristo range—and the winter often took shape in late October. Twice that much snow usually accumulated at the ski areas on the higher slopes.
Burke parked on a weather-cracked concrete pad close to a set of stairs leading up to the chalet’s front door. Against the darkness, lights shone yellow behind drawn window blinds. The woods surrounding the house were silent and perfectly still.
The front door of the chalet opened before he even finished getting out of the car. The sentry below must have radioed ahead. A tall auburn-haired man stood there, looking down at him with bright green eyes.
“You made good time, Mr. Burke.”
The CIA officer nodded, staring up at the bigger man. Which one of the strange trio who called themselves the Horatii was this? he wondered uneasily. The three big men were not brothers by birth. Instead, their identical appearance, enormous strength and agility, and wide range of skills were said to be the result of years of painstaking surgery, elaborate physical conditioning, and intensive training. Burke had selected them as section leaders for TOCSIN at their creator’s urging but could not entirely suppress a feeling of mingled fear and awe whenever he saw one of the Horatii. Nor could he tell them apart.
“I had every reason to hurry, Prime,” he replied, guessing at last.
Th
e green-eyed man shook his head. “I am Terce. Unfortunately, Prime is dead.”
“Dead? How?” Burke asked sharply.
“He was killed in the operation,” Terce told him calmly. He stepped aside, ushering Burke into the chalet. Carpeted stairs led up to the second floor. A long stone-flagged hall paneled in dark pine led deeper into the house. Bright light spilled out through an open door at the back. “In fact, you have arrived just in time to help us decide a small matter connected with Prime’s death.”
The CIA officer followed the big man through the open door and into a large glass-enclosed porch running the width of the house. The gently sloping concrete floor, a metal drain in the middle, and the racks on the walls told him this room was normally used as a storage and drying room for snow-encrusted outdoor gear—heavy boots, cross-country skis, and snowshoes. Now, though, the chalet’s new owners were using it as a holding cell.
A small stoop-shouldered man with olive skin and a neatly trimmed mustache perched uneasily on a stool set squarely in the middle of the room—right above the drain. He was gagged and his hands were tied behind him. His feet were bound to the legs of the stool. Above the gag, a pair of dark brown eyes were wide open, staring frantically at the two men who had just entered.
Burke turned his head toward Terce. He raised a single eyebrow in an unspoken question.
“Our friend there, Antonio, was the assault team’s backup driver,” the bigger man said quietly. “Unfortunately, he panicked during the extraction phase. He abandoned Prime.”
“Then you were forced to eliminate Prime?” Burke asked. “To prevent his capture?”
“Not quite. Prime was … consumed,” Terce told him. He shook his head grimly. “You should have warned us about the plague our bombs would release, Mr. Burke. I earnestly hope your failure to do so was only an oversight—and not intentional.”
The CIA officer frowned, hearing the implicit threat in the other man’s voice. “No one knew how dangerous those damned nanomachines really were!” he said quickly. “Nothing in the classified reports I studied from Harcourt, Nomura, or the Institute suggested anything like that could happen!”
Robert Ludlum's the Lazarus Vendetta Page 9
