“There’s a famous painting done by the French neoclassical artist Jacques-Louis David,” Klein went on. “Called The Oath of the Horatii.”
“And it’s hanging in the Louvre,” Smith said, suddenly realizing why the name had conjured up old memories.
“That’s right,” Klein confirmed.
Smith shook his head grimly. “Swell. So our friend Lazarus has a love for the classics and a nasty sense of humor. But I guess that doesn’t bring us any closer to finding him.” He took a deep breath. “Were you able to secure a translation of Abrantes’ last words?”
“Yes,” Klein said quietly.
“Well?” Smith asked impatiently. “What was he trying to tell me?”
“He said, ‘The Azores. The island of the sun. Santa María,’” the head of Covert-One reported.
“The Azores?” Smith shook his head, surprised. The Azores were a group of small Portuguese-settled islands far out in the Atlantic Ocean, close to the line of latitude linking Lisbon and New York. Centuries ago, the archipelago had been a strategic outpost of the now-vanished Portuguese empire, but today it survived largely on beef and dairy exports and on tourism.
“Santa María is one of the nine islands of the Azores,” Klein explained. He sighed. “Apparently, the locals sometimes refer to it as ‘the island of the sun.’”
“So what the hell is on Santa Maria?” Smith asked, barely controlling the irritation in his voice. Fred Klein was not usually so slow to get to the point.
“Not much on the eastern half of the island. Just a few tiny villages, really.”
“And in the west?”
“Well, that’s where things get tricky,” Klein admitted. “It seems that the western end of Santa María is leased by Nomura PharmaTech for its global medical charity work—complete with a very long hard-surfaced runway, enormous hangar facilities, and a huge medical supply storage complex.”
“Nomura,” Jon said softly, at last understanding why his superior sounded so strained. “Hideo Nomura is Lazarus. He’s got the money, the scientific know-how, the facilities, and the political connections to pull something like that off.”
“So it appears,” Klein agreed. “But I’m afraid it’s not enough. No one’s going to be persuaded by the purported last words of an unknown dying man. Without hard evidence, the kind of evidence we can show to wavering friends and allies, I don’t see how the president can possibly approve an open attack on Nomura’s Azores facility.”
The head of Covert-One continued. “The situation here is worse than you can imagine, Jon. Our military and political alliances are shredding like wet tissue paper. NATO is up in arms. The UN General Assembly is planning to designate us as a terrorist nation. And a sizable bloc in Congress is arguing seriously for the impeachment of the president. In these circumstances, an apparently unprovoked air or cruise missile attack on a world-renowned medical charity would be the last straw.”
Smith knew that Klein was right. But knowing that didn’t make the situation they faced any more acceptable. “We may be damned if we do. But we’ll die if we don’t,” he argued.
“I know that, Jon,” Klein said emphatically. “But we need evidence to back our claims before we can send in the bombers and missiles.”
“There’s only one way to get that kind of proof,” Smith pointed out grimly. “Someone has to go in on the ground in the Azores and get right up close.”
“Yes,” Klein agreed slowly. “When can you head to the airport?”
Smith looked up from the phone at Randi and Peter. They looked equally grim, equally determined. They had heard enough of his side of the conversation to know what was going on. “Now,” he said simply. “We’re going now.”
Chapter
Forty-Five
The Lazarus Center, Santa María Island, the Azores
Outside the windowless confines of the Lazarus Movement nerve center, the sun was just rising, climbing higher above the embrace of the Atlantic. Its first dazzling rays touched the sheer cliffs of São Laurenço Bay with fire and lit the steep stone-terraced vineyards of Maia. From there, the growing daylight rolled westward across verdant forests and pastures, gleamed off the white sand beach at Praia Formosa, and at last chased the night’s lingering shadows away from the treeless limestone plain surrounding the Nomura PharmaTech airfield.
Inside the Center, secure in neon-lit silence, Hideo Nomura read through the most recent messages from his surviving agents in Paris. Based on details supplied by paid informants on the police force, it was clear that Nones and his men were dead—killed along with all the others inside the bomb-ravaged building at 18 rue de Vigny.
He furrowed his brow, both puzzled and worried by this news. Nones and his team should have been well away before their demolition charges exploded. Something had gone badly wrong, but what?
Several witnesses reported seeing “men in black” running away from the building right after the first explosions occurred. The French police, though dubious at first, were now treating these reports seriously—blaming the mysterious forces opposing the Lazarus Movement for what looked like a major terrorist attack on its Paris headquarters.
Nomura shook his head. That was impossible, of course. The only terrorists targeting the Movement were men under his command. But then he stopped, considering the matter more carefully.
What if someone else had been snooping around inside 18 rue de Vigny? True, his intricately laid plans had succeeded in throwing the CIA, FBI, and MI6 into confusion. But there were other intelligence organizations in the world, and any number of them might be trying to pry into the activities of the Lazarus Movement. Could they have found anything there that might tie the La Courneuve surveillance operation to him? He bit his lower lip, wondering if he had been overconfident, entirely too sure that his many elaborate ruses would escape detection.
Nomura pondered that possibility for a while. Though it was likely that his cover was intact, it might be best to take certain precautions. His original plan envisioned a simultaneous strike on the continental United States by at least a dozen Thanatos aircraft—but assembling the required number of the giant flying-wing drones would take his work crews another three days. More important, he lacked the hangar space here to conceal so many planes from any unexpected aerial or space surveillance.
No, he thought coldly, he should act now, while he was certain that he still could, instead of waiting for a perfect moment that might never arrive. Once the first millions were dead, the Americans and their allies would be leaderless and too horror-stricken to hunt effectively for their hidden foes. When fighting for control over the fate of the world, he reminded himself, flexibility was a virtue, not a vice. He tapped a button on his internal phone. “Send Terce to me. At once.”
The last of the Horatii arrived moments later. His massive shoulders filled the doorway and his head seemed almost to brush against the ceiling. He bowed obediently and then stood motionless in front of Nomura’s teak desk, patiently waiting for orders from the man who had made him so powerful and efficient a killer.
“You know that both of your companions have failed me?” Nomura said.
The tall green-eyed man nodded. “So I understand,” he said coolly. “But I have never failed in my duty.”
“That is true,” Nomura agreed. “And in consequence, the rewards promised to them now fall to you. When the time comes, you will stand at my right hand—exercising dominion in my name, in the name of Lazarus.”
Terce’s eyes gleamed. Nomura planned to reorder the world to create a paradise for those few he believed worthy of continued life. Most nations and peoples would die, consumed over months and years by waves of unseen nanophages. Those allowed to live would be forced to obey his commands—reshaping their lives, cultures, and beliefs to fit his idyllic vision. Nomura and those who served him would wield almost unimaginable power over the frightened remnants of humanity.
“What are your orders?” the surviving member of the Horatii asked.
“We are going to attack earlier than first planned,” Nomura told him. “Three Thanatos aircraft should be ready for launch in six to eight hours. Inform the nanophage production team that I want enough full canisters to load those planes as soon as their preflight checks are finished. The first targets will be Washington, D.C., New York, and Boston.”
Lajes Field, Terceira Island, the Azores
Three people, two men and a woman, stood out among the small crowd of passengers deplaning from Air Portugal’s Lisbon flight. Unencumbered by luggage, they moved swiftly through the slower currents of locals and bargain-hunting tourists and made their way from the tarmac into the airport terminal.
Once inside, Randi Russell stopped dead in her tracks. She stared up at a large clock showing the local time as noon and then back to the board showing flight arrivals and departures. “Damn!” she muttered in frustration. “There’s only one connecting flight to Santa María a day—and we’ve already missed it.”
Walking on, Jon shook his head. “We’re not taking a commercial flight.” He led them toward the outer doors. A short line of taxis and private cars stood at the curb, waiting to pick up arriving passengers.
She raised an eyebrow. “Santa María must be close to two hundred miles away. You planning to swim?”
Smith grinned back over his shoulder. “Not unless Peter really fouls up.”
Randi glanced at the pale-eyed Englishman walking beside her. “Do you know what he’s talking about?”
“Haven’t a clue,” Peter told her breezily. “But I noticed our friend there making a few sotto voce phone calls in Paris while we were waiting for the Lisbon flight. So I rather suspect he has something up his sleeve.”
Still smiling slightly, Smith pushed through the doors out into the open air. He raised his hand, signaling a green, brown, and tan camouflaged Humvee idling just down the road. It pulled forward to meet them.
“Colonel Smith and company?” the U.S. Air Force staff sergeant behind the wheel asked.
“That’s us,” Smith said, already tugging open the rear doors and motioning Randi and Peter inside. He hopped in after them.
The Humvee pulled away from the curb and drove on down the road. A quarter mile farther on, it swung toward a gate in the perimeter fence. There a pair of stern-faced guards carrying loaded M16s checked their identity cards, carefully comparing faces and pictures. Satisfied, the soldiers waved them through onto the U.S. Air Force base at Lajes.
The vehicle turned left and raced down the flight line. Gray-camouflaged C-17 transports and giant KC-10 tanker planes lined the long runway. On one side of the tarmac, the ground fell away, eventually plunging almost straight down toward the Atlantic. On the other, bright green slopes rose high above the airfield, broken up into innumerable small fields by low walls of dark volcanic rock. The sweet scents of wild-flowers and the fresh salt smell of the ocean mixed oddly with the sharp, acrid tang of half-burnt jet fuel.
“Your bird arrived from the States an hour ago,” the Air Force sergeant told them. “It’s being prepped now.”
Randi turned toward Smith. “Our bird?” she asked pointedly.
Jon shrugged. “A U.S. Army UH-60L Black Hawk helicopter,” he said. “Dispatched here by C-17 about the same time we flew from Paris to Lisbon. I thought it might come in handy.”
“Good thinking,” Randi said with barely contained sarcasm. “Let me get this straight: You just snapped your fingers and had the Army and the Air Force ship you a multimillion-dollar helicopter for our personal use? Is that about right, Jon?”
“Actually, I asked a couple of friends in the Pentagon to pull a string or two,” Smith said modestly. “Everybody’s so worried about this nanophage threat that they were willing to bend some of the rules for us.”
Randi rounded on the leathery-faced Englishman. “And I suppose you think you can fly a Black Hawk?”
“Well, if I can’t, we’ll soon find out the hard way,” Peter told her cheerfully.
Chapter
Forty-Six
PharmaTech Airfield, Santa María Island
Hideo Nomura paced slowly along the edge of the long concrete runway. The wind, blowing from the east, whispered through his short black hair. The light breeze carried the rich, sun-warmed smell of tall grass growing on the plateau beyond the fence. He looked up. The sun was still high overhead, just beginning its long slide toward the western horizon. Far to the north, a few clouds drifted slowly past, solitary puffs of white in a clear blue sky.
Nomura smiled. The weather was perfect in every respect. He turned, seeing his father standing behind him between two of Terce’s hard-faced guards. The older man’s hands were handcuffed behind his back.
He smiled at his father. “It’s wonderfully ironic, isn’t it?”
Jinjiro eyed him with a stony, cold reserve. “There are many ironies here, Lazarus,” he said coldly, refusing even to call his treacherous son by his own name. “To which do you refer?”
Ignoring the gibe, the younger man nodded toward the runway in front of them. “This airfield,” he explained. “The Americans built it in 1944, during their war against Germany and our beloved homeland. Their bombers used this island as a refueling point during their long transatlantic flights to England. But today, I will turn their own work against them. This airfield is about to become the staging area for America’s annihilation!”
Jinjiro said nothing.
Hideo shrugged and turned away. It was clear now that he had kept his father alive out of a misguided sense of filial piety. Once the first Thanatos drones were airborne, there would be time to arrange a fitting end for the old fool. Some of his scientists were already working on different variations of the Stage IV nanophages. They might find it useful to test their new designs on a live human subject.
He strode toward a small knot of flight engineers and ground controllers waiting beside the runway. They wore headsets and short-range radios for communications between the aircraft hangars and the tower. “Is everything ready?” he asked sharply.
The senior ground controller nodded. “The main hangar crew reports they are ready for rollout. All canisters are onboard.”
“Good.” Nomura looked at his ranking flight engineer. “And the three aircraft?”
“All of their systems are functioning within the expected norms,” the man told him confidently. “Their solar power cells, fuel-cell auxiliaries, flight controls, and attack programs have all been checked and rechecked.”
“Excellent,” Nomura said. He glanced again at the ground controller. “Are there any unidentified air contacts we need to worry about?”
“Negative,” the controller said. “Radar reports nothing airborne within one hundred kilometers. We’re in the clear.”
Hideo took a deep breath. This was the moment he had spent years planning, scheming, and killing to make a reality. This was why he had tricked, trapped, and betrayed his own father—all for this single glorious instant of sure and certain triumph. He breathed out slowly, savoring the delightful sensation. Then he spoke. “Commence Thanatos operations.”
The ground controller repeated his order over the radio.
“Open hangar doors.”
In response, at the southern end of the airfield huge metal doors on the nearest hangar began groaning apart, revealing a vast interior crowded with men and machines. Sunshine streamed inside through the rapidly expanding opening. It fell on the solar cells of the first Thanatos flying wing. They gleamed like golden fire.
“The first aircraft is taxiing,” the senior flight engineer reported.
Slowly, the enormous drone, with a wingspan wider than that of a 747, lumbered forward, clearing the doors with only feet to spare. Fourteen twin-bladed propellers whirred silently, pulling it out onto the runway. Clusters of thin-walled plastic cylinders were visible on each of the aircraft’s five underwing pods.
“Don masks and gloves,” Nomura ordered. The controllers and engineers hurriedly obeyed, shru
gging into the heavy gear that would give them limited protection if anything went wrong during takeoff.
Terce moved to his side, offering him a gas mask, respirator, and thick gloves. Hideo took them with a curt nod.
“And the prisoner?” the tall green-eyed man asked, in a voice muffled by his respirator. “What about him?”
“My father?” Hideo glanced back at Jinjiro, who was still standing bareheaded in the sun, rigid and unbending between his two gas-masked guards. He smiled coldly and shook his head. “No mask for him. Let the old man take his chances.”
“The second aircraft is taxiing,” the flight engineer reported, speaking loudly enough to be heard through his mask and breathing apparatus.
Nomura looked back at the runway. The first Thanatos drone was already two hundred meters away, slowly accelerating as it rolled north on its takeoff run. The second flying wing was emerging from inside the mammoth hangar—with a third just visible behind it. He pushed his father’s impending death to the back of his mind and focused instead on watching his cruel dreams take flight.
Terce moved away, unslinging a German-made Heckler & Koch G36 assault rifle from his shoulder as he went. His head swiveled from side to side, checking the armed guards he had posted at intervals along the runway. All of them appeared alert.
A slight frown crossed the big man’s face. Counting the two men watching Jinjiro, there were ten sentries stationed at the airfield. There should have been twice as many—but the unexpectedly heavy losses he had sustained in New Mexico and then again in Virginia could not be made up in time. The deaths of Nones and his Paris-based security detail only made the manpower shortage worse.
Terce shrugged, looking westward out to sea. In the end, it would not matter. Nomura was right. Stealth outweighed firepower. No matter how many soldiers, missiles, and bombs they possessed, the Americans could not attack a target they could not find.
He froze. Something was moving out there above the Atlantic, right near the edge of his vision. He stared harder. Whatever it was, the object was drawing closer at high speed. But it was difficult to make out through the thick, distorting lenses of his gas mask.
Robert Ludlum's the Lazarus Vendetta Page 35
