Covert One 5 - The Lazarus Vendetta (21 page)

“Bingo.”

“That doesn't explain why that big green-eyed fellow you were fighting
suddenly succumbed,” the other man pointed out. “Both of you ran
through the cloud of these nanophages without at first being affected.”

“The guy was tagged, Fred,” Smith said grimly. He closed his eyes,
willing away the terrible memories of his enemy dissolving in front of him.
“I'm pretty sure that somebody hit him with a needle tipped with a
substance that triggered the nanophages he'd breathed in earlier.”

“Which means his own side betrayed him to prevent his possible capture,”
Klein said.

“That's the way I see it,” Smith agreed. He grimaced, suddenly
remembering the sound of that cold, deadly hiss right past his ear. “And I
guess they tried to hit me with one of those same damned needles, too.”

“Watch your step, Jon,” Klein said abruptly. “We still don't
know precisely who the enemy here is, and we certainly don't understand their
plans yet. Until we do, you should consider anyone, including Ms. Donovan, a
potential threat.”

Surveillance Team Safe House, on the Outskirts of Santa Fe

Two miles east of the Teller Institute, all was quiet inside the house
occupied by the covert surveillance team. Computers softly hummed and clicked
and whirred, gathering data from the various sensors focused on the zone around
the Institute. The two men assigned to this shift sat silently monitoring radio
transmissions while simultaneously keeping an eye on the information streaming
in.

One of them listened intently to the voices in his radio headset. He turned
toward his team leader, an older white-haired Dutchman named Willem Linden.
“The action team is reporting. Smith has just entered the Plaza
Mercado.”

“Alone?”

The younger man nodded.

Linden
smiled broadly, showing a mouthful of tobacco-stained teeth. “That is
excellent news, Abrantes. Signal the team to stand by. Then contact the Center
and inform them that everything is going according to plan. Tell them we will
report the moment Smith is eliminated.”

Abrantes looked worried. “Are you sure it will be that simple? I've
read this American's file. He could be very dangerous.”

“Don't panic, Vitor,” the white-haired man said soothingly.
“If you put a bullet or a knife blade in the right place, any man will
die.”

Smith paused in the doorway of the Longevity Cafe, briefly surveying the
patrons clustered at several of its small round tables. They seemed a somewhat
eclectic bunch, he thought with hidden amusement. Most of them, usually those
seated as couples, looked ordinary enough—a mix of nicely dressed,
health-conscious professionals and earnest college kids. Others sported an
eye-catching variety of tattoos and body piercings. A few wore turbans or long
blond dreadlocks. Several customers turned toward the door, plainly curious
about him as well. The vast majority carried on with their own intense
conversations.

The cafe itself occupied much of the Plaza Mercado's second floor, with
large windows looking down onto West
San Francisco Street. Walls painted in striking
bright reds, burnt orange, and yellows and floors in vivid blue and bleached wood
were matched by unusual pieces of artwork—many based on Asian, Hindu, or Zen
themes.

Smith headed straight for the table occupied by a woman sitting alone,

one of those who had turned to study him. That was
Heather Donovan. Fred Klein had included her photo and a brief bio in the
packet with Smith's forged credential from Le Monde. The local
spokesperson for the Lazarus Movement was in her mid-thirties, with a slender,
boyish figure, an unruly mop of strawberry blond curls, sea green eyes, and a
light dusting of freckles across the bridge of her nose.

She watched him walk toward her with a bemused expression on her face.
“Can I help you?” she asked.

“My name is Jon Smith,” he said quietly, politely doffing his
black Stetson. “I believe you're here waiting for me, Ms. Donovan.”

One finely sculpted reddish gold eyebrow went up. “I expected a
journalist, not a cowboy,” she murmured in perfect French.

Smith grinned and looked down at his tan corduroy jacket, bolo string tie,
jeans, and boots. “I try to adapt myself to local customs,” he
replied, in the same language. “After all, when in Rome . . .”

She smiled and switched to English. “Please sit down, Mr. Smith.”

He set his hat down on the table, pulled a small notepad and a pen out of
his jeans, and took the chair opposite hers. “I appreciate your meeting me
like this, so late, I mean. I know you've already had a long day.”

The Lazarus Movement spokeswoman nodded slowly. “It has been a
long day. Several long days, in fact. But before we
start this interview, I would like to see some identification —just as a
formality, of course.”

“Of course,” Smith said evenly. He handed her the forged press
card, watching closely as she held it up to the light. “Are you always so
careful around journalists, Ms. Donovan?”

“Not always,” she told him. She shrugged. “But I'm learning
to be a bit less trusting these days. Seeing several thousand people murdered
by your own government will do that.”

“That's understandable,” Smith said calmly. According to her
Covert-One dossier, Heather Donovan was a relatively recent recruit to the
Lazarus Movement. Before joining up with Lazarus, she had worked the

state capital lobbying circuit for the more
mainstream environmental groups, the Sierra Club and the World Wildlife
Federation among them. She was rated as tough, smart, and politically savvy.

“Okay, you seem on the level,” she said finally, sliding his press
card back.

“What can I get you folks?” a languid voice interrupted. One of
the waiters, a willowy young man with pierced eyebrows, had drifted over to
their table and now stood patiently hovering over them.

“A cup of gunpowder green tea,” the Lazarus Movement spokeswoman
told him.

“And a glass of red wine for me,” Smith said. He saw the pitying
look in her eyes. “No wine? Then how about a beer?”

She shook her head apologetically, a gesture repeated by the waiter.
“Sorry, they don't serve alcohol here,” she said. Her lips twitched
upward in the hint of another smile. “Maybe you should try one of the
Longevity's elixirs.”

“Elixirs?” he asked dubiously.

“They're a blend of traditional Chinese herbal recipes and natural
fruit juices,” the waiter said, showing some enthusiasm for the first
time. “I recommend the Virtual Buddha. It's quite stimulating.”

Smith shook his head. “Maybe some other time.”
He shrugged. “Then I'll have the same as Ms. Donovan —just a cup of green
tea.”

When the waiter sidled off to get their drinks, Smith
turned back to the Lazarus Movement spokeswoman. He held up his small
notebook. “So, now that we've established my status as a bona fide
reporter—”

“You can ask your questions,” Heather Donovan finished for him.
She eyed him carefully. “Which I understand revolve around the FBI's
grotesque suggestion that the Movement is somehow responsible for destroying
the Teller Institute, and for killing so many innocent people.”

Smith nodded. "That's right. I read the other papers this morning, and
what you said about this Andrew Costanzo intrigued me. From the sound

of it, I have to admit the guy doesn't strike me as
someone I'd pick as a secret conspirator."

“He isn't.”

“That's pretty definite,” he said. “Care to elaborate?”

“Andy is a talker, not a doer,” she told him. “Oh, he never
misses a Movement meeting, and he always has plenty to say, or at least to
complain about. The thing is, I've never seen him
actually do anything! He'll filibuster for hours, but show him envelopes
that need to be stuffed or flyers that need to be distributed and suddenly he's
too busy or too sick. He thinks he's the original philosopher-king, the man
whose visions lie beyond the reach of mere mortals like the rest of us.”

“I know the type,” Smith said with a quick grin. “The unappreciated Plato of the bookstore stockroom.”

“That's Andy Costanzo all over,” Heather agreed. “Which is why the FBI claim is so absurd. We all tolerated
him, but nobody in the Movement would ever trust Andy with anything serious—let
alone with more than a hundred thousand dollars in cash!”

“Somebody did,” he pointed out. “The identifications by those
Albuquerque car
dealers are airtight.”

“I know that!” She sounded frustrated. “I believe that
someone gave Andy the money to buy those SUVs. And I even believe he was stupid
enough, or arrogant enough, to actually go ahead and do what they asked. But
the money could not possibly have come from the Movement! We're not exactly
poor, but we're certainly not rolling in that kind of cash!”

“So you think Costanzo was set up?”

“I'm sure of it,” she said firmly. “As a means of smearing
Lazarus and all we stand for. The Movement is completely committed to
nonviolent protest. We would never condone murder or terrorism!”

Smith was tempted to point out that smashing up lab equipment automatically
crossed the line into violence, but he kept his mouth shut. He was here to
learn the answers to certain questions, not to spark a political

debate. Besides, he now felt sure this woman was
telling the truth —at least about those elements of the Lazarus Movement with
which she was familiar. On the other hand, she was only a mid-level activist,
the equivalent of an Army captain or a major. How much could she really know
about any secret moves made by the higher levels of her organization?

The arrival of their tea gave her time to regain her composure.

She took a cautious sip and then eyed him warily over the rim of her
steaming cup. “You're wondering whether or not the money might have come
from somewhere higher up inside the Movement, aren't you?”

Smith nodded. “No offense, Ms. Donovan. But you folks have drawn a
remarkably tight veil of secrecy around the top leadership of the Lazarus
Movement. It's only natural to wonder what's hidden behind it.”

“This veil of secrecy, as you call it, is purely a defensive measure,
Mr. Smith,” she said levelly. “You know what happened to our original
founders. They lived open, public lives. And then, one by one, they were killed
or kidnapped. Either by corporations they had angered or by governments doing
the bidding of those corporations. Well, the Movement will not allow itself to
be so easily beheaded again!”

Smith decided to let her wilder claims pass without comment. She was
starting to recite preset talking points.

To his surprise, she smiled suddenly, a smile that lit up her vivid green
eyes. “Okay, I admit that's partly rhetoric. Heartfelt rhetoric, to be
sure, but I agree it's not the most persuasive argument I've ever made.”
She took another sip of her tea and then set the cup down on the table between
them. “I'll try logic instead: Let's say I'm totally wrong. That I'm a dupe, and that there are people in the Movement who've
decided to use clandestine violence to achieve our goals. Well, think about
that. If you were running a top-secret operation whose disclosure could destroy
everything you've ever worked for. . . would you use
someone like Andy Costanzo as your agent?”

“No, I wouldn't,” Smith agreed. “Not unless I wanted to get
caught.”

And that was what had bothered him from the beginning, from the

first moment he read those leaked stories from the
FBI. Now, after hearing her, he was even more convinced that the whole SUV
angle stank to high heaven. Relying on an overeducated goofball like Costanzo
to buy the getaway vehicles for a terrorist attack was asking for big trouble.
It was the kind of boneheaded mistake that just did not jibe with the ruthless,
calculating professionalism he had witnessed during the attack on the
Institute. Which meant that somebody was manipulating this
investigation.

■

One block west of the Plaza Mercado, Malachi MacNamara waited patiently,
concealed in the shadows of a covered sidewalk. It was growing late, and the
streets of downtown Santa Fe
were nearly deserted.

The lean, weather-beaten man carefully raised his Kite handheld night-vision
scope and peered through it with one pale blue eye. Rather a useful gadget, he
thought. The British-made monocular was sturdy, very lightweight, and produced
a crisp, clear image magnified by four times. He painstakingly scanned the
surrounding area, checking the movements of his chosen quarry yet again.

He focused first on the man standing motionless in the recessed doorway of
an art gallery about fifty yards away. The shaven-headed fellow wore jeans,
heavy work boots, and a surplus U.S. Army field jacket. Whenever a car drove
by, his eyes narrowed to preserve his night vision. Otherwise, he stayed put
despite the growing cold. A young tough, MacNamara thought critically, but very
fit and reasonably well disciplined.

Three more watchers were posted at different points along the street, for a
total of four. Two of them were stationed to the west of the Plaza Mercado. Two
lurked to the east. All of them were positioned in good cover, well out of
sight to anyone but a trained observer with light-intensifier gear.

They were part of the group MacNamara had been hunting since the catastrophe
outside the Teller Institute. He had lost them in the immediate aftermath of
the nanomachine slaughter, but they had reappeared as

soon as the Lazarus Movement regrouped and set up
camp outside the National Guard cordon. Earlier tonight, not long after sunset,
these four had moved north on foot, making their way deeper into old Santa Fe's narrow
streets.

He had followed them at a safe distance. The short trek had taught him much
about his quarry. These men were not mere street thugs or anarchist ruffians
lured by the Movement rally, as he had first thought. Their movements were too
precise, too well planned, and too well executed. They had slipped right past
the FBI and police surveillance around the Lazarus camp. And more than once he
had been forced to hurriedly go to ground to avoid being spotted by one of their
number hanging back as a rear guard.