Covert One 5 - The Lazarus Vendetta (35 page)

The spherical semiconductor shell of each Stage III nanophage
contained a timed self-destruct mechanism to scramble its working core — the
chemical loads that smashed peptide bonds. As these microscopic bomblets
detonated, they released a small burst of intense heat. IR detectors inside the
collection kits were picking up those bursts of heat.

Linden saw
the lines on each graph drop back to zero. “Nanophage self-destruct
complete,” he said.

“Good,” Lazarus replied. “Proceed to the final phase of Field
Experiment Three.”

“Understood,” Linden
said. He entered another series of command sequences on his keyboard. Flashing
red letters appeared on his screen. “Charges activated.”

Several miles to the north and east, the demolition charges rigged at the
base of each gray sensor box exploded. Fountains of blinding white flame soared
high into the air as the white phosphorus filler in each charge ignited. In
milliseconds, temperatures at the heart of each towering column of fire reached
five thousand degrees Fahrenheit—consuming every separate element of the sensor
boxes, inextricably mingling their metals and plastics with the now-molten
steel and iron of the lampposts. When the smoke and flames faded away, there
were no usable traces left of the instruments, cameras, and communications
devices set out to study the slaughter in La Courneuve.

The White House

The persistent chirping of his phone roused President Sam Castilla from an
uneasy, dream-filled sleep. He fumbled for his glasses, put them on, and saw
from the clock on his nightstand that it was nearly four-thirty in the morning.
The sky outside the White House family quarters was still pitch-black,
untouched by any hint of the approaching dawn. He grabbed the phone. “Castilla here.”

“I'm sorry to wake you, Mr. President,” Emily Powell-Hill said.
His national security adviser sounded both weary and depressed. “But
there's a situation developing outside Paris
that you need to know about. The first news is just hitting the airwaves—CNN,
Fox, the BBC, all of them have the same rough details.”

Castilla sat up in bed, automatically glancing apologetically to his left
for the early morning interruption before remembering that his wife, Cassie,
was away on yet another international goodwill tour, this one through Asia. He felt a sharp pang of loneliness and then fought
off the wave of sadness that came with it. The demands of the presidency were
inexorable, he thought. You could not dodge them. You could not ignore them.
You could only soldier on and try to honor the trust the people had placed in
you. Among other things, that meant accepting periodic separations from the
woman you loved.

He punched the TV remote, bringing up one of the several competing
twenty-four-hour cable news channels. The screen showed the deserted streets of
a suburb just outside Paris,
filmed from a helicopter orbiting high overhead. Suddenly the picture zoomed
in, revealing hundreds of grotesque clumps of melted flesh and bone that had
once been living human beings.

". . . many thousands of people are feared dead,
though the French government steadfastly refuses to speculate on either the
cause or the magnitude of this apparent disaster. Outside observers, however,
have commented on the striking similarities between the horrible deaths
reported here and those blamed on nanophages released from the Teller In-

stitute for Advanced Technology in Santa Fe, New
Mexico, only days ago. But so far, it is impossible
to confirm their suspicions. Only a few civil defense units equipped with full
chemical protective suits have been allowed to enter La Courneuve in a frantic
quest for survivors and answers. . . ."

Shaken to his core, Castilla snapped off the television. “My God,”
he murmured. “It's happening again.”

“Yes, sir,” Powell-Hill replied grimly. “I'm afraid so.”

Still holding the phone, Castilla levered himself out of bed and threw a
bathrobe over his pajamas. “Get everybody in here, Emily,” he said,
forcing himself to sound calmer and more in control than he felt. “I want
a full NSC meeting in the Situation Room as soon as possible.”

He disconnected and punched in a new number. The phone on the other end rang
only once before it was picked up.

“Klein here, Mr. President.”

“Don't you ever sleep, Fred?” Castilla heard himself ask.

“When I can, Sam,” the head of Covert-One replied. “Which is far less often than I would like. One of the
hazards of the trade, I fear—just like your job.”

“You've seen the news?”

“Yes, I have,” Klein confirmed. He hesitated. “As a matter of
fact, I was just about to call you.”

“Concerning this new horror in Paris?”
the president asked.

“Not exactly,” the other man said quietly. “Though
I'm afraid that there may well be a connection. One I do not yet fully
understand.” He cleared his throat. “I've just received a very
troubling report from Colonel Smith. Do you remember what Hideo Nomura said
about his father's belief that the CIA was waging a covert war on the Lazarus
Movement?”

“Yes, I do,” Castilla said. “As I recall, Hideo first thought
it was an indication of Jinjiro's increasingly shaky mental state. And we both
agreed with him.”

"So we did. Well, I'm sorry to have to tell you that it seems Jinjiro
No-

mura was right,“ Klein said somberly. ”And
we were both wrong. Dead wrong, Sam. I'm afraid that senior officials in the
CIA and the FBI, and possibly other services, have been conducting an
illegal campaign of sabotage, murder, and terrorism designed to discredit and
destroy the Movement."

“That's an ugly accusation, Fred,” Castilla said tightly. “A real ugly accusation. You'd better tell me exactly
what you've got to back it up.”

The nation's chief executive listened in stunned silence while Klein
recounted the damning evidence gathered by Jon Smith and Peter Howell—both in New Mexico and outside
Hal Burke's country house. “Where are Smith and Howell now?” Castilla
asked when the head of Covert-One finished bringing him up to speed.

“In a car on their way back to Washington,”
the other man said. “They were able to break contact with the mercenaries
who ambushed them roughly an hour ago. I dispatched support and transportation
as soon as Jon was able to safely make contact with me.”

“Good,” Castilla said. “Now, what about
Burke, Pierson, and their hired guns? We need to arrest them and start
getting to the bottom of this mess.”

“I have more bad news there,” Klein said slowly. “My staff has been listening in on the police and fire
department frequencies for that part of Virginia.
Burke's farmhouse is on fire. Right now, the blaze is still out of control. And
the local sheriff's department hasn't been able to find anyone responsible for
all the shooting his neighbors reported. Nor have they found any bodies in the
fields outside the house.”

“They're running,” Castilla realized.

“Someone is running,” the head of Covert-One agreed. “But who
and how far remain to be seen.”

“So exactly how high up does the rot go?” Castilla demanded. “All the way up to David Hanson? Is my Director of
Central Intelligence conducting a clandestine war right under my nose?”

“I wish I could answer that, Sam,” Klein said slowly. "But I
can't. Noth-

ing Smith found proves his involvement.“ He
hesitated. ”I will say that I don't think Burke and Katherine Pierson
could have organized an operation like this TOCSIN all on their own. For one
thing, it's too expensive. Just taking into account what little we know, the
tab has to run into the millions of dollars. And neither of them had the
authority to draw covert funds of that magnitude."

“This fellow Burke was one of Hanson's top men, wasn't he?” the
president said grimly. “Back when he ran the CIA's Operations
Directorate?”

“Yes,” Klein admitted. “But I'm wary of jumping to
conclusions. The CIA's financial controls are rock-solid. I don't see how
anyone inside the Agency could hope to divert the kind of federal money
necessary—not without leaving a trail a mile wide. Tampering with the Agency's
computerized personnel system is one thing. Ducking its auditors is quite
another.”

“Well, maybe the money came from somewhere else,” Castilla
suggested. He frowned. “You heard what else Jinjiro Nomura believed—that corporations and other intelligence services besides
the CIA were going after the Lazarus Movement. He might have been right about that,
too.”

“Possibly,” Klein agreed. “And there is another piece of the
puzzle to consider. I ran a quick check on Burke's most recent assignments. One
of them sticks out like a sore thumb. Before taking over the Agency's Lazarus
Movement task force, Hal Burke led one of the CIA teams searching for Jinjiro
Nomura.”

“Oh, hell,” Castilla muttered. “We put the goddamned fox in
charge of the chicken coop without even knowing it. . . .”

“I'm afraid so,” Klein said quietly. “But what I don't
understand in any of this is the connection between the nanophage release in Santa Fe — and now possibly in Paris—and this TOCSIN operation. If Burke and
Pierson and others are trying to destroy the Lazarus Movement, why orchestrate
massacres that will only strengthen it? And where would they get access to this
kind of ultra-sophisticated nanotechnology weapon?”

“No kidding,” agreed the president. He ran a hand through his rum-

pled hair, trying to smooth it down. “This is
one hell of a mess. And now I learn that I can't even rely on the CIA or the
FBI to help uncover the truth. Damn it, I'm going to have to put Hanson, his
top aides, and every senior Bureau official through the wringer before the word
of this illegal war against the Movement leaks out. Because
it will leak out.” He sighed. “And when it does, the
congressional and media firestorm is going to make Iran-Contra look like a
tempest in a teapot.”

“You still have Covert-One,” Klein reminded him.

“I know that,” Castilla said heavily. “And I'm counting on
you and your people, Fred. You have to get out there and find the answers I
need.”

“We'll do our best, Sam,” the other man assured him. “Our very best.”

The Chiltern Hills, England

Early Sunday morning traffic was light on the multi-lane M40 Motorway
connecting London and Oxford. Oliver Latham's silver Jaguar sped
southeast at high speed, racing through a landscape of green rolling chalk
hills, tiny villages with gray stone Norman churches, stretches of unspoiled
woodland, and mist-draped valleys. But the wiry, hollow-cheeked Englishman paid
no attention to the natural beauty around him. Instead, the head of MI6's
Lazarus surveillance section was wholly focused on the news pouring out of his
car radio.

“Initial reports from the French government do appear to connect the deaths
in La Courneuve with those outside the American research institute in the state
of New Mexico,”
read the BBC announcer in the calm, cultured tones reserved for serious
international developments. “And tens of thousands of residents of the
surrounding suburbs of Paris
are said to be fleeing in panic, clogging the avenues and motor routes leaving
the city. Army units and security forces are being deployed to control the
evacuation and maintain the rule of law—”

Latham reached out and snapped the radio off, annoyed to find his hands
trembling slightly. He had been fast asleep in his weekend country

home outside Oxford
when the first frantic call from Ml6 headquarters reached him. Since then, he
had experienced a succession of shocks. First came his
inability to contact Hal Burke to find out what the devil was really happening
in Paris. Just
as TOCSIN seemed to be flying apart at the seams, the American had dropped
completely out of sight. Next came the horrifying
discovery that his superior, Sir Gareth Southgate, had put his own agent, Peter
Howell, into the Lazarus Movement without Latham's knowledge. That was bad
enough. But now the head of MI6 was asking pointed questions about Ian McRae
and the other freelancers Latham sometimes hired for various missions.

The Englishman grimaced, considering his options. How much did Howell know?
How much had he reported to Southgate?
If TOCSIN was well and truly blown, what kind of cover story could he produce
to conceal his involvement with Burke?

Deep in thought, Latham shoved down hard on the Jaguar's accelerator,
swerving left to overtake and pass a heavy, lumbering lorry in the blink of an
eye. He cut back into the same lane with just a meter to spare. The lorry
driver flashed his lights at him in irritation and then leaned on his horn
—sending a piercing note blaring across the motorway. The horn blast echoed
back from the surrounding slopes.

Latham ignored the angry gestures, concentrating instead on getting to London as quickly as
possible. With luck, he could extricate himself unscathed from this mess. If
not, he might be able to make some sort of deal —trading information about
TOCSIN for the promise that he would not be prosecuted.

Suddenly the Jaguar rattled and banged, shaken by a succession of small
explosions. Its right front tire shredded and flew apart. Bits of rubber and
metal bounced and rolled away, scattering across the road surface. Sparks flew high in the
air, spraying over the bonnet and windscreen. The car swerved sharply to the
right.

Swearing loudly, Latham gripped the steering wheel in both hands and spun it
right, trying to regain control over the skid. There was no re-

sponse. The same series of tiny charges that had
blown out the Jaguar's front tire had destroyed its steering system. He
screamed shrilly, still desperately spinning the now-useless wheel.

Completely out of control now, the car careened across the motorway at high
speed and then flipped over—sliding upside down for several hundred meters
along the paved surface. The Jaguar came to rest at last in a tangle of torn
metal, broken glass, and crumpled plastic. Less than a second later, another
tiny explosive charge ignited the fuel seeping from its mangled gas tank,
turning the wreckage into a blazing funeral pyre.