Covert One 5 - The Lazarus Vendetta (42 page)

Randi stepped back a few feet. She peered up at the shadow-cloaked stretch
of wall in front of them, scanning for what looked like a good anchor point. A
narrow crack caught her eye. She sighted along the barrel of the air pistol,
aiming carefully. She squeezed the trigger. The pistol coughed quietly and the
tiny titanium dart shot out, trailing the wire behind it. With a soft clang,
the barbs of the small grappling hook bit deep into the stonework and held
fast.

Smith reached up and tugged firmly on the dangling nylon-coated wire. It
stayed put. He turned to the others. “All set?”

They nodded.

One by one, they swarmed up the wall and hauled themselves cautiously onto
the peak of the steep slate roof of the building at 18 rue de Vigny.

The Lazarus Center,
the Azores

Seated behind the plain teak desk in his private office, Hideo Nomura
observed the compressed-time computer simulation of the first Thanatos sorties
with growing pleasure. A large screen showed him a digitized map of the Western Hemisphere. Icons indicated the constantly
updated position of each Thanatos aircraft dispatched from his base here
in the Azores—roughly twenty-five hundred
miles off the American coast.

As each blinking dot crossed the Atlantic and soared above the continental United States,
whole swathes of territory on the digital map began

changing color—indicating areas struck by the
windblown clouds of Stage IV nanophages his stealthly high-altitude aircraft
would release. Different hues showed the predicted casualty rates for each
pass. Bright red indicated near-total annihilation for anyone caught inside the
indicated zone.

While Nomura watched, the metropolitan areas of New York,
Washington, D.C., Philadelphia,
and Boston glowed scarlet, signaling the calculated deaths of more than
35 million American men, women, and children. He nodded, smiling to himself. In
and of themselves, those deaths would be meaningless, merely the first taste of
the necessary carnage he planned to inflict. But this first onslaught would
serve a much larger purpose. The rapid destruction of so many of its most
populous centers of governmental and economic power was sure to plunge the
United States into crisis—rendering its surviving leaders completely unable to
detect the origin of the devastating attacks being carried out against their
helpless nation.

His internal phone chimed once, demanding his attention.

Reluctantly Nomura drew his eyes away from the computer-generated glory
unfolding before him. He tapped the speaker button. “Yes? What is
it?”

“We have received all the necessary data from the Paris relay point, Lazarus,” the dry,
academic tones of his chief molecular scientist informed him. “Based on
the results of Field Experiment Three, we see no need for further design
modifications at this time.”

“That is excellent news,” Nomura said. He glanced back at the
simulation. The dead zones it showed were spreading inland fast, reaching deep
into the American heartland. “And when will the first Stage Four
production run be complete?”

“In approximately twelve hours,” the scientist promised
cautiously.

“Very good. Keep me informed.” Nomura
switched off the attack simulation and called up another—this one constantly
updating the work being carried out inside the huge aircraft hangars at both
ends of his airfield.

It showed him that the crews assembling the components of his fleet of Thanatos
drones were on schedule. By the time the first cylinders of the new
nanophages rolled out of his hidden production facility, he would have three
aircraft ready to receive them.

Nomura picked up his secure satellite phone and punched in a preset code.

Nones, the third of the Horatii he had created, answered immediately.
“What are your orders, Lazarus?”

“Your work in Paris
is finished,” Nomura told him. “Return here to the Center as soon as
possible. Tickets and the necessary documents for you and your security unit will
be waiting at the Air France desk at Orly Sud.”

“What about Linden
and his surveillance team?” Nones asked quietly. “What arrangements
do you wish made for them?”

Nomura shrugged. “Linden
and the others have completed their appointed tasks efficiently. But I see no
need for their sendees in the future. None whatsoever.
Do you understand my meaning?” he asked coldly.

“I understand,” the other man confirmed. “And the equipment
at 18 rue de Vigny?”

“Destroy it all,” Nomura ordered. He smiled cruelly. “Let us
prove to a horrified world that American and British spies are still waging
their illegal war against the noble Lazarus Movement!”

Paris

Smith crawled out along the high, sharp peak of the roof at 18 rue de Vigny.
He used his hands and arms to pull himself along, preferring not to risk the
noise his rubber-soled boots would make scraping and scrabbling across the
roof's cracked slate tiles. He moved slowly, seeking whatever handholds he
could find along the slick, slippery surface.

The Lazarus Movement headquarters was among the highest buildings in this
part of the Marais, so there was nothing to block the cold east wind rushing
across Paris.
The frigid breeze keened through the array of antennae and satellite dishes
clustered on the roof. A stronger gust swirled suddenly along the sheer slopes,
tugging hard at his clothing and equipment.

Buffeted by this gust, Jon felt himself starting to slide off the ridge of
the roof. He gritted his teeth and desperately tightened his grip. A
hundred-foot drop beckoned, with nothing below to break his fall but
iron-spiked railings, parked cars, and cobblestones. He could feel his pulse
hammering in his ears, drowning out the faint sounds drifting up

from the city streets far below. Sweating despite
the cold, he pressed closer to the roof, waiting until the force of the wind
eased just a bit. Then, still shaking slightly, he pushed himself back up and
crawled on.

A minute later, Smith reached the modest shelter afforded by a large brick
chimney. Randi and Peter were there ahead of him. They had already rigged an
anchor line around the base of the chimney. He clipped on to it with a quiet,
grateful sigh and then sat up, breathing heavily— uneasily perched like the
others on the sharp ridge of the roof.

Peter chuckled, looking along the row at his two companions. “So here
we sit,” he said quietly. “Looking for all the
world like a rather sad and bedraggled band of crows.”

“Make that two ugly crows and one graceful swan,” Randi corrected
him with a slight smile of her own. She clicked the transmit button on her
tactical radio. “Anything stirring, Max?” she asked.

From his concealed post some distance down the rue de Vigny, her subordinate
radioed back. “Negative, boss. It's all real
quiet. One light came on a few minutes ago, up on the third floor, but
otherwise there's no sign of anyone coming or going.”

Satisfied, she nodded to the others. “We're clear.”

“Right,” Smith said flatly. “Let's get this done.”

One by one, they edged closer to the chimney and prepared their rap-pelling
gear—taking special care to ensure that their ropes, harnesses, and snap and
descending links were correctly rigged.

“Who wants to go first?” Randi asked.

“I will,” Smith volunteered, looking down at the roof stretching
away in front of him. “Tackling this was my bright idea, remember?”

She nodded. “Sure. Though 'bright' isn't exactly the adjective I would
have used.” But then she laid a gloved hand gently on his shoulder.
“Just watch yourself, Jon,” she said softly.
Her eyes were troubled.

He flashed her a quick, reassuring grin. 'Til do my
best," he promised.

Smith took a couple of deep breaths, steadying his jangled nerves. Then he
swung around and slid slowly backward down the slope, care-

fully controlling his descent with one hand on the
rope as it uncoiled. Tiny pieces of broken slate pitter-pattered ahead of him
and then fell away into the darkness below.

■

Inside Number 18 rue de Vigny, the tall auburn-haired giant called Nones
strode out of the third-floor office he had commandeered immediately upon
arriving in Paris.
Ordinarily reserved for the head of the Movement's African aid and education
programs, it was the largest and the most beautifully furnished in the whole
building. But the local activists had known better than to protest his curt
decisions or to ask inconvenient questions. After all, Nones carried
authorizations from Lazarus himself. For the time being, his word was law. He
smiled coldly. Very soon, the Movement's followers would have cause to regret
their unhesitating obedience, but by then it would be far too late.

Five men from his security detail waited patiently for him on the landing
outside the office. Their packs and personal weapons were ready at their feet.
They stood up silently at his approach.

“We have our orders,” he told them. “From
Lazarus himself.”

“The orders you expected?” the short Asian man called Shiro asked
calmly.

The third member of the Horatii nodded. “Down
to the last detail.” He drew his pistol, checked it over, and then
slid it back into his shoulder holster. His men did the same with their own
weapons and then bent down to pick up their packs.

They split up. Two headed down the main staircase toward the small garage at
the rear of the building's ground floor. The rest followed Nones up the stairs,
moving determinedly toward the fifth-floor rooms occupied by the field
experiment surveillance team.

Smith stopped his descent and balanced himself precariously right on the
very edge of the roof. Holding the rope tight, he forced himself to lean far
back into thin air, taking a good long look at the dormer windows raised above
the slope on either side. These windows opened into small attic rooms just
below the roof and just as the pictures they had studied earlier had shown—they
were securely shuttered.

Smith nodded to himself. They weren't going to be able to break through
those heavy wooden shutters, at least not without making a hell of a lot of
noise. They were going to have to find another way into this building.

He leaned out farther, now peering down the side of the building below him.
Lights glowed in the windows on the fifth floor, and their shutters were open.
Moving in short, cautious bounds, he rappelled down the wall. There was very
little noise —just the quiet creak of the rope as it slid through the metal
descending link on his harness and the soft thud of his boots as he hit the
wall and then pushed off again. Twenty feet down, he tightened his grip on the
rope, braking himself to a stop right next to one of
those lighted windows.

He glanced up.

Randi and Peter were there at the edge of the roof, two dark shapes outlined
against the black, star-filled sky. They were looking down over their shoulders
at him—waiting for his signal that it was safe to come ahead.

Smith motioned for them to hold where they were. Then he craned his neck,
trying to take a good look through the closest window. He had the fleeting
impression of a long, narrow room—one that ran at least half the length of this
side of the building. Several of the other windows on this floor opened into
this large chamber.

Inside, an assortment of computers, video monitors, radio receivers, and
satellite relay systems were stacked on a row of tables pushed up against the
opposite wall. Other tables and more equipment were set at

right angles, breaking the room up into a series of
improvised computer workstations or bays, and power and data transfer cables
snaked across a bare hardwood floor. The walls themselves were dingy, stained
by centuries of use and roughly daubed with cracked and peeling paint.

Off in one dark corner Smith could make out a row of six cots. Four of them
were occupied. He could see stocking feet protruding out from under coarse
woolen blankets.

But at least two men were awake and hard at work. One, an older man with
white hair and a scruffy beard, sat at a computer console, entering keyboard
commands with lightning-fast fingers. Images flashed on and off the monitor in
front of him at a dizzying pace. The second man wore a headset and sat in a
chair next to one of the satellite communications systems. He leaned forward,
listening closely to the signals coming through his earphones and occasionally
making small adjustments to its controls. He was younger and clean-shaven, and
his dark brown eyes and olive-toned skin somehow suggested the sun-drenched
lands of southern Europe. Was he a Spaniard? An Italian?

Jon shrugged. Spaniard, Italian, or someone from the South Bronx. What did it really matter? The
Lazarus Movement recruited its activists from around the world. At the moment,
only one thing was important. They were not going to be able to enter 18 rue de Vigny unobserved—at least not on this floor. He
glanced down, examining the rows of darkened windows below.

Suddenly, on the very edge of his vision, he caught a flicker of movement
inside the room. Smith saw the bearded white-haired man swivel away from his
keyboard and stand up. He seemed surprised but not unduly alarmed as four more
men filed into the room through a narrow arched doorway.

Smith watched carefully. These newcomers were hard-faced men dressed in dark
clothing, with bulging satchels slung over their shoulders. Two carried drawn
pistols. A third held a shotgun cradled in his arms. The fourth man, much
taller than the others and evidently the leader,

snapped an order to his men. They split up
immediately—each moving purposefully toward a different part of the room. The
big auburn-haired giant glanced briefly toward the row of windows and then
turned away. With a sinister fluid grace he drew a pistol out of his shoulder
holster.