Another of his men dropped to one knee beside him. “Your orders?”
The giant shrugged. “Sanitize this site. Then dump the bodies somewhere else. Somewhere they will be found.”
“Do you want them found sooner? Or later?” the man asked calmly.
The big man bared his teeth in the darkness. “Tomorrow morning will be soon enough.”
Chapter Four
“Preliminary analysis shows no contamination in the first four chemical baths. Temperature and pH readouts were also all well within the expected norms….”
Jon Smith sat back, rereading what he had just typed. His eyes felt gritty. He had spent half of last night reviewing biochemical formulas and nanophage build procedures with Phil Brinker, Ravi Parikh, and the rest of their team. So far the error that had wrecked the first Mark II nanophage trial had eluded them. The Harcourt Biosciences researchers were probably still hard at it, he knew, poring over reams of computer printouts and test data. With the president of the United States scheduled to laud their work — and that of the other Teller Institute labs — in a little less than forty-eight hours, the pressure was on. No one at Harcourt's corporate headquarters was going to want the media to show pictures of their “lifesaving” new technology killing mice.
“Sir?”
Jon Smith swung away from his computer monitor, fighting down a sudden surge of irritation at being interrupted. “Yes?”
A sturdy, serious-looking man wearing a dark gray suit, button-down shirt, and pale red tie stood in the open door to his small office. He checked a photocopied list. “Are you Dr. Jonathan Smith?”
“That's me,” Smith said. He sat up straighter, noticing the faint bulge of a shoulder holster under the other man's suit coat. That was odd. Only uniformed security personnel were licensed to carry firearms on Institute grounds. “And you are?”
“Special Agent Mark Farrows, sir. U.S. Secret Service.”
Well, that explained the concealed weapon. Smith relaxed a bit. “What can I do for you, Agent Farrows?”
“I'm afraid I have to ask you to leave your office for a short time, Doctor.” Farrows smiled warily, anticipating his next question. “And no, sir, you are not under arrest. I'm with the Protective Division. We're here to conduct an advance security sweep.”
Smith sighed. Scientific institutions prized presidential visits because they often meant a higher national profile and added congressional funding. But there was no getting around the fact that they were also highly inconvenient. Security checks like this one, presumably scouting for explosive devices, potential hiding places for would-be assassins, and other dangers, always disrupted any lab's normal routine.
On the other hand, Smith knew that it was the responsibility of the Secret Service to protect the president's life. For the agents involved, shepherding the nation's chief executive safely through a massive facility crammed full of toxic chemicals, pressurized high-temperature vats, and enough high-voltage electricity to run a small city would be a waking nightmare.
The word had already come down from the Institute's hierarchy to expect a thorough inspection by the Secret Service. The betting had been that it would happen tomorrow — closer to the president's arrival. The growing army of protesters outside must have prodded the Secret Service into acting earlier.
Smith stood up, took his jacket off the back of his chair, and followed Farrows into the hallway. Dozens of scientists, technicians, and administrative staff were streaming past, most of them carrying files or laptops to work on until the Secret Service unit gave them permission to return to their labs and offices.
“We're asking Institute personnel to wait in the cafeteria, Doctor,” Farrows said politely, indicating the direction. “Our sweep really shouldn't take long. Not more than an hour, we hope.”
It was nearly eleven in the morning. Somehow the prospect of sitting jammed in the cafeteria with the others was not very appealing to Smith. He had already been stuck inside for far too long, and one could only breathe recycled air and drink stale coffee for so many hours without going crazy. He turned to the agent. “If it's all the same to you, I want to grab some fresh air instead.”
The Secret Service agent put out a hand to stop him. “I'm sorry, sir, but it's not the same to me. My orders are very clear. All Institute employees report to the cafeteria.”
Smith eyed him coolly. He did not mind letting the Secret Service men do their job, but he would be damned if he would let them ride roughshod over him for no good reason. He stood still, waiting until the other man let go of the sleeve of his leather jacket. “Then your orders don't apply to me, Agent Farrows,” he said calmly. “I'm not a Teller Institute employee.” He flipped open his wallet to show his military ID.
Farrows scanned it quickly. One eyebrow lifted. “You're an Army light colonel? I thought you were one of these scientist-types.”
“I'm both,” Smith told him. “I'm here on detached duty from the Pentagon.” He nodded at the list the other man still held. “Frankly, I'm surprised that little piece of information isn't on your roster.”
The Secret Service agent shrugged. 'Looks like somebody in D.C. fouled up. It happens.“ He tapped the radio receiver in his ear. ”Just let me clear this with my SAIC, okay?'
Smith nodded. Each Secret Service detail was commanded by a SAIC — a special-agent-in-charge. He waited patiently while Farrows explained the situation to his superior.
At last, the other man waved him through. “You're good to go, Colonel. But don't stray too far. Those Lazarus Movement goofballs out there are in a really bad mood right now.”
Smith walked past him and came out into the Institute's large front lobby. To his left, one of the building's three staircases led up to the second floor. Doors on either side led to various administrative offices. Across the lobby, a waist-high marble railing enclosed the visitors' registration and information desks. To the right, two enormous wood-paneled doors stood open to the outside.
From there a shallow set of wide sand-colored steps led down to a broad driveway. Two big black SUVs with U.S. government license plates were parked along the edge of the drive, right at the foot of those steps. A second plainclothes Secret Service agent stood in the doorway, keeping an eye on both the lobby and the vehicles parked outside. He wore sunglasses and cradled a deadly-looking 9mm Heckler & Koch MP5 submachine gun. His head swiveled briefly to watch Smith walk past him, but then he turned back to his sentry duty.
Outside, Smith stopped at the top of the steps and stood quietly for a moment, enjoying the feel of the sun on his lean, tanned face. The air was warming up and puffs of white cloud moved lazily across a brilliant azure sky. It was a perfect autumn day.
He took a deep breath, trying to wash the accumulated fatigue toxins out of his system.
“LET LAZARUS LEAD! NO TO NANOTECH! LET LAZARUS LEAD! NO TO NANOTECH! LET LAZARUS LEAD!”
Smith frowned. The rhythmic, singsong slogans hammered at his ears, shattering the momentary illusion of peace. They were much louder and
angrier than they had been the day before. He eyed the mass of chanting protesters pressed up close against the perimeter fence. There were a lot more of them here today, too. Maybe even as many as ten thousand.
A sea of bloodred and bright green banners and placards rose and fell in time with each roar from the crowd. Protest organizers roamed back and forth on a portable stage set up near the Institute security booth, shouting into microphones — whipping the demonstrators into a frenzy.
The main gate was closed. A small squad of gray-uniformed security guards stood behind the gate, nervously facing the chanting throng. Outside, much farther down the access road, Smith could see a few patrol cars — a couple in the black-and-white markings of the New Mexico State Police, the rest in the white, light blue, and gold stripes of the Santa Fe County Sheriff's Office.
“This is shaping up to be one hell of a mess, Colonel,” a familiar voice said grimly from behind him.
Frank Diaz came forward from his post by the door. Today the ex-Ranger noncom was wearing a bulky
