misjudged these Americans,” he said softly. He sighed in sorrow. “Just as you have misjudged me.”
And with that, the old man leaned forward and kicked Hideo's hands away from the seat strut.
Face fixed in horror, the younger Nomura slid out the door, his fingernails clawing wildly, seeking a hold anywhere on the smooth metal. Then, with a despairing wail, he fell away into thin air, tumbling toward the Thanatos drone as it flew past under the turning Black Hawk.
Still kicking and flailing with his arms and legs, the man who was Lazarus crashed onto the fragile surface of the enormous flying wing. The drone shuddered, rocked by the sudden impact. And then, overloaded and already damaged, the Thanatos aircraft simply snapped in half-folding up like the closing pages of a book. Propeller blades, avionics pods, and clusters of nanophage cylinders ripped loose in a growing cloud of debris.
Slowly at first, and then faster, the tangled wreckage spun around and around, plunging all the way down to the hungry and waiting waters of the vast and merciless sea.
Epilogue
Although it was still early in the afternoon, President Samuel Adams Castilla had abandoned the excited hustle and bustle around the Oval Office — preferring instead the quiet comfort and privacy of his den upstairs in the East Wing. This room was all his own, exempt from the whims of the fashionable designers who had redecorated the rest of the White House under orders from his wife. There were shelves full of well-read books, a large Navajo rug covering the polished hardwood floor, a big black leather sofa, a couple of recliners, and a big- screen television. Hung on the walls were prints of works by Fredric Remington and Georgia O'Keeffe together with photographs of the rugged mountains around Santa Fe.
Castilla glanced over his shoulder with a smile. His hand was poised over a bottle and a pair of glasses on the sideboard. “Care for a Scotch, Fred?”
Fred Klein grinned back at him from his place on the long sofa. “I certainly would, Mr. President.”
Castilla poured the drinks and carried them over. “This is the Caol Ila, Jinjiro's favorite.”
“Very appropriate, Sam,” Klein said quietly. The head of Covert-One nodded toward the television. “He should be on any second now.”
“Yep. And I wouldn't miss this for the world,” Castilla said. He set down his Scotch and tapped a key on the TV remote. The screen lit up, showing the vast chamber of the UN General Assembly in New York. Jin-jiro Nomura stood alone on the dais, looking out over the sea of delegates and cameras with perfect poise — although he knew his words and his image were being beamed around the world to more than a billion people watching this live broadcast. His face was solemn, still bearing the deep marks of sorrow left by betrayal, a year's imprisonment, and the death of his son.
“I stand before you today on behalf of the Lazarus Movement,” Jinjiro began. “A movement whose noble ideals and dedicated followers were betrayed by the malice of one man. This man, my own son Hideo, murdered my friends and colleagues and imprisoned me — destroying those of us who founded the Movement so that he could seize power in secret. Then, masquerading as Lazarus, he used our organization to conceal his own cruel and genocidal aims, aims utterly at odds with everything for which our Movement truly stands…”
Castilla and Klein listened in satisfied silence while the older Nomura carefully and precisely recounted the details of Hideo's treachery, revealing both his secret creation of the nanophages and his plans to use them to destroy most of humanity so that he could make himself absolute master over the frightened survivors. Briefed earlier by Jinjiro, America's allies had already begun returning to the fold — all expressing profound relief that their earlier suspicions had proved unfounded and anxious to repair their damaged relations with the U.S. before the truth became widely known. This UN speech was only the first part of a determined campaign to unveil the subversion of the Lazarus Movement and salvage America's reputation.
Both men knew it would take time and a great deal of effort, but they were also sure the wounds left by Hideo Nomura's vicious deceptions would heal. A few isolated fanatics might cling to their belief in America's guilt, but most would accept the truth — swayed by the calm conviction and powerful presence of the last surviving founder of the Lazarus Movement and by the release of documents captured inside Nomura's secret Azores labs. The Movement itself was already crumbling, rocked by the first revelations of its leader's lies and murderous plans. Whatever survived would only do so by returning to Jinjiro's original vision of a force for peaceful change and environmental reform.
Castilla felt himself beginning to relax for the first time in weeks. America and the whole world had had an incredibly narrow escape. He sighed and saw Fred Klein looking at him.
“It's over, Sam,” the other man told him quietly.
Castilla nodded. “I know.” He raised his glass. “To Colonel Smith and the others.”
“To them all,” Klein echoed, raising his own glass. “Slainte.”
A crisp, rain-washed autumn breeze rustled through the leaves still clinging to the trees lining the Mall. Sunlight slanted through branches, dappling the grass with moving patterns of red- and gold-tinged shadows.
Jon Smith walked through the shadows toward a woman standing pensively near a bench. Her short golden hair gleamed in the afternoon light. Despite the thick cast encasing her left arm and shoulder, she still appeared slender and graceful.
“Waiting for me?” he called softly.
Randi Russell turned toward him. A slight smile creased her lips. “If you're the guy who left a message on my answering machine suggesting dinner, I guess so,” she said tartly. “Otherwise, I'll be eating alone.”
Smith grinned. Some things would never change. “How's the arm?” he asked.
“Not bad,” she told him. “The doctors tell me this hunk of plaster can come off in a few more weeks. Once that's done, and the collarbone heals, a little more rehab should clear me for field duty. Frankly, I can't wait. I'm not cut out for sitting behind a desk.”
He nodded. “Are things at Langley still in a mess?”
Randi shrugged carefully. “The situation seems to be calming down. The files our people snagged in the Azores have pretty well nailed everyone involved in TOCSIN. You heard that Hanson is resigning?”
Smith nodded again. The director of the CIA had not been directly involved in Burke and Pierson's illegal operation. But no one could doubt that his failures of judgment and his willingness to turn a blind eye were partly responsible. David Hanson's resignation “for personal reasons” was purely a face-saving alternative to being fired.
“Have you heard anything from Peter?” Randi asked in turn.
“I had a call from him last week,” Smith told her. “He's back in retirement at his place in the Sierras. For good this time, he claims.”
She raised a skeptical eyebrow. “Do you believe him?”
He laughed. “Not really. I can't imagine Peter Howell sitting idle on his front porch for very long.”
She looked across at Jon through slightly narrowed eyes. “What about you? Still playing spook for the Joint Chiefs? Or was it Army Intelligence this time?”
“I'm back at Fort Derrick, in my old post at USAMRIID,” Smith told her.
“Back to the infectious diseases grind?” Randi asked.
He shook his head. “Not exactly. We're developing a program to monitor potentially hazardous nanotech R&D around the world.”
She stared at him.
“We stopped Nomura,” Smith told her quietly. “But now the genie's out of the bottle. Someone else out there may try something similar — or equally destructive — someday.”
Randi shivered. “I'd hate to imagine that.”
He nodded somberly. “At least this time we know what to look for. Manufacturing biologically active nanodevices requires biochemical substances in large quantities — and those are substances we can track.”
She sighed. “Maybe we should just do what the Lazarus Movement wanted in the first place. Ban nanotech completely.”
