would have been faster and more efficient with a car, of course. But terribly out of character, he reminded himself — and bloody damn obvious. The vehicle he had brought with him to New Mexico would have to stay hidden for a while longer.
A middle-aged woman with a pleasant, friendly face hurried up to him. She must be one of the parishioners who had opened their church to those they saw in need, he realized. Not everyone in Santa Fe had panicked and run for the hills. He could see the concern in her eyes. “Can I help you?” she asked. “Were you at the rally outside the Institute?”
MacNamara nodded somberly. “I was.”
She put her hand on his sleeve. “I am so sorry. It was frightening enough to watch from a distance, on the television, I mean. I can't imagine how it must feel to have…” Her voice died away. Her eyes widened.
He suddenly became aware that his expression had grown cold, infinitely forbidding. The horrors he had seen were still too close. With an effort, he pushed away the dreadful images rising in his mind. He sighed. “Forgive me,” he said gently. “I didn't intend to frighten you.”
“Did you lose…” The woman hesitated. “That is… are you looking for someone? Someone in particular?”
MacNamara nodded. “I am searching for someone. For several people, in fact.” He described them for her.
She listened attentively, but in the end she could only shake her head. “I'm afraid there's no one here like that.” She sighed. “But you might try at the Upaya Buddhist temple, farther up Cerro Gordo Road, back in the hills. The monks there are also offering shelter to survivors. If you like, I can give you directions to the temple.”
The lean blue-eyed man nodded appreciatively. “That would be most kind.” He pulled himself upright. There are many more miles to go before you sleep, he told himself grimly. And quite probably in vain, too. The men he was after had undoubtedly already gone to ground.
The woman looked down at his scuffed, dust-smeared boots. “Or I could give you a ride,” she suggested hesitantly. “If you've been walking all day, you must be just about worn-out.”
Malachi MacNamara smiled for the first time in days. “Yes,” he said softly. “I am extremely tired. And I would be very glad of a lift.”
The safe house secured by the TOCSIN action team was high up in the foothills of the Sangre de Cristo Mountains, not far off the road leading to the Santa Fe Ski Basin. A narrow drive blocked by a chain and a large keep OUT sign wound uphill between gold-leafed aspens, oak trees covered in copper-red foliage, and towering evergreens.
Hal Burke turned off the main road and rolled down the window of the Chrysler LeBaron he had rented immediately after arriving at Albuquerque's international airport. He sat waiting, careful to keep his hands in plain sight on the steering wheel.
A shadow)' figure moved out from the shelter of one of the big trees. The dim glow of the car's headlights revealed a narrow, hard-edged, suspicious face. One hand hovered conspicuously near the 9mm Walther pistol holstered at his hip. “This is a private road, mister.”
“Yes, it is,” Burke agreed. “And I am a private man. My name is Tocsin.”
The sentry drew nearer, reassured by Burke's use of the correct recognition code. He flashed a penlight across the CIA officer's face and then into the backseat of the Chrysler, making sure Burke was alone. “Okay. Show me some ID.”
Burke carefully fished his CIA identity card out of his jacket pocket and handed it over.
The sentry scrutinized the picture. Then he nodded, handed back the ID card, and undid the chain blocking the drive. “You can go ahead, Mr. Tocsin. They're waiting for you up at the house.”
The house, a quarter-mile up the narrow road, was a large half-timbered Swiss-style chalet, with a steeply pitched roof designed to shed large masses of accumulated snow. In an average winter, well over a hundred inches fell on this part of the Sangre de Cristo range — and the winter often took shape in late October. Twice that much snow usually accumulated at the ski areas on the higher slopes.
Burke parked on a weather-cracked concrete pad close to a set of stairs leading up to the chalet's front door. Against the darkness, lights shone yellow behind drawn window blinds. The woods surrounding the house were silent and perfectly still.
The front door of the chalet opened before he even finished getting out of the car. The sentry below must have radioed ahead. A tall auburn-haired man stood there, looking down at him with bright green eyes.
'You made good time, Mr. Burke.'
The CIA officer nodded, staring up at the bigger man. Which one of the strange trio who called themselves the Horatii was this? he wondered uneasily. The three big men were not brothers by birth. Instead, their identical appearance, enormous strength and agility, and wide range of skills were said to be the result of years of painstaking surgery, elaborate physical conditioning, and intensive training. Burke had selected them as section leaders for TOCSIN at their creator's urging but could not entirely suppress a feeling of mingled fear and awe whenever he saw one of the Horatii. Nor could he tell them apart.
“I had every reason to hurry, Prime,” he replied, guessing at last.
The green-eyed man shook his head. “I am Terce. Unfortunately, Prime is dead.”
“Dead? How?” Burke asked sharply.
“He was killed in the operation,” Terce told him calmly. He stepped aside, ushering Burke into the chalet. Carpeted stairs led up to the second floor. A long stone-flagged hall paneled in dark pine led deeper into the house. Bright light spilled out through an open door at the back. “In fact, you have arrived just in time to help us decide a small matter connected with Prime's death.”
The CIA officer followed the big man through the open door and into a large glass-enclosed porch running the width of the house. The gently sloping concrete floor, a metal drain in the middle, and the racks on the walls told him this room was normally used as a storage and drying room for snow-encrusted outdoor gear — heavy boots, cross-country skis, and snowshoes. Now, though, the chalet's new owners were using it as a holding cell.
A small stoop-shouldered man with olive skin and a neatly trimmed mustache perched uneasily on a stool set squarely in the middle of the room — right above the drain. He was gagged and his hands were tied behind him. His feet were bound to the legs of the stool. Above the gag, a pair of dark brown eyes were wide open, staring frantically at the two men who had just entered.
Burke turned his head toward Terce. He raised a single eyebrow in an unspoken question.
“Our friend there, Antonio, was the assault team's backup driver,” the bigger man said quietly. “Unfortunately, he panicked during the extraction phase. He abandoned Prime.”
“Then you were forced to eliminate Prime?” Burke asked. “To prevent his capture?”
“Not quite. Prime was… consumed,” Terce told him. He shook his head grimly. “You should have warned us about the plague our bombs would release, Mr. Burke. I earnestly hope your failure to do so was only an oversight — and not intentional.”
The CIA officer frowned, hearing the implicit threat in the other man's voice. “No one knew how dangerous those damned nanomachines really were!” he said quickly. “Nothing in the classified reports I studied from Harcourt, Nomura, or the Institute suggested anything like that could happen!”
Terce studied him for a few moments. Then he nodded. “Very well. I accept your assurances. For now.” The second of the Horatii shrugged. “But the mission has backfired. The Lazarus Movement will be stronger now, not weaker. Given that, do you wish to proceed further? Or should we fold our tents and steal away while there is still time?”
Burke scowled. He was in too far to back out now. If anything, it was more imperative than ever to arrange the destruction of the Movement. He shook his head decisively. “We keep going. Is your team ready to activate the cover plan?”
“We are.”
“Good,” the CIA officer said flatly. “Then we still have a fighting chance to pin what happened at the Institute on Lazarus. Trigger the cover — tonight.”
“It will be done,” Terce agreed quietly. He indicated the bound man. “In the meantime, we need to resolve this disciplinary problem. What do you suggest we do with Antonio here?”
