and low mounds of loose gravel. Steep rock walls soared high on either side — striped with alternating layers of buff-colored sandstone and red mudstone.
Costanzo turned off the ignition. The air was silent and perfectly still. Was he too early? Or too late? The orders he had been given had stressed the importance of promptness. He drew his shirtsleeve across his forehead, mopping away the droplets of sweat that were stinging his shadowed, bloodshot eyes.
He scrambled out of the Honda, dragging a small suitcase with him. He stood awkwardly, waiting, not sure of what he should do next.
Headlights suddenly speared out from one of the narrow side canyons. Surprised, Costanzo swung toward the lights, shading his eyes in a desperate attempt to see through the blinding glare. He couldn't make out anything but the vague outline of a large vehicle and two or three shapes that might be men standing beside it.
“Put the bag down,” a voice ordered loudly, speaking through a bullhorn. “Then step away from your car. And keep your hands where we can see them!”
Shaking now, Costanzo obeyed. He walked forward stiffly, feeling sick to his stomach. He stuck his hands high in the air, with their palms out. “Who are you?” he asked plaintively.
“Federal agents, Mr. Costanzo,” the voice said more quietly, without the bullhorn now.
“But I haven't done anything wrong! I haven't broken any laws!” he said, hearing the shrill quaver in his voice and hating it for revealing his fear so plainly.
“No?” the voice suggested. “Aiding and abetting a terrorist organization is a crime, Andrew. A serious crime. Didn't you realize that?”
Costanzo licked his lips again. He could feel his heart pounding wildly. The sweat stains under his arms were spreading.
“Three weeks ago, a man fitting your description ordered two Ford Excursions from two separate auto dealers in Albuquerque. Two black Ford SUVs. He paid for them in cash. Cash, Andrew,” the voice said. “Care to tell me how someone like you had nearly one hundred thousand dollars in spare cash lying around?”
“It wasn't me,” he protested.
“The car salesmen involved can identify you, Andrew,” the voice reminded him. “All cash transactions of more than ten thousand dollars have to be reported to the federal government. Didn't you know that?”
Dumbfounded, Costanzo stood with his mouth hanging open. He should have remembered that, he realized dully. The cash-reporting requirement was part of the nation's drug laws, but really it was just another way for Washington to monitor and squelch potential dissent. Somehow, in all the excitement of being given a special mission for the Lazarus Movement, he had forgotten about it. How could he have been so blind? So stupid? His knees shook.
One of the shapes moved forward slowly, taking on the firmer outline of a remarkably tall and powerfully built man. “Face the facts, Mr. Costanzo,” he said patiently. “You were set up.”
The Lazarus Movement activist stood miserably rooted in one place. That was true, he thought bleakly. He had been betrayed. Why should he be so surprised? It had happened to him all of his life — first at home, then in school — and now it was happening again. “I can identify the man who gave me the money,” he said frantically. “I have a very good memory for faces—”
A single 9mm bullet hit him right between the eyes, tore through his brain, and exploded out the back of his head.
Still holding his silenced pistol, the tall auburn-haired member of the Horatii looked down at the dead man. “Yes, Mr. Costanzo,” Terce said quietly. “I am quite sure of that.”
Jon Smith was running, running for his life. He knew that much, though he could not remember why it was so. Others ran beside him. Over their terrified screams he heard a harsh buzzing noise. He glanced over his shoulder and saw a vast swarm of flying insects descending on them, coming on fast and gaining. He turned and ran faster, heart pounding in time with his feet.
The buzzing grew louder, ever more insistent and menacing. He felt something flutter onto his neck and tried frantically to brush it off. Instead, it clung to his palm. He stared down at the winged thing in dismay. It was a large yellow jacket.
Suddenly the wasp changed, transforming itself, altering its shape and structure into an artificial creature made of steel and titanium — a creature equipped with needle-tipped drills and diamond-edged saws. The robot wasp slowly turned its triangular head toward him. Its crystalline multi-faceted eyes gleamed with an eerie hunger. He stood transfixed, watching with mounting horror as the wasp's drills and saws blurred into motion and started boring deep into his flesh —
He jolted awake and sat bolt upright in bed, still panting hard and fast in reaction. Acting on reflex, he slid his hand under the pillow, automatically reaching for his 9mm SIG-Sauer pistol. Then he stopped. A dream, he thought edgily. It was only a dream.
His cell phone buzzed again, sounding from the nightstand where he had placed it before at last dropping off to sleep. Numbers on the digital clock beside the phone faintly glowed red, showing that it was just after three in the morning. Smith grabbed the phone before it could go off again. “Yes. What is it?”
“Sorry to wake you, Colonel,” Fred Klein said, without sounding noticeably apologetic. “But something's come up that I think you need to see… and hear.”
“Oh?” Smith swung his legs off the bed.
“The mysterious Lazarus has surfaced at long last,” the head of Covert-One said. “Or so it appears.”
Smith whistled softly. That was interesting. His briefing on the Lazarus Movement had stressed that no one in the CIA, the FBI, or any other Western intelligence agency knew who really directed its operations. “In person?”
“No,” Klein said. “It'll be easier to show you what we've got. Do you have your laptop handy?”
“Hold on.” Smith put the phone down and flipped on the lights. His portable computer was still in its case near the closet. Moving quickly, he slipped the machine out onto the bed, plugged the modem into a wall jack, and booted it up.
The laptop hummed, clicked, and whirred to life. Smith tapped in the special security code and password needed to connect with the Covert-One network. He picked up the phone. “I'm online.”
“Wait a moment,” Klein told him. “We're downloading the material to your machine now.”
The laptop's screen lit up — showing first a jumble of static, then random shapes and colors, and then finally clearing to show the stern, handsome face of a middle-aged man. He was looking straight into the camera.
Smith leaned forward, closely studying the figure before him. Thai face was somehow strangely familiar. Everything about it, from the faintly curly brown hair with just the right touch of gray at the temples to the open blue eyes, classically straight nose, and firm, cleft chin, conveyed an impression of enormous strength, wisdom, intelligence, and controlled power.
I am Lazarus,“ the figure said calmly. ”I speak for the Lazarus Movement, for the Earth, and for all of humanity. I speak for those who have died and for those as yet unborn. And I am here today to speak truth to corrupt and corruptible power.'
Smith listened to the perfectly pitched, sonorous voice as the man who called himself Lazarus delivered a short, powerful speech. In it, he called for justice for those killed outside the Teller Institute. He demanded an immediate ban on all nanotechnology research and development. And he called on all members of the Movement to take whatever actions were necessary to safeguard the world from the dangers posed by this technology.
“Our Movement, a gathering of all peoples, of all races, has warned for years of this growing threat,” Lazarus said solemnly. “Our warnings have been ignored or mocked. Our voices have been silenced. But yesterday the world saw the truth — and it was a terrible and deadly truth….”
The screen faded back to a neutral background once the speech ended. “Pretty damned effective propaganda,” Smith said quietly over the phone.
“Extremely effective,” Klein agreed. “What you just saw was a feed to every major television network in the United States and Canada. The NSA pulled it down off a communications satellite two hours ago. Every agency in Washington has been analyzing it ever since.”
“We can't stop the tape from being broadcast, I suppose,” Smith mused.
“After yesterday?” Klein snorted. “Not in a million years, Colonel. This Lazarus message is going to run as the lead on every morning show and on every newscast for the whole day — maybe longer.”
