Smith nodded to himself. No news director in his or her right mind was going to pass up the chance to feature a statement by the leader of the Lazarus Movement, especially since there was so much mystery surrounding him. “Can the NSA track the source of the transmission?”
'They're working on it, but it's not going to be easy. This footage came in as a highly compressed, highly encrypted blip piggybacked somewhere on any one of a host of other signals. Once it was up on the satellite, the signal uncoiled and decoded itself and started feeding down to New York, Los Angeles, Chicago… you name the major city and there it went.'
“Interesting,” Smith said slowly. “Doesn't that seem like a strangely sophisticated method of communication for a group that claims it's opposed to advanced technology?”
“Yes, it does,” Klein agreed. “But we know that the Lazarus Movement relies heavily on computers and various Web sites to handle its internal communications. Perhaps we shouldn't be surprised that it uses the same methods to speak to the world at large.” He sighed. “And even if the NSA does succeed in pinpointing the origin of this transmission, I suspect we will learn that it arrived as an anonymous DVD at a small independent studio somewhere, along with a substantial cash payment for the technicians involved.”
“At least now we can put a face to this guy,” Smith said. “And with that, we can pin down his real identity. Run those pictures through all of our databases — and those of our allies. Somebody, somewhere, will have a file on whoever that is.”
'You're jumping the gun a bit, Colonel,“ Klein said. ”That wasn't the only satellite feed the NSA intercepted this morning. Take a look….'
The screen showed an older Asian man — a man with thin white hair, a high, smooth forehead, and dark, almost ageless eyes. His appearance reminded Smith of paintings he had seen of ancient sages, full of wisdom and knowledge. The older man began speaking, this time in Japanese. A simultaneous translation into English crawled across the screen below. “I am Lazarus. I speak for the Lazarus Movement, for the Earth, and for all of humanity….”
The next image was of an African elder, another man with all the power and force of an ancient king or a shaman of great power. He spoke >n full, resonant Swahili, but they were the same words, conveying the same message. When he finished, the handsome middle-aged Caucasian reappeared, this time speaking in perfect, idiomatic French.
Smith sat back in stunned silence, watching a parade of different Lazarus images — each one delivering the same powerful message fluently, in more than a dozen major languages. When the display at last flickered through static and faded into gray emptiness, he whistled softly again. “Man, now there's a clever trick! So maybe three- quarters of the world population is going to hear this same Lazarus Movement speech? And all from people who look like them and speak languages they understand?”
“That appears to be their plan,” the head of Covert-One agreed. “But the Movement is even cleverer than that. Take another look at that first Lazarus.”
The image came up on Smith's computer and froze just before it began speaking. He stared at the handsome middle-aged face. Why did it seem so damned familiar? “I'm looking, Fred,” he said. “But what I am looking for?”
“That is not a real face, Colonel,” Klein told him flatly. “Nor are any of the other Lazarus images.”
Smith raised a single eyebrow. “Oh? Then what are they?”
“Computer constructs,” the other man told him. “A blend of artificially generated pixels and bits and pieces of hundreds, perhaps thousands, of real people all mixed to create a set of different faces. The voices are all computer-generated, too.”
“So we have no way to identify them,” Smith realized. “And still no way to know whether the Movement is run by one man — or by many.”
“Exactly. But it goes beyond that,” Klein said. “I've seen some of the CIA's analysis. They're convinced those images and voices are very specially crafted — that they represent archetypes, or idealized figures, for the cultures to whom the Lazarus Movement is delivering its message.”
That would certainly explain why he had reacted so favorably to the first image, Smith realized. It was a variation on the ancient Western ideal of the just and noble hero-king. “These people are awfully damned good at what they're trying to do,” he said grimly.
“Indeed.”
“In fact, I'm beginning to think that the CIA and FBI may be right on-target in fingering these guys for what happened yesterday.”
“Perhaps. But skill with propaganda and secrecy doesn't necessarily reveal terrorist intentions. Try to keep an open mind, Colonel,” the other man warned. “Remember that Covert-One is the B-Team on this investigation. Your job is to play devil's advocate, to make sure evidence isn't overlooked just because it doesn't conveniently fit the preconceived theory.”
“Don't worry, Fred,” Smith said reassuringly. “I'll do my best to poke and prod and pry to see what breaks.”
“Discreetly, please,” Klein reminded him.
“Discretion is my middle name,” said Smith with a quick grin.
“Is it?” the head of Covert-One said tartly. “Somehow I never would have guessed.” Then he relented. “Good luck, Jon. If you need anything— access, information, backup, anything — we'll be standing by.”
Still grinning, Smith disconnected his phone and computer and began preparing himself for the long day ahead.
Chapter Fourteen
Once a sleepy little town full of dilapidated warehouses, rusting machine shops, and artists' studios, Emeryville had suddenly blossomed as one of the centers of the Bay Area's booming biotech industry. Multinational pharmaceutical corporations, genetic engineering startups, and venture capital-funded entrepreneurs pursuing new opportunities like nanotech-nology all vied for office and lab space along the busy Interstate 80 corridor between Berkeley and Oakland. Rents, taxes, and living costs were all exorbitant, but most corporate executives seemed to focus instead on Emeryville's proximity to top-notch universities and major airports and, perhaps most important of all, its spectacular views of San Francisco, the Bay, and the Golden Gate.
Telos Corporation's nanoelectronics research facility took up a whole floor of one of the new glass-and-steel high-rises looming just east of the approaches to the Bay Bridge. Interested more in profiting from its multimillion- dollar investment in equipment, materials, and personnel than it was in publicity, Telos maintained a comparatively low profile. No expensive and flashy logo on the building advertised its presence inside. School groups, politicians, and the press were not offered time-consuming tours. A single guard station just inside the main doors provided security.
Pacific Security Corporation deputy Paul Yiu sat behind the marble-topped counter of the security station, skimming through a paperback mystery. He flipped a page, idly noting the death of yet another suspect he had fingered as the killer. Then he yawned and stretched. Midnight had long since come and gone, but he still had two hours to go on his shift. He shifted uncomfortably on his swivel chair, readjusted the butt of the pistol bolstered at his side, and went back to his book. His eyelids drooped. A light tapping on the glass doors roused him. Yiu looked up, fully expecting to see one of the half-crazy homeless bums who sometimes wandered down here from Berkeley by mistake. Instead, he saw a petite redhead with a worried expression on her face. Fog had rolled in from the Bay and she looked cold in her tight blue skirt, white silk blouse, and stylish black wool coat.
The security guard slid off his chair, straightened his own khaki uniform shirt and tie, and went to the door. The young woman smiled in relief when she saw him and tried the door. It rattled but stayed locked. “I'm sorry, ma'am,” he called through the glass. “This building's closed.” Her worried look came back. “Please, I just need to borrow a phone to call Triple A,” she said plaintively. “My car broke down just up the street, and now my cell phone's gone dead, too!”
Yiu thought about that for a moment. The rules were quite clear. No unauthorized visitors after business
