“This is Burke,” a voice on the other end growled. “Are your people still tailing Smith?”
“They are,” Pierson confirmed. “He's out at St. Vincent's Hospital, working in their pathology lab.”
“Call them off,” Burke said flatly
She sat bolt upright in her chair, surprised by the request. “What?”
“You heard me,” her CIA counterpart said. “Pull your agents off Smith's back. Right now.”
“Why?”
“Trust me on this, Kit,” Burke told her coldly. 'You do not want to
know.'
When the phone went dead, Pierson sat in frozen silence, wondering again whether there was any way she could escape the trap she felt closing around her.
Jon Smith came through the swinging doors into the small locker room next to the hospital's pathology lab. It was deserted. Yawning, he sat down on a bench and peeled off his gloves and mask. He tossed them into a receptacle already full to the brim. His set of green surgical scrubs came off next. He had almost finished donning his street clothes when Fred Klein called.
“Is your interview with Ms. Donovan set?” the head of Covert-One asked.
“Yes,” Smith said. He leaned over, putting on his shoes. “I'm meeting her at nine tonight. At a little cafe in the Plaza Mercado.”
“Good,” Klein said. “Now, how are the autopsies going? Any new developments?”
“A few,” Smith told him. “But I'm damned if I know yet what they mean.” He sighed. “Understand that we have very few intact body parts to study. Almost all that's left of most of the dead is a weird sort of organic soup.”
“Go on.”
“Well, there are some odd patterns emerging from the autopsies we've been able to conduct,” Smith reported. “It's too soon and the sample sizes are too small to say anything definite, but I suspect the trends we're seeing will hold up over the long haul.”
“Such as?” Klein prompted.
“Significant indications of systemic drug use or serious chronic illness among those who were killed,” Smith said, standing up from the bench and grabbing his windbreaker. “Not in all cases. But in a very large percentage — far higher than the statistical norm.”
“Do you know yet what killed those people?”
“Precisely? No.”
“Give me your best guess, Colonel,” Klein prodded gently.
“A guess is all I've got,” said Smith wearily. “But I'd say that most of the damage was done by chemicals distributed by these nanophages to break up peptide bonds. Do that enough times to enough different peptides and you wind up with the kind of organic goo we're finding.”
“But these devices don't kill everybody they infest,” Klein commented. “Why not?”
“My bet is that the nanophages are triggered by different biochemical signals — ”
“Like those you'd find in someone who uses drugs. Or who suffers from heart disease. Or perhaps some other illness or chronic condition,”
Klein realized suddenly. “Without those signals, these devices would lie dormant.”
“Bingo.”
“That doesn't explain why that big green-eyed fellow you were fighting suddenly succumbed,” the other man pointed out. “Both of you ran through the cloud of these nanophages without at first being affected.”
“The guy was tagged, Fred,” Smith said grimly. He closed his eyes, willing away the terrible memories of his enemy dissolving in front of him. “I'm pretty sure that somebody hit him with a needle tipped with a substance that triggered the nanophages he'd breathed in earlier.”
“Which means his own side betrayed him to prevent his possible capture,” Klein said.
“That's the way I see it,” Smith agreed. He grimaced, suddenly remembering the sound of that cold, deadly hiss right past his ear. “And I guess they tried to hit me with one of those same damned needles, too.”
“Watch your step, Jon,” Klein said abruptly. “We still don't know precisely who the enemy here is, and we certainly don't understand their plans yet. Until we do, you should consider anyone, including Ms. Donovan, a potential threat.”
Surveillance Team Safe House, on the Outskirts of Santa Fe
Two miles east of the Teller Institute, all was quiet inside the house occupied by the covert surveillance team. Computers softly hummed and clicked and whirred, gathering data from the various sensors focused on the zone around the Institute. The two men assigned to this shift sat silently monitoring radio transmissions while simultaneously keeping an eye on the information streaming in.
One of them listened intently to the voices in his radio headset. He turned toward his team leader, an older white-haired Dutchman named Willem Linden. “The action team is reporting. Smith has just entered the Plaza Mercado.”
“Alone?”
The younger man nodded.
Linden smiled broadly, showing a mouthful of tobacco-stained teeth. “That is excellent news, Abrantes. Signal the team to stand by. Then contact the Center and inform them that everything is going according to plan. Tell them we will report the moment Smith is eliminated.”
Abrantes looked worried. “Are you sure it will be that simple? I've read this American's file. He could be very dangerous.”
“Don't panic, Vitor,” the white-haired man said soothingly. “If you put a bullet or a knife blade in the right place, any man will die.”
Chapter Twenty
Smith paused in the doorway of the Longevity Cafe, briefly surveying the patrons clustered at several of its small round tables. They seemed a somewhat eclectic bunch, he thought with hidden amusement. Most of them, usually those seated as couples, looked ordinary enough — a mix of nicely dressed, health-conscious professionals and earnest college kids. Others sported an eye-catching variety of tattoos and body piercings. A few wore turbans or long blond dreadlocks. Several customers turned toward the door, plainly curious about him as well. The vast majority carried on with their own intense conversations.
The cafe itself occupied much of the Plaza Mercado's second floor, with large windows looking down onto West San Francisco Street. Walls painted in striking bright reds, burnt orange, and yellows and floors in vivid blue and bleached wood were matched by unusual pieces of artwork — many based on Asian, Hindu, or Zen themes.
Smith headed straight for the table occupied by a woman sitting alone, one of those who had turned to study him. That was Heather Donovan. Fred Klein had included her photo and a brief bio in the packet with Smith's forged credential from Le Monde. The local spokesperson for the Lazarus Movement was in her mid-thirties, with a slender, boyish figure, an unruly mop of strawberry blond curls, sea green eyes, and a light dusting of freckles across the bridge of her nose.
She watched him walk toward her with a bemused expression on her face. “Can I help you?” she asked.
“My name is Jon Smith,” he said quietly, politely doffing his black Stetson. “I believe you're here waiting for me, Ms. Donovan.”
One finely sculpted reddish gold eyebrow went up. “I expected a journalist, not a cowboy,” she murmured in perfect French.
Smith grinned and looked down at his tan corduroy jacket, bolo string tie, jeans, and boots. “I try to adapt myself to local customs,” he replied, in the same language. “After all, when in Rome…”
She smiled and switched to English. “Please sit down, Mr. Smith.”
He set his hat down on the table, pulled a small notepad and a pen out of his jeans, and took the chair
