opposite hers. “I appreciate your meeting me like this, so late, I mean. I know you've already had a long day.”
The Lazarus Movement spokeswoman nodded slowly. “It has been a long day. Several long days, in fact. But before we start this interview, I would like to see some identification — just as a formality, of course.”
“Of course,” Smith said evenly. He handed her the forged press card, watching closely as she held it up to the light. “Are you always so careful around journalists, Ms. Donovan?”
“Not always,” she told him. She shrugged. “But I'm learning to be a bit less trusting these days. Seeing several thousand people murdered by your own government will do that.”
“That's understandable,” Smith said calmly. According to her Covert-One dossier, Heather Donovan was a relatively recent recruit to the Lazarus Movement. Before joining up with Lazarus, she had worked the state capital lobbying circuit for the more mainstream environmental groups, the Sierra Club and the World Wildlife Federation among them. She was rated as tough, smart, and politically savvy.
“Okay, you seem on the level,” she said finally, sliding his press card back.
“What can I get you folks?” a languid voice interrupted. One of the waiters, a willowy young man with pierced eyebrows, had drifted over to their table and now stood patiently hovering over them.
“A cup of gunpowder green tea,” the Lazarus Movement spokeswoman told him.
“And a glass of red wine for me,” Smith said. He saw the pitying look in her eyes. “No wine? Then how about a beer?”
She shook her head apologetically, a gesture repeated by the waiter. “Sorry, they don't serve alcohol here,” she said. Her lips twitched upward in the hint of another smile. “Maybe you should try one of the Longevity's elixirs.”
“Elixirs?” he asked dubiously.
“They're a blend of traditional Chinese herbal recipes and natural fruit juices,” the waiter said, showing some enthusiasm for the first time. “I recommend the Virtual Buddha. It's quite stimulating.”
Smith shook his head. “Maybe some other time.” He shrugged. “Then I'll have the same as Ms. Donovan — just a cup of green tea.”
When the waiter sidled off to get their drinks, Smith turned back to the Lazarus Movement spokeswoman. He held up his small notebook. “So, now that we've established my status as a bona fide reporter—”
“You can ask your questions,” Heather Donovan finished for him. She eyed him carefully. “Which I understand revolve around the FBI's grotesque suggestion that the Movement is somehow responsible for destroying the Teller Institute, and for killing so many innocent people.”
Smith nodded. 'That's right. I read the other papers this morning, and what you said about this Andrew Costanzo intrigued me. From the sound of it, I have to admit the guy doesn't strike me as someone I'd pick as a secret conspirator.'
“He isn't.”
“That's pretty definite,” he said. “Care to elaborate?”
“Andy is a talker, not a doer,” she told him. “Oh, he never misses a Movement meeting, and he always has plenty to say, or at least to complain about. The thing is, I've never seen him actually do anything! He'll filibuster for hours, but show him envelopes that need to be stuffed or flyers that need to be distributed and suddenly he's too busy or too sick. He thinks he's the original philosopher-king, the man whose visions lie beyond the reach of mere mortals like the rest of us.”
“I know the type,” Smith said with a quick grin. “The unappreciated Plato of the bookstore stockroom.”
“That's Andy Costanzo all over,” Heather agreed. “Which is why the FBI claim is so absurd. We all tolerated him, but nobody in the Movement would ever trust Andy with anything serious — let alone with more than a hundred thousand dollars in cash!”
“Somebody did,” he pointed out. “The identifications by those Albuquerque car dealers are airtight.”
“I know that!” She sounded frustrated. “I believe that someone gave Andy the money to buy those SUVs. And I even believe he was stupid enough, or arrogant enough, to actually go ahead and do what they asked. But the money could not possibly have come from the Movement! We're not exactly poor, but we're certainly not rolling in that kind of cash!”
“So you think Costanzo was set up?”
“I'm sure of it,” she said firmly. “As a means of smearing Lazarus and all we stand for. The Movement is completely committed to nonviolent protest. We would never condone murder or terrorism!”
Smith was tempted to point out that smashing up lab equipment automatically crossed the line into violence, but he kept his mouth shut. He was here to learn the answers to certain questions, not to spark a political debate. Besides, he now felt sure this woman was telling the truth — at least about those elements of the Lazarus Movement with which she was familiar. On the other hand, she was only a mid-level activist, the equivalent of an Army captain or a major. How much could she really know about any secret moves made by the higher levels of her organization?
The arrival of their tea gave her time to regain her composure.
She took a cautious sip and then eyed him warily over the rim of her steaming cup. “You're wondering whether or not the money might have come from somewhere higher up inside the Movement, aren't you?”
Smith nodded. “No offense, Ms. Donovan. But you folks have drawn a remarkably tight veil of secrecy around the top leadership of the Lazarus Movement. It's only natural to wonder what's hidden behind it.”
“This veil of secrecy, as you call it, is purely a defensive measure, Mr. Smith,” she said levelly. “You know what happened to our original founders. They lived open, public lives. And then, one by one, they were killed or kidnapped. Either by corporations they had angered or by governments doing the bidding of those corporations. Well, the Movement will not allow itself to be so easily beheaded again!”
Smith decided to let her wilder claims pass without comment. She was starting to recite preset talking points.
To his surprise, she smiled suddenly, a smile that lit up her vivid green eyes. “Okay, I admit that's partly rhetoric. Heartfelt rhetoric, to be sure, but I agree it's not the most persuasive argument I've ever made.” She took another sip of her tea and then set the cup down on the table between them. “I'll try logic instead: Let's say I'm totally wrong. That I'm a dupe, and that there are people in the Movement who've decided to use clandestine violence to achieve our goals. Well, think about that. If you were running a top-secret operation whose disclosure could destroy everything you've ever worked for… would you use someone like Andy Costanzo as your agent?”
“No, I wouldn't,” Smith agreed. “Not unless I wanted to get caught.”
And that was what had bothered him from the beginning, from the first moment he read those leaked stories from the FBI. Now, after hearing her, he was even more convinced that the whole SUV angle stank to high heaven. Relying on an overeducated goofball like Costanzo to buy the getaway vehicles for a terrorist attack was asking for big trouble. It was the kind of boneheaded mistake that just did not jibe with the ruthless, calculating professionalism he had witnessed during the attack on the Institute. Which meant that somebody was manipulating this investigation.
One block west of the Plaza Mercado, Malachi MacNamara waited patiently, concealed in the shadows of a covered sidewalk. It was growing late, and the streets of downtown Santa Fe were nearly deserted.
The lean, weather-beaten man carefully raised his Kite handheld night-vision scope and peered through it with one pale blue eye. Rather a useful gadget, he thought. The British-made monocular was sturdy, very lightweight, and produced a crisp, clear image magnified by four times. He painstakingly scanned the surrounding area, checking the movements of his chosen quarry yet again.
He focused first on the man standing motionless in the recessed doorway of an art gallery about fifty yards away. The shaven-headed fellow wore jeans, heavy work boots, and a surplus U.S. Army field jacket. Whenever a car drove by, his eyes narrowed to preserve his night vision. Otherwise, he stayed put despite the growing cold. A young tough, MacNamara thought critically, but very fit and reasonably well disciplined.
Three more watchers were posted at different points along the street, for a total of four. Two of them were stationed to the west of the Plaza Mercado. Two lurked to the east. All of them were positioned in good cover, well out of sight to anyone but a trained observer with light-intensifier gear.
They were part of the group MacNamara had been hunting since the catastrophe outside the Teller Institute. He had lost them in the immediate aftermath of the nanomachine slaughter, but they had reappeared as soon as the Lazarus Movement regrouped and set up camp outside the National Guard cordon. Earlier tonight, not long after
