a fence surrounded the farm's empty, overgrown fields, but most of the wooden fence rails and posts either were split or lay rotting in the tall grass, briars, and weeds. A rutted gravel track ran up the rise from the paved county road paralleling the fence. It ended at an oil-stained concrete slab just outside the front door of the farmhouse.
At first glance, the small satellite dish on the roof and a microwave relay tower on a nearby hill were the only pieces of evidence that this tumbledown farm had any ties whatever to the modern age. In reality, a state-of- the-art alarm system secured the farmhouse, which was furnished inside with the latest in CIA high-tech computer and electronics gear.
Hal Burke sat at the desk in his study, listening to the rain beat down on the roof of what he sardonically termed his “occasional weekend country retreat.” One of his great-uncles had farmed this piss-poor patch of land for decades before the constant toil and frustration finally killed him. After his death, it had passed through the hands of several slow-witted cousins before it landed in the CIA officer's lap ten years ago as partial repayment of an old family debt.
He had neither the money nor the time to put in any crops, but he valued the seclusion the farm offered. No uninvited guests ever came knocking on his door out here — not even the local Jehovah's Witnesses. It was so far off the beaten track that even the fast-growing tentacles of the northern Virginia suburbs had passed it bv. When the weather was clear, Burke could walk outside at night and see the sickly orange glow made by the lights of Washington, D.C., and its sprawling bedroom communities. They stained the sky in a vast arc to the north, northeast, and east, a constant reminder of the hive culture and the bogged-down bureaucracy he so despised.
Over the poor backcountry roads and traffic-clogged highways, travel
to and from Langley was often long and torturous, but an array of secure communications equipment — installed at federal expense — allowed him to work from the farm should any sudden crisis arise. The gear functioned well enough for official CIA use. More advanced pieces of hardware and software, supplied by others, made it possible for him to control the far-flung elements of TOCSIN in greater security. He had come straight here after his midnight meeting with Hanson. Events were moving fast now and he needed to stay in close touch with his agents.
His computer chimed, signaling the arrival of an encrypted situation report from the security unit working in New Mexico. He frowned. They were late.
Burke rubbed at his eyes and typed in his password. The jumble of seemingly random characters, letters, and numbers instantly changed shape, forming coherent words and then whole sentences as the decoding program did its job. He read through the message with increasing alarm.
“Damn it,” he muttered. “Who the hell is this bastard?” Then he picked up the secure phone next to his computer and dialed his FBI counterpart. “Kit, listen up,” he said urgently. “There's a situation I need you to handle. A corpse has to disappear. Permanently and pronto.”
“Colonel Smith?” Pierson asked levelly.
Burke scowled. “I wish.”
“Fill me in,” she said. He could hear rustling in the background as she threw on her clothes. “And no evasions this time. Just the facts.”
The CIA officer briefed her rapidly on the failed ambush. Pierson listened in icy silence. “I'm growing rather tired of cleaning up the messes left by your private army, Hal,” she said bitterly after he finished.
“Smith had backup,” Burke snapped. “That was something we didn't anticipate. We all thought he was operating as a lone wolf.”
“Any description of this other man?” she asked.
“No,” the CIA officer admitted. “It was too dark for my people to get a good look at him.”
“Wonderful,” Pierson said coldly. 'This just gets better and better, Hal.
Now Smith will be sure there's something fishy about the terrorist SUV buy I've linked to the Movement. Why don't you just go ahead and paint a big, fat bull's-eye on my forehead?'
Burke resisted the urge to slam the phone down. “Constructive suggestions would be more welcome, Kit,” he said finally.
“Shut TOCSIN down,” she told him. “This whole operation has been a disaster right from the start. And with Smith still alive and sniffing around my heels, I don't have the maneuvering room I need to push this investigation toward Lazarus.”
He shook his head. “I can't do that. Our people already have their next orders. We're in more danger if we try to abort now than we are if we go ahead.”
There was a long silence.
“Let's be clear about one thing, Hal,” Pierson said tightly. “If TOCSIN comes apart at the seams, I'm not going to be the only one taking the fall, understand?”
“Is that a threat?” Burke asked slowly.
“Call it a statement of fact,” she replied. The phone went dead.
Hal Burke sat staring at his screen for several minutes, considering his next move. Was Kit Pierson losing her nerve? He hoped not. He had never really liked the dark-haired woman, but he had always respected her courage and her will to win at all costs. Without them, she would be only a liability — a liability TOCSIN could not afford.
He made a decision and began typing fast, composing a new set of instructions to the remnants of the unit in New Mexico.
Around the world, small groups of men and women of every color and race gathered in secret. They met in front of satellite-linked monitors and video cameras. They were the elite of the Lazarus Movement, the leaders of its most important action cells. All of them appeared on-edge, straining at the leash — eager to launch the operations they had been planning for many months.
The man called Lazarus stood at ease in front of a huge display, one that showed him the pictures relayed from each assembled group. He knew that none of them would see his real face or hear his real voice. As always, his advanced computer systems and software were busy constructing the different, idealized images fed to each Movement cell. Equally sophisticated software provided simultaneous language translation.
“The time has come,” Lazarus said. He smiled slightly, seeing the shiver of anticipation ripple through each of his distant audiences. “Millions of people in Europe, Asia, Africa, and the Americas are flocking to our cause. The political and financial strength of our Movement is increasing by leaps and bounds. In short order, whole governments and corporations will tremble before our growing power.”
His confident statement drew nods of approval and murmurs of excitement from the watching Movement leaders.
Lazarus held up a hand in warning. “But do not forget that our enemies are also on the move. Their secret war against us has failed. So now the open war I have long predicted has begun. The slaughters in Santa Fe and in Chicago are surely only the first of many atrocities they plan.”
He stared directly into the cameras, knowing that it would appear to each of the widely dispersed cells that his eyes were focused solely on them. “The war has begun,” he repeated. “We have no choice. We must strike back, swiftly and surely and without remorse. Wherever possible, your operations should avoid taking innocent life, but we must destroy these nanotech laboratories — the breeding vats of death — before our enemies can unleash more horrors on the world, and on us.”
“What about the facilities of Nomura PharmaTech?” the head of the Tokyo cell asked. “After all, this corporation, alone among all the others, has already agreed to our demands. Their research work is at an end.”
“Spare Nomura PharmaTech?” Lazarus said coldly. 'I think not. Hideo Nomura is a shrewd young man — too shrewd. He bends when the wind is strong, but does not break. When he smiles, it is the smile of a shark. Do not be taken in by Nomura. I know him far too well.'
The leader of the Tokyo cell bowed his head, accepting the reproof. “It shall be as you command, Lazarus.”
When at last the conference screens went dark, the man called Lazarus stood alone, savoring his moment of triumph. Years of planning and preparation were coming to fruition. Soon the hard and dangerous work of reclaiming
