the world would begin. And soon the harsh, but necessary, sacrifices he had made would be redeemed.
His eyes clouded over briefly, full of remembered pain. Softly he recited the poem, a haiku, that often lingered close to the edge of his waking mind:
“Sorrow, like mist, falls On a father forsaken By his faithless son.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
The morning sun, rising ever higher in a cloud-streaked azure sky, seemed to set the big, flat-topped hill looming above the Rancho de Chimayo aflame. Pifion pines and junipers along its crest stood starkly outlined against the dazzling golden light. Sunshine spread down steep slopes and threw long shadows across the old hacienda's sprawling apple orchards and terraced patios.
Still wearing his jeans, boots, and corduroy jacket, Jon Smith walked through the crowded dining rooms of the ancient adobe house and out onto a stone-flagged patio. Set in the foothills roughly twenty-five miles north of Santa Fe, the Rancho de Chimayo was one of the oldest restaurants in New Mexico. Its owners traced their lineage back to the original wave of Spanish colonists in the Southwest. Their family had first settled at Chimayo in 1680, during the long and bloody Pueblo Indian revolt against Spanish rule.
Peter Howell was seated there already, waiting for him at one of the patio tables. He waved his old friend into the empty chair across from him. “Take a pew, Jon,” he said kindly. “Damned if you don't look all in.”
Smith shrugged, resisting the temptation to yawn. “I had a long night.”
“Any serious trouble?”
Jon shook his head. Collecting his laptop and other gear from the Fort Marcy suites had proved unexpectedly easy. Wary at first of FBI or terrorist surveillance, he had used every trick he knew to flush any tail_
without spotting anyone. But doing that right took time, and lots of it. Which meant he had not checked into his new digs, a cheap fleabag motor lodge on the outskirts of Santa Fe, until close to dawn. Then he had phoned Fred Klein and told him about the unsuccessful attempt on his life. All in all, he had scarcely had time to close his eyes before Peter called to set this clandestine rendezvous.
“And no one followed you? Then or now?” the Englishman asked after listening intently to Smith's account of his actions.
“Not a soul.”
“Most curious,” Peter said, arching a shaggy gray eyebrow. He frowned. “And more than a little worrying.”
Smith nodded. Try as he might, he could not understand why the FBI had been so eager to track his movements all yesterday — and then seemingly called off its team only hours before four gunmen tried to kill him. Maybe Kit Pierson's agents had simply assumed he was in his suite to stay and packed it in for the night, but that seemed uncharacteristically sloppy.
“What about you and Heather Donovan?” he asked. “Did you have any trouble getting her away safely?”
“Not a bit,” Peter said easily. He checked his watch. “By now the lovely Ms. Donovan is winging her way across America — bound for her aunt's home on the shores of the Chesapeake.”
“You never thought she was in serious danger, did you?” Smith asked quietly.
“Once the shooting stopped, you mean?” the older man said. He shrugged. “No, not really, Jon. You were the primary target, not her. Ms. Donovan is just what she seems — a somewhat naive young woman with a good heart and a decent brain. Since she has no real knowledge of whatever it is that the upper echelons of the Lazarus Movement are planning, I doubt very much that they will view her as a serious threat. So long as the young lady stays well away from you, she ought to be perfectly safe.”
“And there you have the story of my love life,” Smith said with a twisted smile.
“Occupational hazard, I'm afraid,” Peter said lightly. He grinned. “I mean, of the medical life, naturally. Perhaps you should try intelligence work instead. I understand spies are all the rage this season.”
Smith ignored the gentle tweak. He knew the Englishman was sure he worked for one of the various U.S. intelligence agencies, but Peter made it a point of professional courtesy never to pry too deeply. Just as he tried to avoid asking too many inconvenient questions about the older man's occasional work for Her Majesty's government.
Peter looked up as a smiling waitress in a frilled white blouse and long flowing skirt approached, bearing a large tray crowded with plates and a pot of hot, fresh coffee. “Ah, the grub,” he said happily. “Hope you don't mind, but I took the liberty of ordering for both of us.”
“Not at all,” Smith said, suddenly aware that he was desperately hungry.
For several minutes the two men ate rapidly — feasting on eggs cooked with slices of chorizo sausage, black beans, and spicy pico de gallo, a salsa made with red and green chilies, tomatoes, onions, cilantro, and small dollops of sour cream. To help tame the fiery taste of the salsa, the restaurant provided a basket of homemade sopaipillas, light pillows of puffy fried bread best served warm with drizzled honey and melted butter poked through a hole on top.
When they finished, Peter sat back with a contented look on his craggy-face. 'In some parts of the world, a prodigious belch right now would be
considered a compliment to the chef,“ he said. His eyes twinkled. ”But for the moment, I'll refrain.'
“Believe me, I'm grateful,” Smith told him drily. “I'd actually like to be able to eat here again sometime.”
“To business, then,” Peter said. He pointed to the mass of long gray hair on his head. “No doubt you've been wondering about my changed appearance.”
“Just a bit,” Smith admitted. “You look sort of like an Old Testament prophet.”
“I do rather,” the Englishman agreed complacently. “Well, look your last upon this hoary mane of mine and weep, for like Samson I shall soon be shorn.” He chuckled. “But it was all in a good cause. Some months ago, an old acquaintance asked me to poke my long nose into the inner workings of the Lazarus Movement.”
For “old acquaintance” read MI6, the British Secret Intelligence Service, Smith thought.
“Well, that sounded like a bit of fun, so I grew the old locks somewhat shaggy, changed my name to something appropriately biblical and impressive-sounding, and drifted into the outer ranks of the Movement-posing as a retired Canadian forestry official with a radical grudge against science and technology.”
“Did you have any luck?” Smith asked.
“In penetrating the Movement's inner core? No, alas,” Peter said. His expression turned more serious. “The leadership is damned fanatical about its security. I never quite managed to break through its safeguards. Still, I learned enough to worry me. Most of these Lazarus followers are decent enough, but there are some very hard- edged types manipulating them from behind the scenes.”
“Like the guys who tried to nail me last night?”
“Perhaps,” Peter said reflectively. 'Though I would characterize them as more brawn than brains. I had my eye on them for several days before they attacked you — ever since they first arrived at the Lazarus rally, in fact.'
“Any particular reason?”
“At first, simply the way they moved,” Peter explained. “Those fellows were like a pack of wolves gliding through a flock of grazing sheep. You know what I mean. Too careful, too controlled… too aware of their surroundings at all times.”
“Kind of like us?” Smith suggested with a thin smile. Peter nodded. “Precisely.”
“And were your 'friends' in London able to make anything out of the material you sent them?” Jon asked, remembering the digital photos and fingerprints Howell had taken of the shaven-headed gunman he had killed.
“I'm afraid not,” Peter said regretfully. “So far my inquiries have drawn a complete blank.” He reached into the pocket of his sheepskin coat and then slid a computer disk across the table toward Smith. “Which is why I thought you might care to take your own stab at identifying the fellow you so efficiently put down last night.”
Smith looked steadily back at him. “Oh?”
