neighbors reported. Nor have they found any bodies in the fields outside the house.”
“They're running,” Castilla realized.
“Someone is running,” the head of Covert-One agreed. “But who and how far remain to be seen.”
“So exactly how high up does the rot go?” Castilla demanded. “All the way up to David Hanson? Is my Director of Central Intelligence conducting a clandestine war right under my nose?”
“I wish I could answer that, Sam,” Klein said slowly. 'But I can't. Nothing Smith found proves his involvement.“ He hesitated. ”I will say that I don't think Burke and Katherine Pierson could have organized an operation like this TOCSIN all on their own. For one thing, it's too expensive. Just taking into account what little we know, the tab has to run into the millions of dollars. And neither of them had the authority to draw covert funds of that magnitude.'
“This fellow Burke was one of Hanson's top men, wasn't he?” the president said grimly. “Back when he ran the CIA's Operations Directorate?”
“Yes,” Klein admitted. “But I'm wary of jumping to conclusions. The CIA's financial controls are rock-solid. I don't see how anyone inside the Agency could hope to divert the kind of federal money necessary — not without leaving a trail a mile wide. Tampering with the Agency's computerized personnel system is one thing. Ducking its auditors is quite another.”
“Well, maybe the money came from somewhere else,” Castilla suggested. He frowned. “You heard what else Jinjiro Nomura believed — that corporations and other intelligence services besides the CIA were going after the Lazarus Movement. He might have been right about that, too.”
“Possibly,” Klein agreed. “And there is another piece of the puzzle to consider. I ran a quick check on Burke's most recent assignments. One of them sticks out like a sore thumb. Before taking over the Agency's Lazarus Movement task force, Hal Burke led one of the CIA teams searching for Jinjiro Nomura.”
“Oh, hell,” Castilla muttered. “We put the goddamned fox in charge of the chicken coop without even knowing it….”
“I'm afraid so,” Klein said quietly. “But what I don't understand in any of this is the connection between the nanophage release in Santa Fe — and now possibly in Paris — and this TOCSIN operation. If Burke and Pierson and others are trying to destroy the Lazarus Movement, why orchestrate massacres that will only strengthen it? And where would they get access to this kind of ultra-sophisticated nanotechnology weapon?”
“No kidding,” agreed the president. He ran a hand through his rumpled hair, trying to smooth it down. “This is one hell of a mess. And now I learn that I can't even rely on the CIA or the FBI to help uncover the truth. Damn it, I'm going to have to put Hanson, his top aides, and every senior Bureau official through the wringer before the word of this illegal war against the Movement leaks out. Because it will leak out.” He sighed. “And when it does, the congressional and media firestorm is going to make Iran-Contra look like a tempest in a teapot.”
“You still have Covert-One,” Klein reminded him.
“I know that,” Castilla said heavily. “And I'm counting on you and your people, Fred. You have to get out there and find the answers I need.”
“We'll do our best, Sam,” the other man assured him. “Our very best.”
Early Sunday morning traffic was light on the multi-lane M40 Motorway connecting London and Oxford. Oliver Latham's silver Jaguar sped southeast at high speed, racing through a landscape of green rolling chalk hills, tiny villages with gray stone Norman churches, stretches of unspoiled woodland, and mist-draped valleys. But the wiry, hollow-cheeked Englishman paid no attention to the natural beauty around him. Instead, the head of MI6's Lazarus surveillance section was wholly focused on the news pouring out of his car radio.
“Initial reports from the French government do appear to connect the deaths in La Courneuve with those outside the American research institute in the state of New Mexico,” read the BBC announcer in the calm, cultured tones reserved for serious international developments. “And tens of thousands of residents of the surrounding suburbs of Paris are said to be fleeing in panic, clogging the avenues and motor routes leaving the city. Army units and security forces are being deployed to control the evacuation and maintain the rule of law—”
Latham reached out and snapped the radio off, annoyed to find his hands trembling slightly. He had been fast asleep in his weekend country home outside Oxford when the first frantic call from Ml6 headquarters reached him. Since then, he had experienced a succession of shocks. First came his inability to contact Hal Burke to find out what the devil was really happening in Paris. Just as TOCSIN seemed to be flying apart at the seams, the American had dropped completely out of sight. Next came the horrifying discovery that his superior, Sir Gareth Southgate, had put his own agent, Peter Howell, into the Lazarus Movement without Latham's knowledge. That was bad enough. But now the head of MI6 was asking pointed questions about Ian McRae and the other freelancers Latham sometimes hired for various missions.
The Englishman grimaced, considering his options. How much did Howell know? How much had he reported to Southgate? If TOCSIN was well and truly blown, what kind of cover story could he produce to conceal his involvement with Burke?
Deep in thought, Latham shoved down hard on the Jaguar's accelerator, swerving left to overtake and pass a heavy, lumbering lorry in the blink of an eye. He cut back into the same lane with just a meter to spare. The lorry driver flashed his lights at him in irritation and then leaned on his horn — sending a piercing note blaring across the motorway. The horn blast echoed back from the surrounding slopes.
Latham ignored the angry gestures, concentrating instead on getting to London as quickly as possible. With luck, he could extricate himself unscathed from this mess. If not, he might be able to make some sort of deal — trading information about TOCSIN for the promise that he would not be prosecuted.
Suddenly the Jaguar rattled and banged, shaken by a succession of small explosions. Its right front tire shredded and flew apart. Bits of rubber and metal bounced and rolled away, scattering across the road surface. Sparks flew high in the air, spraying over the bonnet and windscreen. The car swerved sharply to the right.
Swearing loudly, Latham gripped the steering wheel in both hands and spun it right, trying to regain control over the skid. There was no response. The same series of tiny charges that had blown out the Jaguar's front tire had destroyed its steering system. He screamed shrilly, still desperately spinning the now-useless wheel.
Completely out of control now, the car careened across the motorway at high speed and then flipped over — sliding upside down for several hundred meters along the paved surface. The Jaguar came to rest at last in a tangle of torn metal, broken glass, and crumpled plastic. Less than a second later, another tiny explosive charge ignited the fuel seeping from its mangled gas tank, turning the wreckage into a blazing funeral pyre.
The lorry drove past the burning wreck without stopping. It continued on, heading southeast along the M40 toward the crowded streets of London. Inside the cab, the driver, a middle-aged man with high Slavic cheekbones, slid the remote control back into the duffel bag at his feet. He leaned back, satisfied with the results of his morning's work. Lazarus would be pleased.
Chapter Thirty-Four
Lieutenant Colonel Jonathan Smith looked down at K Street from the window of his eighth-floor room in the Capital Hilton. It was just after dawn and the first rays of sunlight were beginning to chase the shadows from Washington's streets. Newspaper vans and delivery trucks rumbled along the empty avenues, breaking the silence of an early Sunday morning.
There was a knock on his door. He turned away from the window and crossed the room in several long strides. A cautious glance through the peephole showed him Fred Klein's familiar pale, long-nosed face.
“It's good to see you, Colonel,” the head of Covert-One said, once he was inside and the door was safely closed and bolted behind him. He glanced around the room, noting the unused bed and the muted television tuned to an all-news channel. It showed footage shot live from the military and police cordon set up around La Courneuve. Vast throngs of Parisians were gathering just beyond the barricades, screaming and chanting in soundless unison. Placards and protest signs blamed “Les Ameri-caines” and their “armes diaboliques,” their “devil weapons,” for the disaster that had claimed at least twenty thousand lives by the most recent estimates.
