awkward questions down at the nearest Prefecture of Police.”
With Randi in the lead, the trio made their way carefully up the stairs — moving quietly past landings cluttered with bicycles, baby strollers, and small two-wheeled shopping carts. Another locked door, this one at the very top, yielded quickly to her lock picks. They stepped through the door and out into a rooftop garden of the kind so beloved by Parisians — a miniature urban glade created by a maze of large clay pots filled with dwarf trees, shrubs, and flowering plants. They were at the rear of the apartment building, separated from the rue de Vigny by a row of tall soot-stained chimneys and a forest of radio and TV antennae.
This high up, the chill autumn breeze carried the muted sounds of the city to them — car horns honking on the boulevard Beaumarchais, the shrill whine of motor scooters racing through narrow streets, and laughter and music drifting out through the open door of a nightclub somewhere close by. The floodlit white domes of the Byzantine-inspired Sacre Coeur basilica gleamed to the north, set high on the crowded slopes of Mont-martre.
Smith moved carefully to the edge and looked down over an ornate wrought-iron railing. In the darkness far below he could just make out a row of trash bins crowding a narrow alley. The wall of another old building, also converted into a block of flats, rose vertically on the other side of that tiny lane. Patches of warm yellow lamplight showed through the cracks in closed shutters and drapes. He stepped back a few paces, rejoining Peter and Randi in the modest cover provided by the roof garden's trees and shrubs.
On their right loomed the shadowy mass of the Lazarus Movement's Paris headquarters. The two buildings were adjacent, but 18 rue de Vigny was one story higher. A twenty-foot-high blank wall of stone separated them from the steeply sloping roof of their goal.
“Right,” Peter whispered, already kneeling down to open the first of their two duffel bags. He began handing out articles of clothing and gear. “Let's get started.”
Moving quickly in the cold night air, the three began transforming themselves from ordinary-appearing civilians to fully equipped special operators. First, Randi started by tugging off the gray wig confining her own blond hair. Then she peeled away the specially crafted wrinkles and lines that had added decades to her appearance.
All of them shed their heavy coats, revealing high-necked black sweaters and black jeans. Dark-colored watch caps covered their hair. They blackened their faces and foreheads with camouflage sticks. Their street shoes came off and were replaced by climbing boots. Heavy leather gloves protected their hands. All three donned Kevlar body armor and followed that by shrugging into SAS-style assault vests and belting on holsters for their personal weapons — Smith's SIG-Sauer pistol, a Browning Hi-Power for Peter, and a 9mm Beretta for Randi. Next, they struggled into rappelling harnesses and slung bags containing coils of climbing rope over their shoulders.
Peter handed around an assortment of special equipment. Last of all, he gave each of them two cylindrical canisters, about the size of a can of shaving cream. “Flash/bang grenades,” he said coolly. “Very handy for throwing the enemy into confusion. Quite popular as a gag at all the best parties, too, or so I'm told.”
“We're supposed to do this covertly,” Randi reminded him tartly. “Not plunge in shooting and start World War Three.”
“To be sure,” Peter replied. “But better safe than sorry, I think. After all, those fellows,” he nodded toward the high, dark shape of the Lazarus Movement headquarters, 'may react badly if they spot us peeping in at them.' He moved around Jon and Randi, inspecting and tugging at their harnesses and various items of equipment to make sure everything was secure. Then he submitted patiently while Smith performed the same last-minute check on him.
“Now for that little bit of wall,” Peter announced. He reached into his duffel bag and pulled out a small air pistol already rigged with a titanium-barbed dart attached to a spool of nylon-coated wire. With a slight bow, he handed the assembly to Randi. “Would you care to do the honors?”
Randi stepped back a few feet. She peered up at the shadow-cloaked stretch of wall in front of them, scanning for what looked like a good anchor point. A narrow crack caught her eye. She sighted along the barrel of the air pistol, aiming carefully. She squeezed the trigger. The pistol coughed quietly and the tiny titanium dart shot out, trailing the wire behind it. With a soft clang, the barbs of the small grappling hook bit deep into the stonework and held fast.
Smith reached up and tugged firmly on the dangling nylon-coated wire. It stayed put. He turned to the others. “All set?”
They nodded.
One by one, they swarmed up the wall and hauled themselves cautiously onto the peak of the steep slate roof of the building at 18 rue de Vigny.
Seated behind the plain teak desk in his private office, Hideo Nomura observed the compressed-time computer simulation of the first Thanatos sorties with growing pleasure. A large screen showed him a digitized map of the Western Hemisphere. Icons indicated the constantly updated position of each Thanatos aircraft dispatched from his base here in the Azores — roughly twenty-five hundred miles off the American coast.
As each blinking dot crossed the Atlantic and soared above the continental United States, whole swathes of territory on the digital map began changing color — indicating areas struck by the windblown clouds of Stage IV nanophages his stealthly high-altitude aircraft would release. Different hues showed the predicted casualty rates for each pass. Bright red indicated near-total annihilation for anyone caught inside the indicated zone.
While Nomura watched, the metropolitan areas of New York, Washington, D.C., Philadelphia, and Boston glowed scarlet, signaling the calculated deaths of more than 35 million American men, women, and children. He nodded, smiling to himself. In and of themselves, those deaths would be meaningless, merely the first taste of the necessary carnage he planned to inflict. But this first onslaught would serve a much larger purpose. The rapid destruction of so many of its most populous centers of governmental and economic power was sure to plunge the United States into crisis — rendering its surviving leaders completely unable to detect the origin of the devastating attacks being carried out against their helpless nation.
His internal phone chimed once, demanding his attention.
Reluctantly Nomura drew his eyes away from the computer-generated glory unfolding before him. He tapped the speaker button. “Yes? What is it?”
“We have received all the necessary data from the Paris relay point, Lazarus,” the dry, academic tones of his chief molecular scientist informed him. “Based on the results of Field Experiment Three, we see no need for further design modifications at this time.”
“That is excellent news,” Nomura said. He glanced back at the simulation. The dead zones it showed were spreading inland fast, reaching deep into the American heartland. “And when will the first Stage Four production run be complete?”
“In approximately twelve hours,” the scientist promised cautiously.
“Very good. Keep me informed.” Nomura switched off the attack simulation and called up another — this one constantly updating the work being carried out inside the huge aircraft hangars at both ends of his airfield.
It showed him that the crews assembling the components of his fleet of Thanatos drones were on schedule. By the time the first cylinders of the new nanophages rolled out of his hidden production facility, he would have three aircraft ready to receive them.
Nomura picked up his secure satellite phone and punched in a preset code.
Nones, the third of the Horatii he had created, answered immediately. “What are your orders, Lazarus?”
“Your work in Paris is finished,” Nomura told him. “Return here to the Center as soon as possible. Tickets and the necessary documents for you and your security unit will be waiting at the Air France desk at Orly Sud.”
“What about Linden and his surveillance team?” Nones asked quietly. “What arrangements do you wish made for them?”
Nomura shrugged. “Linden and the others have completed their appointed tasks efficiently. But I see no need for their sendees in the future. None whatsoever. Do you understand my meaning?” he asked coldly.
“I understand,” the other man confirmed. “And the equipment at 18 rue de Vigny?”
“Destroy it all,” Nomura ordered. He smiled cruelly. “Let us prove to a horrified world that American and British spies are still waging their illegal war against the noble Lazarus Movement!”
