political alliances are shredding like wet tissue paper. NATO is up in arms. The UN General Assembly is planning to designate us as a terrorist nation. And a sizable bloc in Congress is arguing seriously for the impeachment of the president. In these circumstances, an apparently unprovoked air or cruise missile attack on a world-renowned medical charity would be the last straw.”
Smith knew that Klein was right. But knowing that didn't make the situation they faced any more acceptable. “We may be damned if we do. But we'll die if we don't,” he argued.
“I know that, Jon,” Klein said emphatically. “But we need evidence to back our claims before we can send in the bombers and missiles.”
“There's only one way to get that kind of proof,” Smith pointed out grimly. “Someone has to go in on the ground in the Azores and get right up close.”
“Yes,” Klein agreed slowly. “When can you head to the airport?”
Smith looked up from the phone at Randi and Peter. They looked equally grim, equally determined. They had heard enough of his side of the conversation to know what was going on. “Now,” he said simply. “We're going now.”
Chapter Forty-Five
Outside the windowless confines of the Lazarus Movement nerve center, the sun was just rising, climbing higher above the embrace of the Atlantic. Its first dazzling rays touched the sheer cliffs of Sao Laurenco Bay with fire and lit the steep stone-terraced vineyards of Maia. From there, the growing daylight rolled westward across verdant forests and pastures, gleamed off the white sand beach at Praia Formosa, and at last chased the night's lingering shadows away from the treeless limestone plain surrounding the Nomura PharmaTech airfield.
Inside the Center, secure in neon-lit silence, Hideo Nomura read through the most recent messages from his surviving agents in Paris. Based on details supplied by paid informants on the police force, it was clear that Nones and his men were dead — killed along with all the others inside the bomb-ravaged building at 18 rue de Vigny.
He furrowed his brow, both puzzled and worried by this news. Nones and his team should have been well away before their demolition charges exploded. Something had gone badly wrong, but what?
Several witnesses reported seeing “men in black” running away from the building right after the first explosions occurred. The French police, though dubious at first, were now treating these reports seriously-blaming the mysterious forces opposing the Lazarus Movement for what looked like a major terrorist attack on its Paris headquarters.
Nomura shook his head. That was impossible, of course. The only terrorists targeting the Movement were men under his command. But then he stopped, considering the matter more carefully.
What if someone else had been snooping around inside 18 rue de Vign}? True, his intricately laid plans had succeeded in throwing the CIA, FBI, and MI6 into confusion. But there were other intelligence organizations in the world, and any number of them might be trying to pry into the activities of the Lazarus Movement. Could they have found anything there that might tie the La Courneuve surveillance operation to him? He bit his lower lip, wondering if he had been overconfident, entirely too sure that his many elaborate ruses would escape detection.
Nomura pondered that possibility for a while. Though it was likely that his cover was intact, it might be best to take certain precautions. His original plan envisioned a simultaneous strike on the continental United States by at least a dozen Thanatos aircraft — but assembling the required number of the giant flying-wing drones would take his work crews another three days. More important, he lacked the hangar space here to conceal so many planes from any unexpected aerial or space surveillance.
No, he thought coldly, he should act now, while he was certain that he still could, instead of waiting for a perfect moment that might never arrive. Once the first millions were dead, the Americans and their allies would be leaderless and too horror-stricken to hunt effectively for their hidden foes. When fighting for control over the fate of the world, he reminded himself, flexibility was a virtue, not a vice. He tapped a button on his internal phone. “Send Terce to me. At once.”
The last of the Horatii arrived moments later. His massive shoulders filled the doorway and his head seemed almost to brush against the ceiling. He bowed obediently and then stood motionless in front of Nomura's teak desk, patiently waiting for orders from the man who had made him so powerful and efficient a killer.
'Tou know that both of your companions have failed me?' Nomura said.
The tall green-eyed man nodded. “So I understand,” he said coolly. “But / have never failed in my duty.”
“That is true,” Nomura agreed. “And in consequence, the rewards promised to them now fall to you. When the time comes, you will stand at my right hand — exercising dominion in my name, in the name of Lazarus.”
Terce's eyes gleamed. Nomura planned to reorder the world to create a paradise for those few he believed worthy of continued life. Most nations and peoples would die, consumed over months and years by waves of unseen nanophages. Those allowed to live would be forced to obey his commands — reshaping their lives, cultures, and beliefs to fit his idyllic vision. Nomura and those who served him would wield almost unimaginable power over the frightened remnants of humanity.
“What are your orders?” the surviving member of the Horatii asked.
“We are going to attack earlier than first planned,” Nomura told him. “Three Thanatos aircraft should be ready for launch in six to eight hours. Inform the nanophage production team that I want enough full canisters to load those planes as soon as their preflight checks are finished. The first targets will be Washington, D.C., New York, and Boston.”
Lajes Field, Terceira Island, the Azores
Three people, two men and a woman, stood out among the small crowd of passengers deplaning from Air Portugal's Lisbon flight. Unencumbered by luggage, they moved swiftly through the slower currents of locals and bargain-hunting tourists and made their way from the tarmac into the airport terminal.
Once inside, Randi Russell stopped dead in her tracks. She stared up at a large clock showing the local time as noon and then back to the board showing flight arrivals and departures. “Damn!” she muttered in frustration. “There's only one connecting flight to Santa Maria a day — and we've already missed it.”
Walking on, Jon shook his head. “We're not taking a commercial flight.” He led them toward the outer doors. A short line of taxis and private cars stood at the curb, waiting to pick up arriving passengers.
She raised an eyebrow. “Santa Maria must be close to two hundred miles away. You planning to swim?”
Smith grinned back over his shoulder. “Not unless Peter really fouls up.”
Randi glanced at the pale-eyed Englishman walking beside her. “Do you know what he's talking about?”
“Haven't a clue,” Peter told her breezily. “But I noticed our friend there making a few sotto voce phone calls in Paris while we were waiting for the Lisbon flight. So I rather suspect he has something up his sleeve.”
Still smiling slightly, Smith pushed through the doors out into the open air. He raised his hand, signaling a green, brown, and tan camouflaged Humvee idling just down the road. It pulled forward to meet them.
“Colonel Smith and company?” the U.S. Air Force staff sergeant behind the wheel asked.
'That's us,' Smith said, already tugging open the rear doors and motioning Randi and Peter inside. He hopped in after them.
The Humvee pulled away from the curb and drove on down the road. A quarter mile farther on, it swung toward a gate in the perimeter fence. I here a pair of stern-faced guards carrying loaded M16s checked their identity cards, carefully comparing faces and pictures. Satisfied, the soldiers waved them through onto the U.S. Air Force base at Lajes.
The vehicle turned left and raced down the flight line. Gray-camouflaged C-17 transports and giant KC-10 tanker planes lined the long runway. On one side of the tarmac, the ground fell away, eventually plunging almost straight down toward the Atlantic. On the other, bright green slopes rose high above the airfield, broken up into innumerable small fields by low walls of dark volcanic rock. The sweet scents of wild-flowers and the fresh salt smell of the ocean mixed oddly with the sharp, acrid tang of half-burnt jet fuel.
“Your bird arrived from the States an hour ago,” the Air Force sergeant told them. “It's being prepped
