“You’re jumping the gun a bit, Colonel,” Klein said. “That wasn’t the only satellite feed the NSA intercepted this morning. Take a look. …”
The screen showed an older Asian man—a man with thin white hair, a high, smooth forehead, and dark, almost ageless eyes. His appearance reminded Smith of paintings he had seen of ancient sages, full of wisdom and knowledge. The older man began speaking, this time in Japanese. A simultaneous translation into English crawled across the screen below. “I am Lazarus. I speak for the Lazarus Movement, for the Earth, and for all of humanity….”
The next image was of an African elder, another man with all the power and force of an ancient king or a shaman of great power. He spoke in full, resonant Swahili, but they were the same words, conveying the same message. When he finished, the handsome middle-aged Caucasian reappeared, this time speaking in perfect, idiomatic French.
Smith sat back in stunned silence, watching a parade of different Lazarus images—each one delivering the same powerful message fluently, in more than a dozen major languages. When the display at last flickered through static and faded into gray emptiness, he whistled softly again. “Man, now there’s a clever trick! So maybe three-quarters of the world population is going to hear this same Lazarus Movement speech? And all from people who look like them and speak languages they understand?”
“That appears to be their plan,” the head of Covert-One agreed. “But the Movement is even cleverer than that. Take another look at that first Lazarus.”
The image came up on Smith’s computer and froze just before it began speaking. He stared at the handsome middle-aged face. Why did it seem so damned familiar? “I’m looking, Fred,” he said. “But what I am looking for?”
“That is not a real face, Colonel,” Klein told him flatly. “Nor are any of the other Lazarus images.”
Smith raised a single eyebrow. “Oh? Then what are they?”
“Computer constructs,” the other man told him. “A blend of artificially generated pixels and bits and pieces of hundreds, perhaps thousands, of real people all mixed to create a set of different faces. The voices are all computer-generated, too.”
“So we have no way to identify them,” Smith realized. “And still no way to know whether the Movement is run by one man—or by many.”
“Exactly. But it goes beyond that,” Klein said. “I’ve seen some of the CIA’s analysis. They’re convinced those images and voices are very specially crafted—that they represent archetypes, or idealized figures, for the cultures to whom the Lazarus Movement is delivering its message.”
That would certainly explain why he had reacted so favorably to the first image, Smith realized. It was a variation on the ancient Western ideal of the just and noble hero-king. “These people are awfully damned good at what they’re trying to do,” he said grimly.
“Indeed.”
“In fact, I’m beginning to think that the CIA and FBI may be right on-target in fingering these guys for what happened yesterday.”
“Perhaps. But skill with propaganda and secrecy doesn’t necessarily reveal terrorist intentions. Try to keep an open mind, Colonel,” the other man warned. “Remember that Covert-One is the B-Team on this investigation. Your job is to play devil’s advocate, to make sure evidence isn’t overlooked just because it doesn’t conveniently fit the preconceived theory.”
“Don’t worry, Fred,” Smith said reassuringly. “I’ll do my best to poke and prod and pry to see what breaks.”
“Discreetly, please,” Klein reminded him.
“Discretion is my middle name,” said Smith with a quick grin.
“Is it?” the head of Covert-One said tartly. “Somehow I never would have guessed.” Then he relented. “Good luck, Jon. If you need anything—access, information, backup, anything—we’ll be standing by.”
Still grinning, Smith disconnected his phone and computer and began preparing himself for the long day ahead.
Chapter
Fourteen
Emeryville, California
Once a sleepy little town full of dilapidated warehouses, rusting machine shops, and artists’ studios, Emeryville had suddenly blossomed as one of the centers of the Bay Area’s booming biotech industry. Multinational pharmaceutical corporations, genetic engineering startups, and venture capital–funded entrepreneurs pursuing new opportunities like nanotechnology all vied for office and lab space along the busy Interstate 80 corridor between Berkeley and Oakland. Rents, taxes, and living costs were all exorbitant, but most corporate executives seemed to focus instead on Emeryville’s proximity to top-notch universities and major airports and, perhaps most important of all, its spectacular views of San Francisco, the Bay, and the Golden Gate.
Telos Corporation’s nanoelectronics research facility took up a whole floor of one of the new glass-and-steel high-rises looming just east of the approaches to the Bay Bridge. Interested more in profiting from its multimillion-dollar investment in equipment, materials, and personnel than it was in publicity, Telos maintained a comparatively low profile. No expensive and flashy logo on the building advertised its presence inside. School groups, politicians, and the press were not offered time-consuming tours. A single guard station just inside the main doors provided security.
Pacific Security Corporation deputy Paul Yiu sat behind the marble-topped counter of the security station, skimming through a paperback mystery. He flipped a page, idly noting the death of yet another suspect he had fingered as the killer. Then he yawned and stretched. Midnight had long since come and gone, but he still had two hours to go on his shift. He shifted uncomfortably on his swivel chair, readjusted the butt of the pistol holstered at his side, and went back to his book. His eyelids drooped.
A light tapping on the glass doors roused him. Yiu looked up, fully expecting to see one of the half-crazy homeless bums who sometimes wandered down here from Berkeley by mistake. Instead, he saw a petite redhead with a worried expression on her face. Fog had rolled in from the Bay and she looked cold in her tight blue skirt, white silk blouse, and stylish black wool coat.
The security guard slid off his chair, straightened his own khaki uniform shirt and tie, and went to the door. The young woman smiled in relief when she saw him and tried the door. It rattled but stayed locked.
“I’m sorry, ma’am,” he called through the glass. “This building’s closed.”
Her worried look came back. “Please, I just need to borrow a phone to call Triple A,” she said plaintively. “My car broke down just up the street, and now my cell phone’s gone dead, too!”
Yiu thought about that for a moment. The rules were quite clear. No unauthorized visitors after business hours. On the other hand, none of his bosses ever had to know that he had decided to play the Good Samaritan for this frantic young woman. Call it my good deed for the week, he decided. Besides, she was pretty cute, and he had always had an unrequited passion for redheads.
He took the building key card out of his shirt pocket and swiped it through the lock. It buzzed once and clicked open. He pulled the heavy glass door back with a welcoming smile. “Here you go, ma’am. The phone’s just—”
The mace blast caught Yiu right in the eyes and open mouth. He doubled over, blinded, gagging, and helpless. Before he could even try to fumble for his weapon, the door slammed wide open—hurling him backward onto the slick tiled floor. Several people burst through the open door and into the lobby. Strong arms grabbed him, pinioned his arms behind his back, and then secured his wrists using his own handcuffs. Someone else yanked a cloth hood over his head.
A woman bent down to whisper in his ear. “Remember this! Lazarus lives!”
By the time Yiu’s relief arrived to set him free, the intruders were long gone. But the Telos nanotech lab was a total wreck—full of smashed glassware, burned out electron-scanning microscopes, punctured steel tanks, and spilled chemicals. The Lazarus Movement slogans spray-painted across the walls, doors, and windows left little doubt about the loyalties of th
ose responsible.
Zurich, Switzerland
As the weak autumn sun climbed toward the zenith, thousands of protesters already clogged the steep tree-lined hill overlooking Zurich’s Old Town and the River Limmat. They blockaded every street around the twin campuses of the Swiss Federal Institute of Technology and the University of Zurich. Scarlet and green Lazarus Movement flags waved above the crowds, along with signs demanding a ban on all Swiss-based nanotechnology research projects.
Squads of riot police holding truncheons and clear Plexiglas shields waited at parade rest some blocks away from the mass of protesters. Armored cars with water cannons and tear gas grenade launchers were parked nearby. But the police did not appear to be in any real hurry to move in and clear the streets.
Dr. Karl Friederich Kaspar, the head of one of the labs now under peaceful siege, stood just behind the police barricades, close to the upper station of the Zurich Polybahn, the funicular railway built more than a century before to serve both the university and the Institute. He checked his watch again and ground his teeth together in frustration. Fuming, he sought out the highest-ranking police official he could find. “Look, why all the delay? Without a permit, this demonstration is illegal. Why don’t you put your troops in and break it up?”
The police officer shrugged. “I follow my orders, Herr Professor Direktor Kaspar. At the moment, I have no such orders.”
Kaspar hissed in disgust. “This is absurd! I have staff waiting to go to work. We have many very valuable and expensive experiments to conduct.”
“That is a pity,” said the policeman carefully.
“A pity!” Kaspar growled. “It’s more than a pity; it’s a disgrace.” He eyed the other man angrily. “I might almost think you have sympathy for these ignorant dunderheads.”
The police officer turned to face him, meeting Kaspar’s furious gaze without flinching. “I am not a member of the Lazarus Movement, if that is what you are suggesting,” he said quietly. “But I saw what happened in America. I do not wish such a catastrophe to occur here in Zurich.”
The lab director turned bright red. “Such a thing is impossible! Utterly impossible! Our work is completely different from anything the Americans and Japanese were doing at the Teller Institute! There is no comparison!”
“That is excellent news,” the policeman said, with the faint hint of a sardonic smile. He made a show of offering Kaspar a bullhorn. “Perhaps if you assured the protesters of this truth, they might see the error of their ways and disperse?”
Kaspar could only stare back at him, dismayed to find so much ignorance and insolence in a fellow public servant.
Chapter
Fifteen
Albuquerque International Airport, New Mexico
With the sun rising red behind it, the huge An-124 Condor thundered low over the airport’s inner beacon line and dropped heavily onto Runway Eight. Its four large pylon-mounted turbofans howled as the pilot reversed thrust. Decelerating, the Condor bounced and rolled down the nearly thirteen-thousand-foot-long landing strip, chasing its own lengthening shadow. In seconds, it lumbered past the hangars and revetments holding F-16s that belonged to New Mexico’s 150th Air National Guard Fighter Wing. Still slowing, it passed camouflaged concrete-and-steel ordnance bunkers, which had been used to store strategic and tactical nuclear weapons during the Cold War.
Near the western end of the tarmac, the enormous Russian-made Antonov cargo aircraft turned off onto a freight apron and rolled ponderously to a complete stop beside a much smaller corporate jet. The shrill noise of its engines died away. Seen up close, the Nomura PharmaTech–owned plane dwarfed the group of reporters and cameramen waiting to record its arrival.
The An-124’s sixty-foot-high rear cargo ramp whined open, settling heavily on the oil- and jet fuel–stained concrete. Two crewmen in flight suits walked down the ramp, shading their eyes against the bright sunlight. Once on the ground, they turned and began using hand signals to guide the drivers slowly backing a convoy of vehicles out of the Condor’s cavernous cargo bay. The mobile DNA analysis labs promised by Hideo Nomura had arrived.
Nomura himself stood among the journalists, watching his support crews and medical technicians quickly and calmly preparing to make the short drive to Santa Fe. Their efficiency pleased him.
When he judged that the media had all the footage they needed, he signaled for their attention. It took some time for them to refocus their cameras and make sound checks. He waited patiently until they were ready.
“I have one other major decision to announce, ladies and gentlemen,” Nomura began. “It is not one I have made lightly. But I think it is the only sensible decision, especially in view of the terrible tragedy we all witnessed yesterday.” He paused for dramatic effect. “Effective immediately, Nomura PharmaTech will suspend its nanotechnology research programs—both those in our own facilities and those we fund in other institutions around the world. We will invite outside observers into our labs and factories to confirm that we have halted all our activities in this scientific field.”
He listened politely to the frenzied clamor of questions aroused by this sudden announcement, answering those that seemed best suited to his purposes. “Was my decision prompted by the demands made earlier this morning by the Lazarus Movement?” He shook his head. “Absolutely not. Though I respect their motives and ideals, I do not share the Movement’s bias against science and technology. This temporary halt is prompted by simple prudence. Until we know exactly what went wrong at the Teller Institute, it would be foolish to put other cities at risk.”
“What about your competitors?” one of the reporters asked bluntly. “Other corporations, universities, and governments have already invested billions of dollars in medical nanotech. Should they follow your company’s lead and halt their work, too?”
Nomura smiled blandly. “I will not presume to dictate what steps others should take. That is a matter for their best scientific judgment, or perhaps more appropriately, for their consciences. For my part, I can only assure you that Nomura PharmaTech will never put its own profits ahead of innocent human life.”
Boston, Massachusetts
Big, bullheaded James Severin, the chief executive officer of Harcourt Biosciences, watched the CNN tape of Hideo Nomura’s interview come to an end. “That sly, shrewd Japanese son of a bitch,” he murmured, half in grudging admiration and half in outrage. His eyes blinked angrily behind the thick lenses of his black-framed glasses. “He knows his company’s nanotech projects are way behind everybody else’s work—so far behind that they’ve got no real chance of catching up!”
His senior aide, just as tall but about one hundred pounds lighter, nodded. “From what we can tell, Nomura’s people lag our researchers by at least eighteen months. They’re still sorting out basic theory, while our lab teams are developing real-world applications. This is a race PharmaTech can’t win.”
“Yeah,” Severin growled. “We know that. And our friend Hideo there knows it. But who else is going to see what he’s up to? Not the press, that’s for sure.” He frowned. “So he gets to pull the plug on failing projects that have been costing his company an arm and a leg while masquerading as a selfless corporate white knight! Sweet, isn’t it?”
The head of Harcourt Biosciences shoved his chair back, pushed himself heavily to his feet, and went over to stare moodily out the floor-to-ceiling windows of his office. “And that little stunt by Nomura just revved up the public and political pressure on the rest of us. We’re already catching enough hell over that mess out in Santa Fe. Now it’s going to get worse.”
“We could buy some relief by going along with PharmaTech’s self-imposed moratorium,” his aide suggested cautiously. “Just until we can prove our Teller lab wasn’t at fault for the disaster.”
Severin snorted. “How long will that take? Months? A year? Two years? You really think we can afford to keep a bunch of bright-eyed scientists sitting around twiddling their thumbs for that long?” He lean
ed forward against the thick glass. Far below, the waters of Boston Harbor were a frigid-looking green-gray. “Don’t forget that a lot of people in Congress and in the press would claim we were practically admitting fault by suspending our other nanotech projects.”
His aide said nothing.
Severin swung away from the windows. He clasped his hands behind his back. “No. We’re not going to play Nomura’s game. We’re going to tough it out. Get out a press release right away. Say that Harcourt Biosciences flatly rejects the demands made by the Lazarus Movement. We will not give in to threats made by a secretive and extremist organization. And let’s arrange some special media tours of our other nanotech labs. We need to show people that we have absolutely nothing to hide—and they have nothing to fear.”
Chapter
Sixteen
The Teller Institute
Wearing a thick plastic protective suit, gloves, a sealed hood with its own oxygen supply, and a blue hard hat, Jon Smith stepped cautiously through the shattered ruins of the Institute’s first floor. He ducked sideways under a large charred beam hanging down from the torn ceiling, taking care to avoid ripping his suit on any of the nails protruding from the blackened wood. No one knew if the nanomachines that had butchered thousands of protesters were still active. So far no one had tried to find out the hard way. Small fragments of crumbled adobe and shards of broken glass crunched under his thick-soled boots.
He came out into a more open area that had once been the employee cafeteria. This room was mostly intact, but there were signs of bomb damage along two of the four walls, and chalked outlines on the broken tile floor showed where bodies had been removed.
The FBI task force investigating the disaster was using the cafeteria as a rallying point and on-site tactical command center. Two portable computers were up and running on tables near the middle of the room, though it was clear that the agents trying to use them were having trouble entering data in their thick gloves.
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