Covert One 5 - The Lazarus Vendetta by Robert Ludlum Read Free Book Online Page B

power source would never have gone active.”
    Parikh frowned thoughtfully. “That is a nonfatal error.”
    “Yeah, for the host, at least.” Brinker
stared into the monitor gloomily. “But whatever ran wild in Mouse Five was
pretty damned fatal.” He fought off a yawn. “Man, Ravi,
this gig is like looking for a single needle in a haystack the size of
Jupiter.”
    “Perhaps we will get lucky?” Parikh suggested.
    “Yeah, well, we've got. . . oh, say . . .
forty-seven hours and thirty-two minutes to do it in.”
    Brinker swiveled around in his chair. Not far away stood the head of the
Secret Service team assigned to secure their lab ahead of the president's
visit. He was a big man, well over six-foot-six and probably weighing 250
pounds, most of it in muscle. Right now he was busy watching two members of his
unit carefully place what they called “anti-bugging” and “hazard
detection” devices at various points in the lab.
    The scientist snapped his fingers, trying to remember the agent's name.
Fitzgerald? O'Connor? Something Irish anyhow. “Uh, Agent Kennedy?”
    The tall auburn-haired man turned his head. “The name is O'Neill, Dr.
Brinker.”
    “Oh, right. Sorry.” Brinker shrugged. “Well, I just wanted to
thank you again for letting Ravi and me stay
here while your guys do their stuff.”
    O'Neill smiled back. The smile did not reach his bright green eyes. “No
thanks are necessary, Dr. Brinker. None at all.”
    ■
    “LET LAZARUS
LEAD! NO TO DEATH! NO TO NANOTECH! LET LAZARUS LEAD!”
    Malachi MacNamara stood close to the speakers' platform, near the very heart
of the angry, shouting throng. Like those around him, he rhythmically jabbed
his fist in the air in rage. Like those around him, he joined each deafening
chant. But all the while his pale blue eyes were busy scanning the crowd.
    Now Lazarus Movement volunteers were moving through the mass of protesters,
handing out new signs and posters. Eager hands grabbed at them. MacNamara
pushed and shoved his way through the jostling, agitated mob to get one for
himself. It carried a much-enlarged and hurriedly color-copied photo of Paolo
Ponti and Audrey Karavites—a picture that must have been taken very recently
indeed, because they stood sil-
    houetted against the white peaks of the Sangre de Crista Mountains.
Scrawled above their young, smiling faces in bold red letters were the words: THEY WERE MURDERED! BUT LAZARUS LIVES!
    Still chanting, the pale-eyed man nodded to himself. Clever, he thought
coldly. Quite clever.
    ■
    “Jesus Christ, Colonel,” Diaz murmured, listening to the sound of
raw hatred spreading through the mob outside. “It's like feeding time at
the goddamned zoo!”
    Smith nodded, tight-lipped. For a moment he wished he was armed. Then he
shook the thought away. If things turned ugly, fifteen 9mm rounds in a Beretta
clip were not going to save his life. Nor had he joined the U.S. Army to shoot
unarmed rioters.
    The sight of flashing lights out on the access road attracted his attention.
A small convoy of black SUVs and sedans was moving slowly up the access road,
steadily forcing its way through the swelling crowds. Even at this distance,
Jon could see angry fists being shaken at the vehicles. He looked over at Diaz.
“You expecting reinforcements, Frank?”
    The security guard shook his head. “Not really. Hell, barring the
National Guard, we've already got every unit available within fifty
miles.” He peered closely at the oncoming vehicles. The lead car had just
pulled up outside the gate. “And that sure ain't the National Guard out
there.”
    The Army veteran's tactical radio squawked suddenly, loud enough for Smith
to hear it.
    “Sarge?” a voice said. “This is Battaglia, at the gate.”
    “Go ahead,” Diaz snapped. “Make your report.”
    “I've got some more Feds here. But I think there's something really-screwy
going on. . . .”
    “Like what?”
    “Well, like these guys say they're the Secret Service