The Lazarus Vendetta - Страница 4

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Castilla nodded slowly. The FBI, CIA, and other federal intelligence agencies kept tabs on a host of groups and individuals. With the rise of global terrorism and the spread of chemical, biological, and nuclear weapons technology, no one in Washington wanted to take any more chances on being blindsided by a previously unrecognized enemy.

“Then let me speak bluntly, sir,” Hanson went on. “Our judgment is that the Lazarus Movement has now decided to attain its objectives through violence and terrorism. Its rhetoric is increasingly vicious, paranoid, and full of hatred aimed at those whom it considers enemies.” The CIA chief slid another piece of paper across the pine table. “This is just one example.”

Castilla put his glasses back on and read it in silence. His mouth curved down in disgust. The sheet was a glossy printout of a page from a Movement Web site, complete with grotesque thumbnail photos of mangled and mutilated corpses. The banner headline across the top screamed: iwockms BUTCHKRED AT KUSASA. The text between the pictures blamed the massacre of an entire village in Zimbabwe on either corporate-funded “death squads” or “mercenaries armed bv the U.S. government.” It claimed the killings were part of a secret plan to destroy the Lazarus Movement's efforts to revitalize organic African farming — lest they threaten the American monopoly on genetically modified crops and pesticides. The page ended by calling for the destruction of those who would “destroy the Earth and all who love her.”

The president dropped it back on the table. “What a load of horseshit.”

“True.” Hanson retrieved the printout and slid it back into his briefcase. “It is, however, highly effective horseshit — at least for its target audience.”

“Have you sent a team into Zimbabwe to find out what really happened at this Kusasa place?” Castilla asked.

The director of the CIA shook his head. "That would be extremely difficult, Mr. President. Without permission from the government there, which is hostile to us, we'll have to go in covertly. Even then, I doubt we'll find much. Zimbabwe is a total basket case. Those villagers could have been murdered by anyone — all the way from government troops on down to rampaging bandits."

“Hell,” Castilla muttered. “And if our people get caught snooping there without permission, everyone will assume we were involved in this massacre and that we're only trying to cover our tracks.”

“That is the problem, sir,” Hanson agreed quietly. “But whatever really took place at Kusasa, one thing is quite clear: The leadership of the Lazarus Movement is using this incident to radicalize its followers, to prepare them for more direct and violent action against our allies and us.”

“Damn, I hate to see this happening,” Castilla grow led. 1 le leaned forward in his chair. “Don't forget, I knew many of the men and women who founded Lazarus. They were respected environmental activists, scientists, writers… even a couple of politicians. They wanted to save the Earth, to bring it back to life. I disagreed with most of their agenda, but they were good people. Honorable people.”

“And where are they now, sir?” the head of the CIA asked quietly. “There were nine original founders of the Lazarus Movement. Six of them are dead, either from natural causes or in suspiciously convenient accidents. The other three have vanished without a trace.” He looked carefully at Castilla. “Including Jinjiro Nomura.”

“Yes,” the president said flatly.

He glanced at one of the photographs clustered on a corner of his desk. Taken during his first term as governor of New Mexico, it showed him exchanging bows with a shorter and older Japanese man, Jinjiro Nomura. Nomura had been a prominent member of the Diet, Japan's parliament. Their friendship, founded on a shared taste for single-malt Scotch and straight talk, had survived Nomura's retirement from politics and his turn toward more strident environmental advocacy.

Twelve months ago, Jinjiro Nomura had disappeared while traveling to a Lazarus-sponsored rally in Thailand. His son, Hideo, the chairman and chief executive officer of Nomura PharmaTech, had begged for American help in finding his father. And Castilla had reacted quickly. For weeks a special task force of CIA field officers had combed the streets and back alleys of Bangkok. The president had even pressed the NSA's ultra-secret spy satellites into service in the hunt for his old friend. But nothing had ever turned up. No ransom demand. No dead body. Nothing. The last of the original founders of the Lazarus Movement had vanished without a trace.

The photo stayed on Castilla's desk as a reminder of the limits of his power.

Castilla sighed and turned his gaze back to the two somber men seated in front of him. “Okay, you've made your point. The leaders I knew and trusted either are dead or have dropped off the face of the earth.”

“Precisely, Mr. President.”

“Which brings us again to the issue of just who is running the Lazarus Movement no\\\” Castilla said grimly. “Let's cut to the chase here, David. After Jinjiro disappeared, 1 approved your special interagency task force on the Movement — despite my own misgivings. Are your people any closer to identifying the current leadership?”

“Not much closer,” Hanson admitted reluctantly. “Noi even after months of intense work.” He spread his hands. “We're fairly certain that ultimate power is vested in one man, a man who calls himself Lazarus— but we don't know his real name or what he looks like or where he operates from.”

“That's not exactly satisfying,” Castilla commented drily. “Maybe you should stop telling me what you don't know and stick to what you do know.” I le looked the shorter man in the eye. “It might take less time.”

I Ianson smiled dutifully. The smile stopped well short of his eyes. “We've devoted a huge amount of resources, both human and satellite, to the effort. So have M16, the French DOSF, and several other Western intelligence agencies, but over the past year the Lazarus Movement has deliberately reconfigured itself to defeat our surveillance.”

“Go on,” Castilla said.

“The Movement has organized itself as a set of ever-tighter and more secure concentric circles,” Hanson told him. “Most of its supporters fall into the outer ring. They operate out in the open — attending meetings, organizing demonstrations, publishing newsletters, and working for various Movement-sponsored projects around the world. They staff the various Movement offices around the world. But each level above that is smaller and more secretive. Few members of the upper echelons know one another's real names, or meet in person. Leadership communications are handled almost exclusively through the Internet, either by encrypted instant messaging… or by communiques posted on any one of the several Lazarus Web sites.”

“In other words, a classic cell structure.” Castilla said. “Orders move freely down the chain, but no one outside the group can easily penetrate to the inner core.”

Hanson nodded. “Correct. It's also the same structure adopted by any number of very nasty terrorist groups over the years. Al-Oaeda. Islamic Jihad. Italy's Red Brigades. Japan's Red Army. Just to name a few.”

“And you haven't had any luck in gaining access to the top echelons7” Castilla asked.

The CIA chief shook his head. “No, sir. Nor have the Brits or the French or anyone else. We've all tried, without success. And one by one, we've lost our best existing sources inside Lazarus. Some have resigned. Others have been expelled. A few have simplv vanished and are presumed dead.”

Castilla frowned. “People seem to have a habit ol disappearing around this bunch.”

“Yes, sir. A great many.” The CIA director left that uncomfortable truth hanging in the air.

* * *

Fifteen minutes later, the Director of Central Intelligence strode briskly out of the White House and down the steps of the South Portico to

a waiting black limousine. He slid into the rear seat, waited while a uniformed Secret Sen ice officer closed the car door behind him, and then punched the intercom. “Take me back to Langley,” he told his driver.

Hanson leaned back against the plush leather as the limousine accelerated smoothly down the drive and turned left onto Seventeenth Street. He looked at the stocky, square-jawed man sitting in the rear-facing jump seat across from him. “You're very quiet this afternoon. I lal.”

“You pay me to catch or kill terrorists,” Hal Burke said. “Not to play courtier.”

Amusement flickered briefly in the CIA chief's eyes. Burke was a senior officer on the Agency's counterterrorism staff. Right now he was assigned to lead the special task force on the Lazarus Movement. Twenty years of clandestine fieldwork had left him with a bullet scar down the right side ot his neck and a permanently cynical view of human nature. It was a view Hanson shared.

“Any luck?” Burke asked finally.

“None.”

“Slut.” Burke stared moodily out the limousine's rain-streaked windows. “Kit Pierson's going to throw a fit.”

Hanson nodded. Katherine Pierson was Burke's FBI counterpart. The pair had worked closely together to prepare the intelligence assessment he and Zeller had just shown the president. “Castilla wants us to push our investigation of the Movement as hard as possible, but he will not cancel his trip to the Teller Institute. Not without clearer evidence of a serious threat.”