adviser shot a quick glare at the head of the CIA
before continuing. “Blaming the Movement for this would play straight into
the hands of every conspiracy theorist around the world. We can't afford to
give them more ammunition. Not now.”
A gloomy silence fell around the Situation Room conference table.
“One thing is certain,” David Hanson said coldly, breaking the hush.
“The Lazarus Movement is already profiting from the public martyrdom of so
many of its followers. Around the world, hundreds of thousands of new
volunteers have added their names to its e-mail lists. Millions more have made
electronic donations to its public bank accounts.”
The CIA chief looked straight at Castilla. “I understand your
reluctance to act against the Lazarus Movement without proof of its terrorist
activities, Mr. President. I know the politics involved. And I earnestly hope
that the FBI probe at the Teller Institute produces the evidence you require.
But it is my duty to warn you that delay could have terrible consequences for
this nation's security. With every passing day, this Movement will grow
stronger. And with every passing day, our ability to confront it successfully
will diminish.”
Lazarus
Mobile Command
Center
The man called Lazarus sat alone in a small but elegantly furnished
compartment. The window shades were pulled down, shutting out any glimpse of
the larger world outside. Images flickered across the computer screen set
before him, televised images of the carnage outside the Teller Institute.
He nodded to himself, coolly satisfied by what he saw. His plans, so
carefully and patiently prepared over the course of several years, were at last
coming to fruition. Much of the work, like that involved in selectively
pruning the Movement's former leadership, had been
difficult and painful and full of risk. The Horatii, physically
powerful, precisely trained in the arts of assassination, and infinitely cruel,
had served him well in that effort.
For a moment a trace of sorrow crossed his face. He genuinely regretted the
need to eliminate so many men and women he had once admired—people whose only
fault had been a reluctance to see the need for sterner measures to accomplish
their shared dreams. But then Lazarus shrugged. Personal regrets aside, events
were proving the correctness of his vision. In the past twelve months, under
his sole leadership, the Movement had accomplished more than in all the prior
years of halfhearted conventional activism combined. Restoring the purity of
the world required bold, decisive action, not dreary oratory and weak-kneed
political protests.
In fact, as the name of the Movement suggested, it meant bringing new life
out of death itself.
His computer chimed softly, signaling the arrival of another encrypted
report relayed to him from the Center itself. Lazarus read through it in
silence. Prime's death was an inconvenience, but the loss of one of his three Horatii
was far outweighed by the results from the attack on the Teller Institute
and the resulting slaughter of his own followers. Gulled by the information he
had fed them, information that confirmed their own worst fears, officials in
the American CIA and FBI and those of other allied intelligence services had
trapped themselves in an act of mass murder. What must seem to those poor fools
to have been a terrible error was, in fact, intended from the beginning. They
were guilty and he would use their guilt against them for his own purposes.
Lazarus smiled coldly. With a single deadly stroke he had made it virtually
impossible for the United
States, or for any other Western government,
to act decisively against the Movement. He had turned their own strength against
them —just as would any master of jujitsu. Though his enemies did not yet
realize it, he controlled the essential levers of power.
Any action they took against the Movement would only strengthen his grip and
weaken them in the same moment.
Now it was time to begin
before continuing. “Blaming the Movement for this would play straight into
the hands of every conspiracy theorist around the world. We can't afford to
give them more ammunition. Not now.”
A gloomy silence fell around the Situation Room conference table.
“One thing is certain,” David Hanson said coldly, breaking the hush.
“The Lazarus Movement is already profiting from the public martyrdom of so
many of its followers. Around the world, hundreds of thousands of new
volunteers have added their names to its e-mail lists. Millions more have made
electronic donations to its public bank accounts.”
The CIA chief looked straight at Castilla. “I understand your
reluctance to act against the Lazarus Movement without proof of its terrorist
activities, Mr. President. I know the politics involved. And I earnestly hope
that the FBI probe at the Teller Institute produces the evidence you require.
But it is my duty to warn you that delay could have terrible consequences for
this nation's security. With every passing day, this Movement will grow
stronger. And with every passing day, our ability to confront it successfully
will diminish.”
Lazarus
Mobile Command
Center
The man called Lazarus sat alone in a small but elegantly furnished
compartment. The window shades were pulled down, shutting out any glimpse of
the larger world outside. Images flickered across the computer screen set
before him, televised images of the carnage outside the Teller Institute.
He nodded to himself, coolly satisfied by what he saw. His plans, so
carefully and patiently prepared over the course of several years, were at last
coming to fruition. Much of the work, like that involved in selectively
pruning the Movement's former leadership, had been
difficult and painful and full of risk. The Horatii, physically
powerful, precisely trained in the arts of assassination, and infinitely cruel,
had served him well in that effort.
For a moment a trace of sorrow crossed his face. He genuinely regretted the
need to eliminate so many men and women he had once admired—people whose only
fault had been a reluctance to see the need for sterner measures to accomplish
their shared dreams. But then Lazarus shrugged. Personal regrets aside, events
were proving the correctness of his vision. In the past twelve months, under
his sole leadership, the Movement had accomplished more than in all the prior
years of halfhearted conventional activism combined. Restoring the purity of
the world required bold, decisive action, not dreary oratory and weak-kneed
political protests.
In fact, as the name of the Movement suggested, it meant bringing new life
out of death itself.
His computer chimed softly, signaling the arrival of another encrypted
report relayed to him from the Center itself. Lazarus read through it in
silence. Prime's death was an inconvenience, but the loss of one of his three Horatii
was far outweighed by the results from the attack on the Teller Institute
and the resulting slaughter of his own followers. Gulled by the information he
had fed them, information that confirmed their own worst fears, officials in
the American CIA and FBI and those of other allied intelligence services had
trapped themselves in an act of mass murder. What must seem to those poor fools
to have been a terrible error was, in fact, intended from the beginning. They
were guilty and he would use their guilt against them for his own purposes.
Lazarus smiled coldly. With a single deadly stroke he had made it virtually
impossible for the United
States, or for any other Western government,
to act decisively against the Movement. He had turned their own strength against
them —just as would any master of jujitsu. Though his enemies did not yet
realize it, he controlled the essential levers of power.
Any action they took against the Movement would only strengthen his grip and
weaken them in the same moment.
Now it was time to begin
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