picked up his secure satellite phone and punched in a preset code.
Nones, the third of the Horatii he had created, answered immediately. "What are your orders, Lazarus?"
"Your work in Paris is finished," Nomura told him. "Return here to the Center as soon as possible. Tickets and the necessary documents for you and your security unit will be waiting at the Air France desk at Orly Sud."
"What about Linden and his surveillance team?" Nones asked quietly. "What arrangements do you wish made for them?"
Nomura shrugged. "Linden and the others have completed their appointed tasks efficiently. But I see no need for their sendees in the future. None whatsoever. Do you understand my meaning?" he asked coldly.
"I understand," the other man confirmed. "And the equipment at 18 rue de Vigny?"
"Destroy it all," Nomura ordered. He smiled cruelly. "Let us prove to a horrified world that American and British spies are still waging their illegal war against the noble Lazarus Movement!"
Chapter Forty-One
Paris
Smith crawled out along the high, sharp peak of the roof at 18 rue de Vigny. He used his hands and arms to pull himself along, preferring not to risk the noise his rubber-soled boots would make scraping and scrabbling across the roof's cracked slate tiles. He moved slowly, seeking whatever handholds he could find along the slick, slippery surface.
The Lazarus Movement headquarters was among the highest buildings in this part of the Marais, so there was nothing to block the cold east wind rushing across Paris. The frigid breeze keened through the array of antennae and satellite dishes clustered on the roof. A stronger gust swirled suddenly along the sheer slopes, tugging hard at his clothing and equipment.
Buffeted by this gust, Jon felt himself starting to slide off the ridge of the roof. He gritted his teeth and desperately tightened his grip. A hundred-foot drop beckoned, with nothing below to break his fall but iron-spiked railings, parked cars, and cobblestones. He could feel his pulse hammering in his ears, drowning out the faint sounds drifting up
from the city streets far below. Sweating despite the cold, he pressed closer to the roof, waiting until the force of the wind eased just a bit. Then, still shaking slightly, he pushed himself back up and crawled on.
A minute later, Smith reached the modest shelter afforded by a large brick chimney. Randi and Peter were there ahead of him. They had already rigged an anchor line around the base of the chimney. He clipped on to it with a quiet, grateful sigh and then sat up, breathing heavily - uneasily perched like the others on the sharp ridge of the roof.
Peter chuckled, looking along the row at his two companions. "So here we sit," he said quietly. "Looking for all the world like a rather sad and bedraggled band of crows."
"Make that two ugly crows and one graceful swan," Randi corrected him with a slight smile of her own. She clicked the transmit button on her tactical radio. "Anything stirring, Max?" she asked.
From his concealed post some distance down the rue de Vigny, her subordinate radioed back. "Negative, boss. It's all real quiet. One light came on a few minutes ago, up on the third floor, but otherwise there's no sign of anyone coming or going."
Satisfied, she nodded to the others. "We're clear."
"Right," Smith said flatly. "Let's get this done."
One by one, they edged closer to the chimney and prepared their rap-pelling gear - taking special care to ensure that their ropes, harnesses, and snap and descending links were correctly rigged.
"Who wants to go first?" Randi asked.
"I will," Smith volunteered, looking down at the roof stretching away in front of him. "Tackling this was my bright idea, remember?"
She nodded. "Sure. Though 'bright' isn't exactly the adjective I would have used." But then she laid a gloved hand gently on his shoulder. "Just watch yourself, Jon," she said softly. Her eyes were troubled.
He flashed her a quick, reassuring grin. 'Til do my best," he promised.
Smith took a couple of deep breaths, steadying his jangled nerves. Then he swung around and slid slowly backward down the slope, care-
fully controlling his descent with one hand on the rope as it uncoiled. Tiny pieces of broken slate pitter-pattered ahead of him and then fell away into the darkness below.
Inside Number 18 rue de Vigny, the tall auburn-haired giant called Nones strode out of the third-floor office he had commandeered immediately upon arriving in Paris. Ordinarily reserved for the head of the Movement's African aid and education programs, it