"I had every reason to hurry, Prime," he replied, guessing at last.
The green-eyed man shook his head. "I am Terce. Unfortunately, Prime is dead."
"Dead? How?" Burke asked sharply.
"He was killed in the operation," Terce told him calmly. He stepped aside, ushering Burke into the chalet. Carpeted stairs led up to the second floor. A long stone-flagged hall paneled in dark pine led deeper into the house. Bright light spilled out through an open door at the back. "In fact, you have arrived just in time to help us decide a small matter connected with Prime's death."
The CIA officer followed the big man through the open door and into a large glass-enclosed porch running the width of the house. The gently sloping concrete floor, a metal drain in the middle, and the racks on the
walls told him this room was normally used as a storage and drying room for snow-encrusted outdoor gear - heavy boots, cross-country skis, and snowshoes. Now, though, the chalet's new owners were using it as a holding cell.
A small stoop-shouldered man with olive skin and a neatly trimmed mustache perched uneasily on a stool set squarely in the middle of the room - right above the drain. He was gagged and his hands were tied behind him. His feet were bound to the legs of the stool. Above the gag, a pair of dark brown eyes were wide open, staring frantically at the two men who had just entered.
Burke turned his head toward Terce. He raised a single eyebrow in an unspoken question.
"Our friend there, Antonio, was the assault team's backup driver," the bigger man said quietly. "Unfortunately, he panicked during the extraction phase. He abandoned Prime."
"Then you were forced to eliminate Prime?" Burke asked. "To prevent his capture?"
"Not quite. Prime was . . . consumed," Terce told him. He shook his head grimly. "You should have warned us about the plague our bombs would release, Mr. Burke. I earnestly hope your failure to do so was only an oversight - and not intentional."
The CIA officer frowned, hearing the implicit threat in the other man's voice. "No one knew how dangerous those damned nanomachines really were!" he said quickly. "Nothing in the classified reports I studied from Harcourt, Nomura, or the Institute suggested anything like that could happen!"
Terce studied him for a few moments. Then he nodded. "Very well. I accept your assurances. For now." The second of the Horatii shrugged. "But the mission has backfired. The Lazarus Movement will be stronger now, not weaker. Given that, do you wish to proceed further? Or should we fold our tents and steal away while there is still time?"
Burke scowled. He was in too far to back out now. If anything, it was more imperative than ever to arrange the destruction of the Movement. He shook his head decisively. "We keep going. Is your team ready to activate the cover plan?"
"We are."
"Good," the CIA officer said flatly. "Then we still have a fighting chance to pin what happened at the Institute on Lazarus. Trigger the cover - tonight."
"It will be done," Terce agreed quietly. He indicated the bound man. "In the meantime, we need to resolve this disciplinary problem. What do you suggest we do with Antonio here?"
Burke eyed him closely. "Isn't the answer obvious?" he said. "If this man broke once under pressure, the odds are that he will break again. We can't afford that. TOCSIN is already risky enough. Just finish him and dump the body where it won't be found for a few weeks."
The driver moaned softly behind his gag. His shoulders slumped.
Terce nodded. "Your reasoning is impeccable, Mr. Burke." His green eyes were amused. "But since it is your reasoning and your verdict, I think you should carry out the sentence yourself." He offered the CIA officer a long-bladed fighting knife, pommel first.
This was a test, Burke realized angrily. The big man wanted to see how far he would go in binding himself to the dirty work he ordered. Well, riding herd on a group of black ops mercenaries was never easy, and he had killed men before to prove himself on other operations - murders he had carefully concealed from his deskbound superiors. Hiding his distaste, the CIA officer shrugged out of his jacket and hung it over one of the ski clamps. Then he rolled up his shirtsleeves and took the dagger.
Without pausing for further reflection, Burke stepped behind the stool, yanked the bound driver's head back,