ops-trained mercenaries kicking around idle these days. These people could have been ex-Stasi from the old East Germany, or ex-KGB or Spetsnaz-types from Russia. Or they might be from other commando units in the old Warsaw Pact, the Balkans, or the Middle East."
He shrugged. "The real kicker is Smith's claim that none of the nan-otechnology being developed at the Institute could have killed those protesters. If he's right, then Hanson's theory goes right out the window. Of course, so does every other reasonable alternative."
The president sat staring into the empty fireplace for a long moment. Then he shook himself and growled, "It feels a bit too damned convenient, Fred, especially when you consider what Hideo Nomura just told me. I just don't like the way both the CIA and the FBI are zeroing in on one particular theory of what took place in Santa Fe, to the exclusion of every other possibility."
"That's understandable," Klein said. He tapped the NSC transcript. "And I'll admit I have the same qualms. The worst sin in intelligence analysis comes when you start pounding square facts into round holes just to fit a favorite hypothesis. Well, when I read this, I can hear both the Bureau and the Agency banging away on pegs - whatever their shape."
The president nodded slowly. "That's exactly the problem." He looked across the shadowed room at Klein. "You're familiar with the A-Team/ B-Team approach to analysis, aren't you?"
The head of Covert-One shot him a lopsided grin. "I'd better be. After all, that's one of the justifications for my whole outfit." He shrugged. "Back in 1976, the then-DCI, George Bush Sr., later one of your illustrious predecessors, wasn't completely satisfied with the in-house CIA analysis of Soviet intentions he was getting. So he commissioned an outside group - the B-Team - made up of sharp-eyed academics, retired generals, and outside Soviet experts to conduct its own independent study of the same questions."
"That's right," Castilla said. "Well, starting right now, I want you to
form your very own B-Team to sort through this mess, Fred. Don't get in the way of the CIA or the FBI unless you have to, but I want somebody I can trust implicitly checking the shape of those pegs they're hammering."
Klein nodded slowly. "That can be arranged." He tapped the unlit pipe on his knee for a few seconds, thinking. Then he looked up. "Colonel Smith is the obvious candidate. He's already on the scene and he knows a great deal about nanotechnology."
"Good." Castilla nodded. "Brief him now, Fred. Figure out what authorizations he'll need to do this, and I'll make sure they land on the right desks first thing in the morning."
Chapter Thirteen
In the Cerrillos Hills, Southwest of Santa Fe
An old, often-dented red Honda Civic drove south along County Road 57, trailing a long cloud of dust. Unbroken darkness stretched for miles in every direction. Only a faint glow cast by the sliver of the moon lit the rugged hills and steep-sided gulches and arroyos east of the unpaved dirt-and-gravel road. Inside the cramped, junk-filled car, Andrew Costanzo sat hunched over the steering wheel. He glanced down at the odometer periodically, lips moving as he tried to figure out just how far he had come since leaving Interstate 25. The instructions he had been given were precise.
Few people who knew him would have recognized the strange look of mingled exhilaration and dread on his pallid, fleshy face.
Ordinarily, Costanzo seethed with frustration and accumulated resentments. He was plump, forty-one years old, unmarried, and trapped in a society that did not value either his intellect or his ideals. He had worked
hard to earn an advanced degree in environmental law and American consumerism. His doctorate should have opened doors for him into the academic elite. For years he had dreamed of working for a Washington, D.C.-based think tank, single-handedly drafting the blueprints for essential social and environmental reforms. Instead he was just a part-time clerk in a chain bookstore, a crummy dead-end job that barely paid his share of the rent on a shabby, run-down ranch house in one of Albuquerque's poorest neighborhoods.
But Costanzo had other work, secret work, and it was the only part of his otherwise miserable life he found meaningful. He licked his lips nervously. Being asked to join the inner circles of the Lazarus Movement was a great honor, but it also carried serious risks. Watching the news this afternoon had made that even clearer. If his superiors in the Movement had not given him