strict orders to stay home, he would have been at the Teller rally. He would have been one of the thousands slaughtered so viciously by the corporate death machines.
For an instant, he felt a deep-seated rage boiling up inside him, overwhelming even the everyday petty grudges he usually savored. His hands tightened on the wheel. The Civic swerved to the right, nearly running off the rough road and into the shoulder of soft sand and dead brush banked up on that side.
Sweating now, Costanzo breathed out. Pay attention to what you're doing now, he told himself sharply. The Movement would take vengeance on its enemies in good time.
The Honda's odometer clicked through another mile. He was close to the rendezvous point. He slowed down and leaned forward, staring through the windshield at the heights looming on his left. There it was!
Setting the Civic's turn signal blinking out of habit, Costanzo swung on the county road and drove cautiously into the mouth of a small canyon snaking deeper into the Cerrillos Hills. The Honda's tires crunched across a wash of small stones carried down by periodic flash floods. Tiny
clumps of stunted trees and sagebrush clung precariously to the arroyo's sheer slopes.
A quarter-mile off the road, the canyon twisted north. Narrower gulches fed into the arroyo at this place, winding in from several directions. There were more withered trees here, springing up between weathered boulders and low mounds of loose gravel. Steep rock walls soared high on either side - striped with alternating layers of buff-colored sandstone and red mudstone.
Costanzo turned off the ignition. The air was silent and perfectly still. Was he too early? Or too late? The orders he had been given had stressed the importance of promptness. He drew his shirtsleeve across his forehead, mopping away the droplets of sweat that were stinging his shadowed, bloodshot eyes.
He scrambled out of the Honda, dragging a small suitcase with him. He stood awkwardly, waiting, not sure of what he should do next.
Headlights suddenly speared out from one of the narrow side canyons. Surprised, Costanzo swung toward the lights, shading his eyes in a desperate attempt to see through the blinding glare. He couldn't make out anything but the vague outline of a large vehicle and two or three shapes that might be men standing beside it.
"Put the bag down," a voice ordered loudly, speaking through a bullhorn. "Then step away from your car. And keep your hands where we can see them!"
Shaking now, Costanzo obeyed. He walked forward stiffly, feeling sick to his stomach. He stuck his hands high in the air, with their palms out. "Who are you?" he asked plaintively.
"Federal agents, Mr. Costanzo," the voice said more quietly, without the bullhorn now.
"But I haven't done anything wrong! I haven't broken any laws!" he said, hearing the shrill quaver in his voice and hating it for revealing his fear so plainly.
"No?" the voice suggested. "Aiding and abetting a terrorist organization is a crime, Andrew. A serious crime. Didn't you realize that?"
Costanzo licked his lips again. He could feel his heart pounding wildly. The sweat stains under his arms were spreading.
"Three weeks ago, a man fitting your description ordered two Ford Excursions from two separate auto dealers in Albuquerque. Two black Ford SUVs. He paid for them in cash. Cash, Andrew," the voice said. "Care to tell me how someone like you had nearly one hundred thousand dollars in spare cash lying around?"
"It wasn't me," he protested.
"The car salesmen involved can identify you, Andrew," the voice reminded him. "All cash transactions of more than ten thousand dollars have to be reported to the federal government. Didn't you know that?"
Dumbfounded, Costanzo stood with his mouth hanging open. He should have remembered that, he realized dully. The cash-reporting requirement was part of the nation's drug laws, but really it was just another way for Washington to monitor and squelch potential dissent. Somehow, in all the excitement of being given a special mission for the Lazarus Movement, he had forgotten about it. How could he have been so blind? So stupid? His knees shook.
One of the shapes moved forward slowly, taking on the firmer outline of a remarkably tall and powerfully built man. "Face the facts, Mr. Costanzo," he said patiently. "You were set up."
The Lazarus Movement activist stood miserably rooted in one place. That was true, he thought bleakly. He had been betrayed. Why should he be so surprised? It had happened to him all of his life - first at home, then