before noon when Smith left the Santa Fe police department and walked out onto the Camino Entrada. His eyes flickered briefly to the left and right, checking the street in both directions, but otherwise he revealed no great interest in his surroundings. Instead, still apparently deep in thought, he climbed into his rented dark gray Mustang coupe and drove away. A few quick turns on surface streets led him into the crowded parking lot surrounding the city's indoor shopping center, the Villa Linda Mall. Once there, he threaded through several rows of parked cars, acting as though he was simply looking for an open space. Finally, he drove away from the mall, crossed the encircling Wagon Road, and parked under the shade of some trees growing next to a shallow ravine marked on his map as the Arroyo de las Chamisos.
Two minutes later, another car, this one a white four-door Buick, turned in right behind him. Peter Howell got out and stretched while
carefully checking the environment. Satisfied that they were unobserved, he sauntered up, pulled open the Mustang's passenger-side door, and then slid into the bucket seat next to Smith.
In the hours since they had met for breakfast, the Englishman had found time to have his hair cut fashionably short. He had also changed his clothes, abandoning the faded denims and heavy flannel shirt he had worn as Malachi MacNamara in favor of a pair of khaki slacks, a solid blue button-down shirt, and a herringbone sports coat. The fiery Lazarus Movement fanatic was gone, replaced by a lean, sun-browned British expatriate apparently out for an afternoon's shopping.
"Spot anything?" Jon asked him.
Peter shook his head. "Not so much as a suspiciously turned head. You're clean."
Smith relaxed slightly. The other man had been operating as his distant cover, hanging back while he went into the police headquarters and then keeping an eye on his tail to spot anyone following him when he came out.
"Were you able to learn anything yourself?" Peter asked. "Or did your pointed questions fall on stony ground?"
"Oh, I learned a fair amount," Jon said grimly. "Maybe even more than I bargained for."
Peter raised an inquiring eyebrow but otherwise stayed quiet, listening carefully while Smith filled him in on what he had learned. When he heard that Dolan's body had been cremated, he shook his head, sourly amused. "Well, well, well . . . ashes to ashes and dust to dust. And no fingerprints or inconvenient dental impressions left for anyone to match up with any embarrassing personnel files. I suppose no matter how thoroughly the CIA and FBI databases were scrubbed, somebody, somewhere, would have been bound to recognize the fellow."
"Yep." Jon's fingers drummed on the steering wheel of his car. "Nifty, isn't it?"
"It does raise a number of intriguing questions," Peter agreed. He
ticked them off on his own fingers. "Who are these secret operations lads like the late and unlamented Michael Dolan really working for? The Lazarus Movement, as they seem to be on the surface? Or some other organization, sub rosa? Perhaps even your very own CIA? All very confusing, wouldn't you say?"
"One thing's certain," Smith told him. "Kit Pierson must be in this mess up to her neck. She probably has the authority to take over the Plaza crime scene. But there's no way she can justify cremating Dolan's body, not under standard FBI practice and procedure."
"Could she be doubling for Lazarus?" Peter asked quietly. "Working to sabotage the FBI's investigation from within?"
"Kit Pierson as a Lazarus mole?" Jon shook his head firmly. "I can't see it. If anything, she's been pushing far too hard to blame everything that happened at the Institute on the Movement."
Peter nodded. "True. So if she's not working for Lazarus, she must be working against them - which suggests she's covering for an off-the-books anti-Movement operation run by the FBI, or the CIA, or both."
Smith looked at him. "You think they're really running an operation that sensitive without the president's approval?"
Peter shrugged. "It happens, Jon, as you well know." He smiled drilv. "Remember poor old Henry the Second? He gets a bit pissed one night and roars out, 'Will no one rid me of this turbulent priest?' Then, practically before he can sober up, there's blood spilled all over the floor of Canterbury Cathedral. Thomas Becket's suddenly a sainted martyr. And the sad, sorry, hung-over king is down for a round of scourging, hair shirts, and public penitence."
Smith nodded slowly. "Yeah, I know. Intelligence outfits sometimes exceed their authority.