Free Covert One 5 - The Lazarus Vendetta by Robert Ludlum Page A

canister began releasing its highly
compressed and deadly contents into the outside world.
    ■
    The cloud of Stage II nanophages drifted silently and invisibly through the
shattered window. There were tens of billions of them, each still inert—each
still waiting for the signal that would bring it to life. Pushed outward by the
Harcourt lab's own air pressure system, the vast mass of microscopic phages
gradually dispersed and then slowly, ever so slowly, slid downward through the
air.
    Still spreading, this unseen mist settled onto the thousands of stunned
Lazarus Movement protesters watching in horror as explosions ripped through the
upper floor of the Teller Institute. Millions of nanophages were drawn with
each breath and carried down into their lungs. Millions more entered through
the porous membranes of their noses or filtered through the soft tissues around
their eyes.
    For several seconds these nanophages stayed inactive, spreading outward
through blood vessels and cell walls by natural processes. But one out of every
hundred thousand or so, larger and of a more sophisticated design than its
companions, went active immediately. These control phages prowled the host body
under their own power, hunting for one of the various biochemical signatures
that their sensor arrays were able to
    recognize. Any positive reading triggered the
immediate release of coded streams of unique messenger molecules.
    The nanophages themselves, still floating silently through the body, carried
only a single sensor of their own, a sensor able to detect those coded
molecules, even when they were diluted to the level of a few parts per billion.
Its creators coldly referred to this aspect of their nanophage design as the
“shark receptor,” since it mimicked the uncanny ability of great
white sharks to sniff out even the tiniest drop of blood drifting amid the vast
depths of the sea. But the comparison was cruelly apt in yet another way. Each
nanophage reacted to this faint whiff of the messenger molecule exactly as
though it were a shark scenting fresh blood in the water.
    ■
    Trapped in the middle of the mob, the lean, weather-beaten man was the first
to recognize the true horror descending on them. Like all the rest, he had stopped
chanting and now stood in grim silence, watching the bombs going off one after
another. Most were detonating on the Teller Institute's north and west
sides—sending huge pillars of flame and debris soaring high into the air. But
Malachi could also hear other, smaller charges exploding deep inside the
massive building.
    The woman pressed next to him, a young hard-faced blonde wearing a surplus
army-issue jacket with the sleeves rolled up, suddenly groaned. She fell to her
knees and began retching, quietly at first and then uncontrollably. MacNamara
glanced down at her, noting the needle tracks scarring her arms. Those higher
up were livid, still raw.
    A heroin addict, he realized, feeling a mixture of pity and disgust. Probably lured to the Lazarus Movement rally by the promise of
thrills and the chance to take part in something bigger and more important than
her drab everyday life. Was the young fool overdosing here and now? He
sighed and knelt down to see if there was anything he could do to help her.
    Then he saw the grotesque web of red-rimmed fissures spreading
    swiftly across her terrified face and her
needle-scarred arms, and he knew that this was something infinitely more
terrible. She moaned again, sounding more like an animal than a human being. The
fissures widened. Her skin was sloughing away, rapidly dissolving into a kind
of translucent slime.
    To his own horror, MacNamara saw that the connective tissues beneath her
skin —the muscles, tendons, and ligaments—were dissolving, too. Her eyes
liquefied and slid dripping out of their sockets. Bright red blood welled up
within those terrible wounds. Beneath the mask of blood that was now her face
he could see the pale white of bone.
    Blind now, the