CENTRAL ASIAN FEDERATION
6:50 A.M.
VINCENTI STEPPED FROM THE HELICOPTER. THE TRIP FROM Samarkand had taken about an hour. Though there were new highways leading east all the way to the Fergana Valley, his estate lay farther south, in the old Tajikistan-and air travel remained the fastest and safest route.
He’d chosen his land with care, high in cloud-girdled mountains. No one had questioned the purchase, not even Zovastina. He’d explained only that he was tired of the flat, muddy, Venetian terrain, so he bought two hundred acres of forested valley and rocky Pamir highlands. This would be his world. Where he could not be seen nor heard, surrounded by servants, at a commanding height, amid scenery once wild but now shorn and shaven with touches of Italy, Byzantium, and China.
He’d christened the estate Attico, and noticed on the flight in that the main entrance now was crowned by an elaborate stone arch containing the label. He also noticed more scaffolding had been erected around the house, the exterior rapidly moving toward completion. Construction had been slow but constant, and he’d be glad when the walls stood totally finished.
He escaped the whirling blades and passed through a garden he’d taught to bloom upon a mountain slope so the estate would bristle with hints of the English countryside.
Peter O’Conner waited on the uneven stones of the rear terrace.
“Everything okay?” he asked his employee.
O’Conner nodded. “No problems here.”
He lingered outside, catching his breath. Storm clouds wreathed the distant eastern peaks into China. Crows patrolled the valley. He’d carefully orientated his castle in the air to maximize the spectacular view. So different from Venice. No uncomfortable miasma. Only crystalline air. He’d been told that the Asian spring had been unusually warm and dry and he was grateful for the respite.
“What about Zovastina?” he asked.
“She’s leaving Italy, as we speak, with another woman. Dark-skinned, attractive, provided the name Cassiopeia Vitt to Customs.”
He waited, knowing O’Conner had been thorough.
“Vitt lives in southern France. Is presently financing the reconstruction of a medieval castle. A big project. Expensive. Her father owned several Spanish manufacturing concerns. Huge conglomerates. She inherited it all.”
“What about her? The person.”
“Muslim, but not devout. Highly educated. Engineering and history degrees. Unmarried. Thirty-eight years old. That’s about all I could get on short notice. You want more?”
He shook his head. “Not now. Any clue what’s she doing with Zovastina?”
“My people didn’t know. Zovastina left the basilica with her and went straight to the airport.”
“She on her way back here?”
O’Conner nodded. “Should arrive in another four to five hours.”
He saw there was more.
“Our men who went after Nelle. One was taken down by a rooftop sniper. The other escaped. Seems Nelle was prepared for us.”
He did not like the sound of that. But that problem would have to wait. He’d already leaped from the cliff. Too late to climb back now.
He entered the house.
A year ago he’d finished decorating, having spent millions on paintings, wall coverings, lacquered furniture, and objets d’art. But he’d insisted that comfort not be sacrificed for magnificence, so he’d included a theater, cozy parlors, private bedrooms, baths, and the garden. Unfortunately, he’d only been able to enjoy a precious few weeks here, staffing it with locals O’Conner personally vetted. Soon, though, Attico would become his personal refuge, a place of high living and plain thinking, and he’d provided for that eventuality by installing sophisticated alarms, state-of-the-art communications equipment, and an intricate network of concealed passages.
He passed through the ground-floor rooms, which flowed into one another in the French style, every corner of which seemed as cool and shadowy as the spring twilight. A fine atrium in the classical vein accommodated a winding marble staircase to the second floor.
He climbed.
Frescoes representing the march of the liberal sciences loomed overhead. This part of the house reminded him of Venice’s best, though the towering mullion windows framed mountain landscapes instead of the Grand Canal. His destination was the closed door to his left, just beyond the top of the staircase, one of several spacious guest rooms.
He quietly entered.
Karyn Walde lay still on the bed.
O’Conner had brought her and the nurse from Samarkand in another helicopter. Her right arm was once again connected to an intravenous drip. He stepped close and gripped one of the syringes resting on a stainless-steel table. He injected the contents into one of the ports. A few seconds later the stimulant forced Walde’s eyes open. In Samarkand, he’d sent her into unconsciousness. Now he needed her alert.
“Come around,” he said. “Wake up.”
She blinked and he saw her pupils focus.
Then she closed them again.
He grabbed a pitcher of ice water from the night stand and doused her face.
She sprang awake, spewing mist, shaking the water from her eyes.
“You son of a bitch,” she blurted out, pushing herself up.
“I told you to wake up.”
She was not restrained. No need. Her gaze raked her surroundings. “Where am I?”
“You like it? It’s just as elegant as you’re accustomed to.”
She noticed the sunlight streaming in through the windows and the open terrace doors. “How long have I been out?”
“Quite a while. It’s morning.”
Disorientation reappeared as she comprehended reality. “What’s going on?”
“I want to read you something. Will you indulge me?”
“Do I have a choice?”
Her wits had returned.
“Not really. But I think the time will be worth it.”
I was suspicious of Clinical Trial W12-23 from the start. Initially, Vincenti assigned only himself and me to its supervision. That was strange since rarely does Vincenti personally involve himself with such things, especially on a trial with only twelve participants, which was another reason why I became suspicious. Most of the trials we conduct have upwards of a hundred to (on at least one occasion) a thousand or more participants. A sample of only twelve patients would not ordinarily reveal anything about the effectiveness of any substance, particularly given the all-important criterion of toxicity, the danger being that the conclusions could be simply random.
When I expressed these concerns to Vincenti, he explained that toxicity was not the goal of this trial. Which again seemed strange. I asked about the agent being tested and Vincenti said it was something he personally developed, curious to see if his laboratory results could be duplicated in humans. I was aware Vincenti worked on projects regarded as internally classified (meaning only certain people were allowed data access) but, in the past, I was always one of those granted access. On this trial, Vincenti made it clear that only he was to handle the testing substance, known as Zeta Eta.
Using specific parameters Vincenti provided, I secured a dozen volunteers from various health clinics throughout the country. Not an easy task since HIV is a subject Iraqis do not openly discuss and the disease is rare. Eventually, after money was offered, subjects were found. Three in the early stages of HIV infection came with white cell counts approaching one thousand and only a tiny percentage of virus. None of these people displayed any outward symptoms of AIDS. Five others had progressed from HIV to AIDS, their bloodstreams full of virus, white cell counts low, each already encountering a wide range of specific symptoms. Four more were well on their way to death, white cell counts below two hundred, a variety of secondary infections already clear, the end only a matter of time.
Once a day I traveled to the clinic in Baghdad and administered intravenous doses at levels specified by Vincenti. At the same time, I obtained blood and tissue samples. From the first injection all twelve showed marked improvement. White cell counts dramatically rose and, with a reemergence of their immune system, secondary infections dissipated as their bodies started to ward off the various diseases. Some, like the cancerous Kaposi outbreaks five of the twelve developed, were beyond a cure, but infections the immune system could effectively handle started to diminish by the beginning of the second day.
By the third day the immune systems in all twelve had reemerged. White cells regenerated. Counts rose. Appetites returned. Weight was gained. HIV viral load dropped to nearly zero. If the injections had continued there was little doubt they would have all been cured, at least of HIV and AIDS. But the injections were stopped. On the fourth day, after Vincenti became convinced the substance worked, he changed the injection solution to saline. All twelve patients quickly relapsed. Their T-cell counts bottomed and HIV regained control. What exactly the testing substance was remains a mystery. The few chemical tests I ran revealed only a slightly alkaline, water-based compound. More out of curiosity than anything else, I microscopically examined a sample and was shocked to discover living organisms in the solution.
He noted that Karyn Walde was listening closely. “This is a report from a man who once worked under me. He wanted to file it with my superiors. Of course, he never did. I paid to have him killed. In Iraq, during the nineteen-eighties, when Saddam ruled supreme, that was fairly easy to do.”
“And why did you kill him?”
“He was nosy. Paying way too much attention to something that did not concern him.”
“That isn’t an answer. Why did he need to die?”
He held up a syringe filled with a clear liquid.
“More of your sleep drug?” she asked.
“No. It’s actually your greatest desire. What you told me in Samarkand you wanted more than anything.”
He paused.
“Life.”
VENICE
2:55 A.M.
MALONE SHOOK HIS HEAD. “ELY LUND IS ALIVE?”
“We don’t know,” Edwin Davis said. “But we’ve suspected Zovastina was being schooled by somebody. Yesterday we learned that Lund was her initial source of information-Henrik told us about him-and the circumstances of his death are certainly suspect.”
“Why does Cassiopeia believe he’s dead?”
“Because she had to believe that,” Thorvaldsen said. “There was no way to prove otherwise. But I suspect a part of her has doubted whether his death was real.”
“Henrik thinks, and I have to agree with him,” Stephanie said, “that Zovastina will try and use the link between Ely and Cassiopeia to her advantage. All of what happened here has to be a shock for her, and paranoia is one of her occupational hazards. Cassiopeia can play off that.”
“This woman is planning a war. She’s not going to worry about Cassiopeia. She needed her to get to the airport. After that, Cassiopeia is nothing but baggage. This is crazy.”
“Cotton,” Stephanie said. “There’s more.”
He waited.
“Naomi’s dead.”
He ran a hand through his hair. “I’m sick and tired of friends dying.”
“I want Enrico Vincenti,” she said.
So did he.
He started thinking like a field agent again, fighting hard the desire for quick revenge. “You said there’s something in the treasury. Okay. Show me.”
ZOVASTINA WATCHED THE WOMAN SITTING ACROSS FROM HER IN the jet’s luxury cabin. A personality of courage, no doubt. And like the prisoner from the laboratory in China, this beauty knew fear, yet unlike that weak soul, she also knew how to control it.
They’d not spoken since leaving the basilica, and she’d used the time to gauge her hostage. She was still unsure if the woman’s presence was planned or happenstance. Too much happened too fast.
And the bones.
She’d been certain there’d be something to find, sure enough to risk the journey. Everything had pointed to success. But over two thousand years had passed. Thorvaldsen may have been right. What realistically could remain?
“Why were you in the basilica?” she asked.
“Did you bring me along to chitchat?”
“I brought you to find out what you know.”
This woman reminded her too much of Karyn. That damnable self-confidence, worn like a badge. And a peculiar expression of wariness, which strangely kept Zovastina both interested and off balance.
“Your clothes. Your hair. You look like you’ve been swimming.”
“Your guardsman shoved me into the lagoon.”
That was news. “My guardsman?”
“Viktor. He didn’t tell you? I killed his partner in the museum on Torcello. I wanted to kill him, too.”
“That could prove a challenge.”
“I don’t think so.” The voice was cold, acid, and superior.
“You knew Ely Lund?”
Vitt said nothing.
“You think I killed him?”
“I know you did. He told you about Ptolemy’s riddle. He taught you about Alexander and how the body in the Soma was never Alexander’s. He connected that body to the theft of St. Mark by the Venetians and that’s how you knew to go to Venice. You killed him to make sure he told no one else. Yet he did tell someone. Me.”
“And you told Henrik Thorvaldsen.”
“Among others.”
That was a problem, and Zovastina wondered if there was any connection between this woman and the failed assassination attempt. And Vincenti? Henrik Thorvaldsen was certainly the kind of man who could be a member of the Venetian League. But since the membership roster was highly confidential she had no way of confirming his status. “Ely never mentioned you.”
“He mentioned you.”
This woman was indeed like Karyn. Same haunting allure and frank manner. Defiance attracted Zovastina. Something that took patience and determination to tame.
But it could be done.
“What if Ely isn’t dead?”
VENICE
MALONE FOLLOWED THE OTHERS INTO THE BASILICA’S SOUTH transept, stopping at a dimly lit doorway surmounted by an elaborate Moorish-style arch. Thorvaldsen produced a key and opened the bronze doors.
Inside, a vaulted vestibule led into a sanctuary. To the left, wall niches held icons and reliquaries. To the right was the treasury, where more fragile and precious symbols of a vanished republic rested against the walls or lay gathered in showcases.
“Most of this came from Constantinople,” Thorvaldsen said, “when Venice sacked the city in 1204. But restorations, fires, and robberies have taken their toll. When the Venetian republic fell, much of the collection was melted down for its gold, silver, and precious stones. Only two hundred and eighty-three items managed to survive.”
Malone admired the shiny chalices, reliquaries, caskets, crosses, bowls, and icons, fashioned of rock, wood, crystal, glass, silver, or gold. He also noticed amphorae, ampullae, manuscript covers, and elaborate incense burners, each an ancient trophy from Egypt, Rome, or Byzantium.
“Quite a collection,” he said.
“One of the finest on the planet,” Thorvaldsen declared.
“What are we looking for?”
Stephanie pointed. “Michener said it was over here.”
They approached a glass case that exhibited a sword, a bishop’s crozier, a few hexagonal bowls, and several gilt relic boxes. Thorvaldsen used another of the keys and unlocked the case. He then hinged open one of the relic boxes. “They keep it in here. Out of sight.”
Malone recognized the object lying inside. “A scarab.”
During the mummification process, Egyptian embalmers routinely adorned the purified body with hundreds of amulets. Many were simply for decoration, others were positioned to strengthen dead limbs. The one he was staring at was named for the insect that adorned the top-Scarabæidæ-a dung beetle. He’d always thought the association odd, but ancient Egyptians had noticed how the bugs seemed to spring from the dung, so they identified the insect with Chepera, the creator of all things, father of the gods, who made himself out of the matter he produced.
“This one’s a heart amulet,” he said.
Stephanie nodded. “That’s what Michener said.”
He knew that all bodily organs were removed during mummification, save for the heart. A scarab was always laid atop the heart to symbolize everlasting life. This one was typical. Made of stone. Green. Probably carnelian. But one thing he noticed. “No gold. Usually they were either made of or decorated with it.”
“Which is probably how it survived,” Thorvaldsen said. “History notes that the Soma, in Alexandria, was raided by the later Ptolemies. All of the gold was stripped away, the golden sarcophagus melted down, everything of value taken. That chunk of rock would have meant nothing to them.”
Malone reached down and lifted the amulet. Maybe four inches long by two inches wide. “It’s larger than normal. These things are usually about half this size.”
“You know a lot about them,” Davis said.
Stephanie grinned. “The man reads. After all, he is a bookseller.”
Malone smiled but continued to admire the amulet and noticed, in the beetle’s wings, three carved hieroglyphs.
“What are they?” he asked.
“Michener said they mean life, stability, and protection,” Thorvaldsen answered.
He turned the amulet over. The bottom was dominated by the image of a bird.
Thorvaldsen said, “This was found with the bones of St. Mark when they were removed from the crypt, in 1835, and brought up to the altar. St. Mark was martyred in Alexandria and mummified, so it was thought this amulet was simply part of that process. But since it has pagan overtones, the Church fathers decided not to include it with the remains. They recognized its historical value, though, and placed it here, in the treasury. When the Church learned of Zovastina’s interest in St. Mark, the amulet took on a greater importance. But when Daniels told me about it, I recalled what Ptolemy said.”
So did he.
Touch the innermost being of the golden illusion.
Pieces clicked into place. “The golden illusion was the body itself in Memphis, since it was wrapped in gold. The innermost being? The heart.” He held up the amulet. “This.”
“Which means,” Davis said, “that the remains out there in the basilica are not St. Mark.”
Malone nodded. “They’re something else entirely. Something that has nothing to do with Christianity.”
Thorvaldsen pointed to the bottom side. “That’s the Egyptian hieroglyph for the phoenix, the symbol of rebirth.”
More of the riddle flashed through his brain.
Divide the phoenix.
And he knew exactly what to do.
CASSIOPEIA REALIZED SHE WAS BEING PLAYED BY ZOVASTINA’S question. What if Ely isn’t dead? So she controlled her emotions and calmly said, “But he is dead, and has been for months.”
“You’re sure?”
Cassiopeia had many times wondered-how could she not?-but she fought the pain of wishing and declared, “Ely’s dead.”
Zovastina reached for a phone and pushed one of the keys. A few seconds passed, then she said into the unit, “Viktor, I need you to tell someone about what happened the night Ely Lund died.”
Zovastina offered her the phone.
Cassiopeia did not move. She recalled what he’d said on the boat. Which was nothing.
“Can you afford not to listen to what he has to say?” Zovastina asked, a nauseating look of satisfaction in her dark eyes.
This woman knew her weakness, and somehow that realization frightened Cassiopeia more than what Viktor might say. She wanted to know. The past few months had been torment. Yet…
“Shove that phone up your ass.”
Zovastina hesitated, then smiled. Finally, she said into the unit, “Maybe later, Viktor. You can let the priest go now.”
She clicked off.
The plane continued to climb into the clouds, heading east for Asia.
“Viktor was watching Ely’s house. On my orders.”
Cassiopeia didn’t want to listen.
“He entered from the rear. Ely was bound to a chair and the assassin was preparing to shoot him. Viktor shot the assassin first, then brought Ely to me and burned the house with the killer inside.”
“You can’t expect me to believe that.”
“There are people within my government who would like to see me gone. Unfortunately, treachery is part of our political way. They fear me and knew Ely was assisting me. So they ordered him killed, just as they’d ordered others, who were my allies, eliminated.”
Cassiopeia remained skeptical.
“Ely is HIV positive.”
That truth arrested Cassiopeia’s attention. “How do you know?”
“He told me. I’ve been supplying him with his medications these past two months. Unlike you, he trusts me.”
Cassiopeia knew that Ely would have never told anyone that he was infected. Only Henrik and Ely knew about her malady.
Now she was confused.
But she wondered.
Had that been the whole idea?
MALONE CARESSED THE SMOOTH PATINA OF THE HEART AMULET, his fingers tracing the outline of the bird that represented the Egyptian phoenix. “Ptolemy said to divide the phoenix.”
He shook the artifact, listening.
Nothing moved inside.
Thorvaldsen seemed to understand what he was about to do. “That thing is over two thousand years old.”
Malone could not care less. Cassiopeia was in trouble and the world may soon be experiencing a biological war. Ptolemy had penned a riddle that obviously led to where Alexander the Great had wanted to be entombed. The Greek warrior-turned-pharaoh apparently had been privy to good information. And if he said divide the phoenix, then Malone was damn well going to do it.
He pounded the amulet, bottom-side first, into the marble floor.
It recoiled and about a third of the scarab broke away, like a nut cracking. He settled the pieces on the floor and examined them.
Something spilled out from the sides.
The others knelt with him.
He pointed and said, “The inside was cleaved, ready to split, and packed with sand.”
He lifted the larger chunk and emptied the granules.
Edwin Davis pointed. “Look.”
Malone saw it, too. He gently brushed the sand aside and spotted a cylindrical object, maybe a half inch in diameter. Then he noticed that it wasn’t a cylinder at all.
A strip of gold.
Coiled.
He carefully tipped the tiny bundle onto its side and spotted random letters etched into one side.
“Greek,” he said.
Stephanie bent down closer. “And look how thin that foil is. Like leaf.”
“What is it?” Davis asked.
Malone’s mind starting clicking the final pieces into place. The next part of Ptolemy’s riddle now became important. Life provides the measure of the grave. Be wary, for there is but one chance of success. He reached into his pocket and found the medallion Stephanie had shown him. “Concealed on this are microletters. ZH. And we know Ptolemy minted these medallions, when he created the riddle.”
He noticed a tiny symbol-
– on one side and instantly knew the connection. “That same symbol was on the manuscript you showed me. At the bottom, below the riddle.” He saw the wording clearly in his mind. Life provides the measure of the true grave.
“How do the elephant medallions and that strip of gold connect to each other?” Davis asked.
“To know that,” Malone said, “you have to know what that strip is.”
He saw that Stephanie was reading him.
“And you do?” she asked.
He nodded. “I know exactly what this is.”
VIKTOR CUT THE THROTTLE AND ALLOWED THE BOAT TO DRIFT back toward the quay at San Marco. He’d taken Michener from the basilica, straight to where he’d docked, thinking the safest place to wait for Zovastina’s departure was on water. There he’d stayed, staring at the floodlit domes and pinnacles, the pink-and-white doge’s palace, the campanile, and rows of antique buildings, solid and high, dotted with balconies and windows, all matted by the black yawn of night. He’d be glad when he was gone from Italy.
Nothing here had gone right.
“It’s time you and I had a talk,” Michener said.
He’d kept the priest in the boat’s forward cabin, alone, while he waited for Zovastina’s call, and Michener had sat casually and stayed silent.
“What could we have to talk about?”
“Perhaps the fact that you’re an American spy.”
CENTRAL ASIAN FEDERATION
VINCENTI ALLOWED KARYN WALDE TIME TO DIGEST WHAT HE’D said. He remembered the moment when he first realized that he’d discovered the cure for HIV.
“I told you about the old man in the mountains-”
“Is that where you found it?” she asked, anticipation in her voice.
“I think refound would be more accurate.”
He’d never spoken of this to anyone. How could he have? So he found himself eager to explain. “It’s ironic how the simplest things can solve the most complex problems. In the early 1900s, beriberi flourished all over China, killing hundreds of thousands. You know why? To make the rice more marketable, merchants started polishing the kernels, which removed thiamine-vitamin B1-from the hull. Without thiamine in their diet, beriberi passed unchecked through the population. When the polishing stopped, the thiamine took care of the disease.
“The bark from the Pacific yew tree is an effective cancer treatment. It’s no cure, but it can slow down the disease. Simple bread mold led to highly effective antibiotics that kill bacterial infections. And something as basic as a high-fat, ketogenic diet can actually arrest epilepsy in some children. Simple stuff. I found that same principle true for AIDS.”
“What was it in that plant you chewed that worked?” she asked.
“Not it. They.”
He saw her fear subside, as what might have been a threat was rapidly changing into salvation.
“Thirty years ago, we spotted a virus in the bloodstream of green monkeys. Our knowledge of viruses at the time was rudimentary, considering what we know now. We actually thought it a form of rabies, but the shape, size, and biology of the organism was different.
“It eventually was labeled simian immunodeficiency virus-SIV. We now know SIV can live in monkeys indefinitely without harming the animal. We first thought the monkeys had some kind of resistance, but we later learned the resistance came from the virus, which chemically realized that it couldn’t ravage every biological organism it contacted. The virus learned to exist within the monkeys, without the monkeys knowing they even carried it.”
“I’ve heard this,” she said. “And the AIDS epidemic started with a monkey bite.”
He shrugged. “Who knows? Could have been a bite or a scratch, could have been ingested. Monkeys are a regular part of many diets. No matter how it happened, the virus left monkeys and found humans. I saw this firsthand with a man named Charlie Easton, where the virus changed inside him from SIV to HIV.”
He told her more about what happened decades ago, not all that far from where he stood, when Easton died.
“HIV harbored no parental instinct for humans, the way SIV did for monkeys. It went to work, quickly cloning cells in lymph nodes into duplicates of itself. Charlie was dead in a matter of weeks.
“But he wasn’t the first. The first case that can be definitively diagnosed was a man from England. In 1959. A frozen serum sample tested in the early nineteen-nineties showed HIV in his blood, and medical records confirmed the symptoms of AIDS. Most likely SIV and HIV have both been around for centuries. People dying in isolated villages, nobody noticing. Secondary infections like pneumonia actually killed the people, so doctors routinely mistook AIDS for other things. Originally, in the United States, it was labeled ‘the gay pneumonia.’ The best guess now is that in the nineteen-fifties and-sixties, when Africa started to modernize and people began congregating in cities, the disease spread. Eventually, an outsider carried the virus off the continent. By the nineteen-eighties, HIV had made it across the globe.”
“One of your natural biological weapons made good.”
“We actually thought it lousy for that purpose. Too hard to contract, too long to kill. Which isn’t bad. Any easier and we’d have a modern-day black death.”
“We do,” she said. “It’s just not killing the right people yet.”
He knew what she meant. Presently, there were two main strains. HIV-1, prevalent in Africa, while HIV-2 remained strong within intravenous drug users and homosexuals. Lately, new variant strains had started appearing, like a nasty one in Southeast Asia, recently acquiring the label of number three.
“Easton,” she said. “Did you think you’d been infected by him?”
“We knew so little about how the virus passed back then. Remember, any offensive biological weapon is useless without a cure. So when that old healer offered to take me up into the mountains, I went. He showed me the plant and told me the juice from its leaves could stop what he called the fever-disease. So I ate some.”
“And didn’t give Easton any? You let him die?”
“I gave him the juice from the plant. But it did nothing for him.”
She looked puzzled and he allowed her question to hang.
“Once Charlie died, I cataloged the virus as an unacceptable specimen. The Iraqis only wanted to know about successes. We were told to leave the failures in the field. In the mid-nineteen-eighties, when HIV was finally isolated in France and the United States, I recognized the biology. Initially, I didn’t give it much thought. Hell, nobody outside the gay community was all that concerned. But by 1985 I heard the talk among the pharmaceutical community. Whoever found the cure was going to make a lot of money. So I decided to start looking. By then I knew a lot more. So I went back to central Asia, hired a guide to take me up to the high ground, and found the plant again. I brought back samples and tested it and, sure enough, the damn thing wiped HIV out almost on contact.”
“You said it didn’t work on Easton.”
“The plant’s useless. By the time I gave it to Charlie, the leaves were dry. It’s not the leaves. It’s the water. That’s where I found them.”
He held up the syringe.
“Bacteria.”
VENICE
“EVER HEARD OF A SCYTALE?” MALONE ASKED.
None of them had.
“You get a stick, wrap a strip of leather around it, write your message on the leather, then unwrap the strip and add a bunch of other letters. The person who you intend to get the message has a similar stick, same diameter, so that when he wraps the strip around it the message is readable. Use a different size stick and all you get is jumbled letters. The ancient Greeks used the scytale all the time to communicate secretly.”
“How in the world do you know these things?” Davis asked.
Malone shrugged. “The scytale was fast, effective, and not prone to mistakes-which was important on the battlefield. A great way to send a concealed message. And, to answer your question, I read.”
“We don’t have the right stick,” Davis said. “How are we going to decipher the thing?”
“Remember the riddle. Life provides the measure of the grave.” He held up the medallion. “ZH. Life. This coin is the measure.”
“Be wary, for there is but one chance of success,” Stephanie said. “That gold foil is thin. No way to unravel and wrap it again. Apparently, you get one shot.”
Malone nodded. “That’s my guess, too.”
He led the search as they left the basilica and headed back to the diocese offices with the foil and the elephant medallion. He estimated the decadrachm to be about an inch in diameter, so they started looking for something that would work. A couple of broom handles found in a storage closet proved too large, a few other items too small.
“All the lights are on,” Malone said. “But nobody’s around.”
“Michener cleared the building when Zovastina was left alone in the basilica,” Davis said. “We needed as few witnesses as possible.”
Near a copier, on a shelf, he spotted candles. Malone grabbed the box and noticed that their diameter was only slightly larger than the medallion. “We’ll make our own scytale.”
Stephanie instantly understood. “There’s a kitchen down the hall. I’ll get a knife.”
He cradled the strip of gold in his palm, protected within a crumpled sheet of paper they’d found in the treasury ticket booth.
“Anybody here speak Old Greek?” he asked.
Davis and Thorvaldsen shook their heads.
“We’re going to need a computer. Any word that comes off this strip will be in Old Greek.”
“There’s one in the office we were in before,” Davis said. “Down the hall.”
Stephanie returned with a peeling knife.
“You know, I’m concerned about Michener,” Malone said. “What’s to stop Viktor from killing him, regardless of Zovastina leaving safely?”
“Not going to be a problem,” Davis said. “I wanted Michener to go with Viktor.”
Malone was puzzled. “For what?”
Edwin Davis’s eyes fixed on him, as if deciding if he was someone to be trusted.
Which irritated Malone. “What is it?”
Stephanie nodded and Davis said, “Viktor works for us.”
VIKTOR WAS STUNNED. “WHO ARE YOU?”
“A priest with the Catholic Church, just like I said. But you’re much more than you seem to be. The president of the United States wants me to talk to you.”
The boat was still drifting toward the dock. In a few moments Michener would be gone. This priest had timed his revelation well.
“I was told Zovastina hired you from the Croatian security force, where you were first recruited by the Americans. You were helpful to them in Bosnia, and once they realized you were working for Zovastina, the Americans rekindled their relationship.”
Viktor realized the proffered information, all true, was being offered to convince him that this envoy was real.
“Why do you do it?” Michener asked him. “Living a lie?”
He decided to be honest. “Let’s say that I prefer not to be tried in a war-crimes court. I fought for the other side in Bosnia. We all did things we regret. I eased my conscience by changing sides and helping the Americans capture the worst offenders.”
“Which means the other side would hate you, too, if they knew.”
“Something like that.”
“The Americans still hold that stick over you?”
“There’s no statute of limitations on murder. I have family in Bosnia. Retaliation in that part of the world includes everyone close to you. I left there to get away from things. But when the Americans learned I was working for Zovastina, they gave me a choice. They’d sell me out either to the Bosnians or to her. I decided it was easier to join them.”
“A dangerous game you’re playing.”
He shrugged. “Zovastina didn’t know a thing about me. That’s one of her weaknesses. She believes everyone around her is either too scared or too awed to challenge her.” He needed to know. “The woman tonight, in the basilica, Cassiopeia Vitt, who left with Zovastina-”
“She’s part of this.”
Viktor now realized the gravity of the mistake he’d made. He truly could be compromised. So he needed to say, “She and I dealt with each other in Denmark. I tried to kill her, and the other two from the basilica. I had no idea. But once she tells Zovastina about what happened, I’ll be dead.”
“Cassiopeia won’t do that. She was told about you before she came to the basilica tonight. She’s counting on your help in Samarkand.”
Now he understood her strange whispers in the transept gallery, and why no one who’d been in Denmark had said anything about that in front of Zovastina.
The boat eased to the dock. Michener hopped out. “Help her. I’m told she’s resourceful.”
And she killed with no emotion.
“May God be with you, Viktor. You seem like you’re going to need him.”
“He’s useless.”
A smile came to the priest’s face. “That’s what I used to think.” Michener shook his head. “But I was wrong.”
Viktor was like Zovastina. A pagan. Though not for religious or moral reasons. Just simply because he could not care less about what happened after he died.
“One more thing,” Michener said. “In the basilica, Cassiopeia mentioned a man named Ely Lund. The Americans want to know if he’s alive.”
The name again. First from the woman, now from Washington.
“He was. But I’m not sure anymore.”
MALONE SHOOK HIS HEAD. “YOU’VE GOT SOMEBODY ON THE INSIDE? Then what do you need us for?”
“We can’t compromise him,” Davis said.
“Did you know this?” he asked Stephanie.
She shook her head. “Not until a short while ago.”
“Michener became the perfect conduit,” Davis said. “We weren’t sure how things were going to drop here, but with Zovastina ordering Viktor to take him, it worked out perfectly. We need Viktor to help Cassiopeia.”
“Who is Viktor?”
“Not one of ours, born and bred,” Davis said. “The CIA adopted him years ago. A random asset.”
“Friendly or unfriendly adoption?” He knew a lot of assets were forced into service.
Davis hesitated. “Unfriendly.”
“That’s a problem.”
“Last year, we renewed contact. He’s been quite helpful.”
“He’s so deep, there’s no way he can be trusted. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve been double-crossed by random assets. They’re whores.”
“Like I said, so far he’s proven helpful.”
He was not impressed. “You apparently haven’t been at this game long.”
“Long enough to know that you have to take risks.”
“The distance between risk and foolishness isn’t much.”
“Cotton,” Stephanie said, “I’m told that Viktor is the one who pointed us to Vincenti.”
“Which is why Naomi is dead. All the more reason not to trust him.”
He laid the ball of crumpled paper on top of the copier and grabbed the knife from Stephanie. He mated the elephant medallion to the end of one candle. The coin was misshapen, worn from the centuries, but the diameter was nearly right. Only a few strokes were needed to whittle off the excess wax.
He handed the candle to Stephanie and carefully unwrapped the paper. His palms were moist, which surprised him. He grasped the gold leaf by the edge, lightly gripping it between his index finger and thumb. He plucked the end of the coil free and wrapped the strip onto the candle, which Stephanie held steady.
Slowly, he unwound the crinkly foil.
The otherwise unconnected letters rearranged as the original spiral course was restored. He recalled something he read once about a scytale. That which follows is joined to that which precedes.
The message became clear.
Six Greek letters.
“A good way to send a cipher, then, and now. This one has been delivered twenty-three hundred years after the fact.”
The gold conformed to the candle and he realized Ptolemy’s warning to be wary, for there is but one chance of success had been good advice. No way to unwrap the foil, since the strip would break into pieces.
“Let’s find that computer,” he said.
VINCENTI LIKED THAT HE WAS IN CONTROL. “YOU’RE A SMART woman. And you clearly want to live. But how much do you know about life?”
He did not wait for Karyn Walde to answer.
“Science had always taught us that there are basically two kinds-bacteria and everything else. The difference? Bacteria have free-floating DNA, everything else has their DNA packed into a nucleus. Then in the nineteen-seventies, a microbiologist named Carl Woese found a third type of life. He called them archaea. A cross between bacteria and everything else. When first discovered, they seemed to live only in the harshest of environments-the Dead Sea, in the middle of hot springs, miles below the ocean, Antarctica, oxygen-starved swamps-and we thought that was the extent of their existence. But over the last twenty years archaea have been found everywhere.”
“These bacteria you found destroy the virus?” she asked.
“With a vengeance. And I’m talking about HIV-1, HIV-2, SIV, and every hybrid strain I could find to test, including the newest from Southeast Asia. The bacteria have a protein lining that obliterate the proteins holding HIV together. They ravage the virus, just like the virus ravages host cells. And fast. The only trick is to keep the body’s immune system from destroying the archaea before the bacteria can consume the virus.” He pointed toward her. “In people like you, whose immune system is virtually gone, that isn’t a problem, there just aren’t enough white cells left to kill the invading bacteria. But where HIV has only recently taken a stand, where the immune system is still relatively strong, the white cells kill the bacteria before it gets to the virus.”
“You found a way to prevent that?”
He nodded. “The bacteria actually survive digestion. That’s how the old healer managed to get them into people, only he thought it was the plant. I not only chewed the plant, I drank the water, so if any of that virus was in me that day, they took care of it. I’ve since found it’s better to administer a dose through injection. You can control the percentage. In early HIV infections, when the immune system is still strong, more bacteria are needed. In later stages, like you, when the white cell count is near zero, not as many are needed.”
“That’s why you wanted a varied infection rate in that clinical trial? You needed to know how strong a dose.”
“Smart girl.”
“So whoever wrote that report you read to me, and thought it strange you weren’t concerned with toxicity, was wrong.”
“I was obsessed with toxicity. I needed to know how much of the archaea would be needed to kill off various stages of an HIV infection. The great thing is that the bacteria, by themselves, are harmless. You could ingest billions and nothing would happen.”
“So you used those Iraqis like research animals.”
He shrugged. “Had to in order to know if the archaea worked. They didn’t know. I eventually adapted a shell to preserve the bacteria’s effectiveness, which gives them more time to devour the virus. The amazing thing is that the shell eventually sheds and the immune system absorbs the archaea, like any other circulatory invader. Cleans it right out. The virus is gone, and so are the archaea. You just don’t want too many of the bacteria-overworks the immune system. But, overall, it’s a simple, totally effective cure to one of the deadliest viruses in the world. And not one side effect that I’ve discovered.”
He knew she’d experienced, firsthand, the havoc of the symptomatic HIV drugs. Rashes, ulcers, fever, fatigue, nausea, low blood pressure, headaches, vomiting, nerve damage, insomnia-all were common.
He again held up the syringe. “This will cure you.”
“Give it to me.” Desperation laced her plea.
“You know Zovastina could have done this.” He saw the lie had the desired effect. “She knows.”
“I knew she did. Her and those germs. She’s been obsessed with them for years.”
“She and I worked together. Yet she never offered a thing to you.”
She shook her head. “Never. She’d just come and watch me die.”
“She had total control. There was nothing you could do. I understand your breakup, years ago, was difficult. She felt cheated. When you returned, asking for help, you realize you gave her an opportunity to exact a measure of revenge. She would have let you die. Would you like to return the favor?”
He watched as the moment of truth weighed on her mind but, just as he’d suspected, her conscience had long since dissolved.
“I just want to breathe. If that’s the price, I’ll pay it.”
“You’re going to be the first person cured of AIDS-”
“Who gets to tell the tale.”
He nodded. “That’s right. We’re going to make history.”
She didn’t seem impressed. “If your cure is so simple, why couldn’t somebody just steal or copy it?”
“Only I know where this particular archaea can be found naturally. Believe me, there are many kinds, but only this one works.”
Her oily eyes narrowed. “We know why I want to do this. What about you?”
“Lots of questions from a dying woman.”
“You seem like a man who wants to provide answers.”
“Zovastina is an impediment to my plans.”
“Cure me, and I’ll help you eliminate that problem.”
He doubted her unconditional assurance, but keeping this woman alive made sense. Her anger could be channeled. He’d first thought assassinating Zovastina the answer, which was why he’d allowed the Florentine a free reign. But he’d changed his mind and ratted out his coconspirator. An assassination would only make her a martyr. Disgracing her-that was the better way. She had enemies. But they were all afraid. Maybe he could provide them with courage through the bitter soul staring up at him.
Neither the League nor he were interested in world conquest. Wars were expensive in a great many ways, the most critical of which was the depletion of wealth and national resources. The League wanted its new utopia just as it is, not as Zovastina envisioned it should be. For himself, he wanted billions in profits and to savor his status as the man who conquered HIV. Louis Pasteur, Linus Pauling, Jonas Salk, and, now, Enrico Vincenti.
So he emptied the contents of the hypodermic into the IV port.
“How long does it take?” she asked, her voice expectant, her tired face alive.
“In a few hours you’ll feel much better.”
MALONE SAT BEFORE THE COMPUTER AND FOUND GOOGLE. THERE, he located websites that dealt with Old Greek and eventually opened one that offered translations. He typed in the six letters- -and was surprised at both the pronunciation and the meaning.
“Klimax in Greek. Ladder in English,” he said.
He found another site that also offered a conversion. He typed in the same letters from the alphabet supplied and received the same response.
Stephanie still held the candle wrapped with gold leaf.
“Ptolemy,” Thorvaldsen said, “went to a lot of trouble to leave this. That word must have great relevance.”
“And what happens when we figure it out?” Malone asked. “What’s the big deal?”
“The big deal,” a new voice said, “is that Zovastina is planning to kill millions of people.”
They all turned and saw Michener standing in the doorway.
“I just left Viktor out in the lagoon. He was shocked that I knew about him.”
“I imagine he was,” Thorvaldsen said.
“Is Zovastina gone?” Malone asked.
Michener nodded. “I checked. Left the ground a little while ago.”
Malone wanted to know, “How does Cassiopeia know about Viktor?” Then it hit him. He faced Thorvaldsen. “The call. Out at the dock when we first got here. You told her then.”
The Dane nodded. “Information she needed. We’re lucky she didn’t kill him on Torcello. But, of course, I didn’t know any of this then.”
“More of that ‘plan as you go,’” Malone said, directing his comment to Davis.
“I’ll take the blame for that one. But it worked out.”
“And three men are dead.”
Davis said nothing.
He wanted to know, “And if Zovastina had not insisted on a hostage for safe passage to the airport?”
“Luckily, that didn’t happen.”
“You’re too damn reckless for me.” He was becoming irritated. “If you have Viktor on the inside, why don’t you know if Ely Lund’s alive?”
“That fact wasn’t important, until yesterday, when you three became involved. Zovastina had a teacher, we just didn’t know who. It makes sense it’s Lund. Once we learned that, we needed Viktor contacted.”
“Viktor said Ely Lund was alive. But probably not now,” Michener told them.
“Cassiopeia has no idea what she’s facing,” Malone said. “She’s in there blind.”
“She set all that up herself,” Stephanie said, “perhaps hoping that Ely might still be alive.”
He didn’t want to hear that. For a variety of reasons. None of which he needed to face at the moment.
“Cotton,” Thorvaldsen said, “you asked why all this matters. Beyond the obvious disaster of a biological war, what if this draught is some sort of natural cure? The ancients thought it so. Alexander thought it so. The chroniclers who wrote those manuscripts thought it so. What if something is there? I don’t know why, but Zovastina wants it. Ely wanted it. And Cassiopeia wants it.”
He remained skeptical. “We don’t know a damn thing.”
Stephanie motioned with the candle. “We know this riddle is real.”
She was right about that and, he had to admit, he was curious. That godforsaken curiosity which always seemed to keep him in trouble.
“And we know Naomi is dead,” she said.
He’d not forgotten.
He stared again at the scytale. Ladder. A location? If so, it was a designation that would have made more sense in Ptolemy’s time. He knew Alexander the Great had insisted that his empire be accurately mapped. Cartography was then an infant art, but he’d seen reproductions of those ancient charts. So he decided to see what was on the web. Twenty minutes of searching found nothing that indicated what -klimax, ladder-might be.
“There might be another source,” Thorvaldsen said. “Ely had a place in the Pamirs. A cabin. He’d go there to work and think. Cassiopeia told me about it. He kept his books and papers there. Quite an array on Alexander. She said there were lots of maps from his time.”
“That’s in the Federation,” Malone pointed out. “I doubt Zovastina is going to grant us a visa.”
“How near is the border?” Davis asked.
“Thirty miles.”
“We can enter through China. They’re cooperating with us on this.”
“And what is this?” Malone asked. “Why are we even involved? Don’t you have a CIA and a multitude of other intelligence agencies?”
“Actually, Mr. Malone, you involved yourself, as did Thorvaldsen and Stephanie. Zovastina, publicly, is the only ally we possess in that region, so politically we can’t be seen challenging her. Using official assets comes with the risk of exposure. Since we had Viktor on the inside, keeping us informed, we knew most of her moves. But this is escalating. I understand the dilemma with Cassiopeia-”
“Actually, you don’t. But that’s why I’m staying in. I’m going after her.”
“I’d prefer you go to the cabin and see what’s there.”
“That’s the great thing about being retired. I can do what I please.” He turned to Thorvaldsen. “You and Stephanie go to the cabin.”
“I agree,” his friend said. “See about her.”
Malone stared at Thorvaldsen. The Dane had aided Cassiopeia and cooperated with the president, involving them all. But his friend didn’t like the idea of Cassiopeia being there alone.
“You have a plan,” Thorvaldsen said. “Don’t you?”
“I think I do.”
4:30 A.M.
ZOVASTINA DRANK FROM A BOTTLED WATER AND ALLOWED HER passenger the continued luxury of her troubled thoughts. They’d flown in silence for the past hour, ever since she’d tantalized Cassiopeia Vitt with the possibility that Ely Lund might still be alive. Clearly, her captive was on a mission. Personal? Or professional? That remained to be seen.
“How do you and the Dane know my business?”
“A lot of people know your business.”
“If they know it so well, why hasn’t anyone stopped me?”
“Maybe we’re about to?”
She grinned. “An army of three? You, the old man, and Mr. Malone? By the way, is Malone a friend of yours?”
“United States Justice Department.”
She assumed what happened in Amsterdam had generated official interest, but the situation made little sense. How would the Americans have mobilized so quickly-and known she’d be in Venice? Michener? Maybe. United States Justice Department. The Americans. Another problem flashed through her mind. Vincenti.
“You have no idea,” Vitt said to her, “how much we do know.”
“I don’t need an idea. I have you.”
“I’m expendable.”
She doubted that declaration. “Ely taught me a great deal. More than I ever knew existed. He opened my eyes to the past. I suspect he opened yours, too.”
“It’s not going to work. You can’t use him to get to me.”
She needed to break this woman. Her whole plan had been based on moving in secret. Exposure would open her not only to failure but also to retaliation. Cassiopeia Vitt represented, for the moment, the quickest and easiest way to ascertain the full extent of her problem.
“I went to Venice to find answers,” she said. “Ely pointed me there. He believed the body in the basilica might lead to Alexander the Great’s true grave. He thought that location may hold the secret of an ancient cure. Something that might help even him.”
“That’s dreaming.”
“But it’s a dream he shared with you, wasn’t it?”
“Is he alive?”
Finally, a direct question. “You won’t believe me no matter how I answer.”
“Try me.”
“He didn’t die in that house fire.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It’s all you’re going to get.”
The plane dipped as turbulence buffeted the wings and the engines continued their constant whine, driving them farther east. The cabin was empty save for them. Both of her guardsmen, who’d made the flight to Venice, were dead, their bodies now Michener’s and the Church’s problem. Only Viktor had kept faith and performed, as usual.
She and her captive were a lot alike. Both of them cared for people afflicted with HIV. Cassiopeia Vitt to the point that she’d risked her life, Zovastina to the point that she gambled on a questionable journey to Venice and placed herself in physical and political jeopardy. Foolishness? Perhaps.
But heroes, at times, had to be fools.
CENTRAL ASIAN FEDERATION
8:50 A.M.
VINCENTI WAS HOLED UP IN THE LAB HE’D BUILT BENEATH HIS estate, only he and Grant Lyndsey inside. Lyndsey had come straight from China, his duties there done. Two years ago he’d taken Lyndsey into his confidence. He’d needed somebody out front to supervise all the testing on the viruses and antiagents. Also, somebody had to placate Zovastina.
“How’s the temperature?” he asked.
Lyndsey checked the digital readouts. “Stable.”
The lab was Vincenti’s domain. A passive, sterile space encased within cream-colored walls atop a black tile floor. Stainless-steel tables ran in two rows down the center. Flasks, beakers, and burettes towered on metal stands above an autoclave, distilling equipment, a centrifuge, analytical balances, and two computer terminals. Digital simulation played a key role in their experimentation, so different from his days with the Iraqis, when trial and error cost time, money, and mistakes. Today’s sophisticated programs were able to duplicate most any chemical or biological effect, so long as there were parameters. And, over the past year, Lyndsey had done an admirable job establishing parameters for the cyber-testing of ZH.
“The solution is at room temperature,” Lyndsey said. “And they’re swimming like crazy. Amazing.”
The pool where he’d found the archaea was thermal fed, its temperature pushing one hundred degrees Fahrenheit. Producing the bacteria in the trillions that would be needed, then safely transporting them around the world at such high temperatures, could prove impossible. So they’d changed them. Slowly adapting the archaea to lower and lower thermal environments. Interestingly, at room temperature their activity only slowed, almost going dormant, but once inside a warm bloodstream at ninety-eight point six degrees, they quickly reactivated.
“The clinical trial I finished a few days ago,” Lyndsey said, “confirmed that they can be stored at room temperature for a prolonged time. I’d held those for over four months. It’s incredible, their adaptability.”
“Which is how they’ve survived billions of years, waiting for us to find them.”
He huddled close to one of the tables, fleshy hands inserted through rubber gloves into a hermetically sealed container. Air purred overhead, forced through laminar microfilters, cleansed of impurities, the constant rumble nearly hypnotic. He stared through a plexiglass portal and deftly manipulated the evaporating dish. He dabbed a sample of active HIV culture onto a slide, swirling the drop with another already there. He then clipped the slide onto the built-in microscope’s stage. He freed his hands of the sweaty rubber and focused the objective.
Two adjustments and he found the right power.
One look was all he required.
“The virus is gone. Almost on contact. It’s like they’ve been waiting to devour it.”
He knew their biological modifications were the key to success. A few years ago a New York law firm he’d engaged advised him that a new mineral discovered in the earth, or a new plant found in the wild, was not something that could be patented. Einstein could not patent his celebrated E=mc2, nor could Newton have patented the law of gravity. Those were manifestations of nature, free to all. But genetically engineered plants, man-made multicellular animals, and archaea-bacteria altered from their natural state, these were patentable.
He’d make a call to the same law firm later and start the patent process. FDA approval would also be needed. Twelve years was the average time for an experimental solution to travel from lab to medicine chest-the American system of drug approvals the most rigorous in the world. And he knew the odds. Only five in four thousand compounds screened in FDA preclinical testing made it to human testing. Only one of those five ultimately gained approval. Seven years ago a new fast-track testing procedure for compounds that targeted life-threatening diseases had been okayed-AIDS treatments specifically in that category. Still, quick by FDA standards was six to nine months. European approval processes were stringent, but nothing like the FDA. African and Asian nations, where the major problem existed, didn’t require government approvals.
So that’s where he’d start selling.
Let the world see them being cured while American and European AIDS patients died. Approval would come then, without him even asking.
“I’ve never asked,” Lyndsey said, “and you’ve never said. But where did you find these bacteria?”
The time for silence was over. He needed Lyndsey on board-completely. But answering his question about where also meant discussing when.
“Have you ever considered the value of a company that manufactured condoms prior to HIV? Sure, there was a market. What? Several million a year? But after the resurgence of AIDS, billions were manufactured and sold worldwide. And what about the symptomatic drugs? Treating AIDS is the perfect money machine. A triple drug cocktail treatment is twelve to eighteen thousand U.S. dollars a year. Multiply that by the millions infected and you’re talking billions spent on drugs that cure nothing.
“Think about the supply benefits-things like latex gloves, gowns, sterile needles. You have any idea how many millions of sterile needles are bought and distributed in trying to stop the HIV spread among drug users? And, like condoms, the price has gone through the roof. The range here is endless. For a medical supply and manufacturing house, like Philogen, HIV has been a huge cash bonanza.
“Over the past eighteen years, our business has soared, our condom manufacturing plant has tripled in size. Sales went through the roof for all of our products. We even developed a couple of symptomatic drugs that sold well. Ten years ago I took the company public, raised capital, and used the expanding medical supply and drug divisions to fund more expansion. I bought a cosmetics firm, a soap company, a department store chain, and a frozen food business, knowing one day Philogen could easily pay all the debt back.”
“How did you know?”
“I found the bacteria almost thirty years ago. I realized their potential twenty years ago. Then I held the cure for HIV, knowing I could release it at any time.”
He watched the realization take hold.
“And you told no one?”
“Not a soul.” He needed to know if Lyndsey was as amoral as he believed him to be. “Is that a problem? I simply let the market build.”
“Knowing that you didn’t have a partial fix, something the virus would eventually work around. Knowing you had the cure. The one way to totally destroy HIV. Even if somebody eventually found a drug to quell the virus, yours worked better, faster, safer, and costs pennies to produce.”
“That was the idea.”
“It didn’t matter to you that people were dying by the millions?”
“And you think the world cares about AIDS? Get real, Grant. Lots of talk, little action. It’s a unique disease. The perception is that it mainly kills blacks, gays, and drug users. The whole epidemic has rolled back a big rotting log and revealed all the squirming life underneath-the main themes of our existence-sex, death, power, money, love, hate, panic. In nearly every way that AIDS has been conceptualized, imagined, researched, and financed, it’s become the most political of diseases.”
And what Karyn Walde said earlier came to mind. It’s just not killing the right people yet.
“What about the other pharmaceutical companies?” Lyndsey said. “Weren’t you afraid they’d find a cure?”
“A risk, but I’ve kept a close eye on our competition. Let’s just say that their research bought little more than mistakes.” He was feeling good. After all this time, he liked talking about it. “Would you like to see where the bacteria live?”
The man’s eyes lit up. “Here?”
He nodded. “Close by.”
SAMARKAND
9:15 A.M.
CASSIOPEIA WAS TAKEN FROM THE PLANE BY TWO OF ZOVASTINA’S guardsmen. She’d been told that they would escort her to the palace, where she’d be held.
“You realize,” she said to Zovastina, from beside the open car door, “that you’ve bargained for trouble.”
Zovastina surely would not want to have this conversation here, on an open tarmac, with an airport crew and her guardsmen nearby. On the plane, alone, would have been the time. But Cassiopeia had purposefully stayed silent the last two hours of the flight.
“Trouble is a way of life here,” Zovastina said.
As she was guided into the rear seat, her hands cuffed behind her back, Cassiopeia decided to insert the knife. “You were wrong about the bones.”
Zovastina seemed to consider the challenge. Venice had, for all intents and purposes, been a failure, so it was no surprise when Zovastina approached and asked, “How so?”
The whine of jet engines and a stiff spring breeze stirred the fume-filled air. Cassiopeia sat calmly in the rear seat and stared out through the front windshield. “There was something to find.” She faced the Supreme Minister. “And you missed it.”
“Taunting me will not help.”
She ignored the threat. “If you want to solve the riddle, you’re going to have to bargain.”
This demon was easy to read. Certainly, Zovastina had suspected she knew things. Why else bring her? And Cassiopeia had been careful so far, knowing that she could not reveal too much. After all, her life literally depended on how much information she could effectively withhold.
One of the guardsmen stepped forward and whispered in Zovastina’s ear. The Minister listened, and she saw a momentary shock sweep across her face. Then Zovastina nodded and the guardsman withdrew.
“Trouble?” Cassiopeia asked.
“The perils of being Supreme Minister. You and I will talk later.”
And she marched off.
THE FRONT DOOR OF THE HOUSE STOOD OPEN. NOTHING DAMAGED. No evidence of forced entry. Inside, two of her Sacred Band waited. Zovastina glared at one and asked, “What happened?”
“Both of our men were shot through the head. Sometime last night. The nurse and Karyn Walde are gone. Their clothes are still here. The nurse’s alarm clock was set and on for six A.M. Nothing shows they intended to voluntarily leave.”
She walked back to the master bedroom. The respirator stood silent, the intravenous drip connected to no one. Had Karyn escaped? And where would she go? She stepped back to the foyer and asked her two men, “Any witnesses?”
“We asked at the other residences, but no one saw or heard anything.”
It had all happened while she was gone. That could not be a coincidence. She decided to play a hunch. She stepped to one of the house phones and dialed her personal secretary. She told her what she wanted and waited three minutes until the woman returned on the line and said, “Vincenti entered the Federation last night at 1:40 A.M. Private plane using his open visa.”
She still believed Vincenti had been behind the assassination attempt. He must have known she’d left the Federation. Her government clearly possessed a multitude of leaks-Henrik Thorvaldsen and Cassiopeia Vitt were proof of that-but what to do about those things?
“Minister,” her secretary said through the phone, “I was about to try and locate you. You have a visitor.”
“Vincenti?” she asked, a bit too quickly.
“Another American.”
“The ambassador?” Samarkand was dotted with foreign embassies, and many of her days were filled with visits from their various representatives.
“Edwin Davis, the deputy national security adviser to the American president. He entered the country a few hours ago on a diplomatic passport.”
“Unannounced?”
“He simply appeared at the palace, asking to see you. He will not discuss with anyone why he’s here.”
That was not a coincidence, either.
“I’ll be there shortly.”
SAMARKAND
10:30 A.M
MALONE DRANK A COCA-COLA LIGHT AND WATCHED AS THE LEAR Jet 36A approached the terminal. Samarkand’s airport lay north of the city, a single runway facility that accommodated not only commercial traffic, but also private and military. He’d beaten both Viktor and Zovastina back from Italy thanks to an F-16-E Strike Eagle that President Daniels had ordered placed at his disposal. Aviano Air Base, fifty miles north of Venice, had been a quick chopper ride and the flight east, thanks to supersonic speeds at over thirteen hundred miles an hour, had taken just over two hours. Zovastina and the Lear Jet he was now watching taxi closer had needed almost five hours.
Two F-16s had arrived in Samarkand without incident, as the United States possessed unrestricted landing rights at all Federation airports and bases. Ostensibly, the U.S. was an ally, but that distinction, he knew, was fleeting at best in this part of the world. The other fighter had carried Edwin Davis, who was, by now, at the palace. President Daniels had not liked involving Davis, he had preferred to keep him at a distance, but wisely recognized that Malone was not going to take no for an answer. Besides, as the president had said with a chuckle, the whole plan had at least a ten percent chance of working, so what the hell.
He gulped the last of the soft drink, weak by American standards but tasty enough. He’d slept an hour on the flight, the first time he’d been inside a strike fighter in twenty years. He’d been trained to fly them early in his navy career, before he became a lawyer and switched to the Judge Advocate General’s corps. Naval friends of his father had urged him to make the choice.
His father.
A full commander. Until one August day when the submarine he captained sank. Malone had been ten, but the memory always brought a pang of sadness. By the time he’d enlisted in the navy, his father’s contemporaries had risen to high rank and they had plans for Forrest Malone’s son. So out of respect, he’d done as they’d asked and ended up as an agent with the Magellan Billet.
He never regretted his choices, and his Justice Department career had been memorable. Even in retirement the world had not ignored him. Templars. The Library of Alexandria. Now Alexander the Great’s grave. He shook his head. Choices. Everybody made them.
Like the man now deplaning from the Lear Jet. Viktor. Government informant. Random asset.
Problem.
He tossed the bottle into the trash and waited for Viktor to step into the concourse. An AWACS E3 Sentry, always in orbit over the Middle East, had tracked the Lear Jet from Venice, Malone knowing precisely when it would arrive.
Viktor appeared as in the basilica, his face chapped, his clothes dirty. He walked with the stiffness of a man who’d just endured a long night.
Malone retreated behind a short wall and waited until Viktor was inside, turning toward the terminal, then he stepped out and followed. “Took you long enough.”
Viktor stopped and turned. Not a hint of surprise clouded the other man’s face. “I thought I was to help Vitt.”
“I’m here to help you.”
“You and your friends set me up in Copenhagen. I don’t like being played.”
“Who does?”
“Go back where you came from, Malone. Let me handle this.”
Malone withdrew a pistol. One of the advantages of arriving by military jet had been no Customs checks for U.S. military personnel or their passengers. “I’ve been told to help you. That’s what I’m going to do, whether you like it or not.”
“You going to shoot me?” Viktor shook his head. “Cassiopeia Vitt killed my partner in Venice and tried to kill me.”
“At the time, she didn’t know you wore the white hat.”
“You sound like you think that’s a problem.”
“I haven’t decided whether you’re a problem or not.”
“That woman is the problem,” Viktor said. “I doubt she’s going to let either one of us help her.”
“Probably right, but she’s going to get it.” He decided to try a pat on the back. “I’m told you’ve been a good asset. So let’s help her.”
“I planned to. I just didn’t count on an assistant.”
He stuffed the gun back beneath his jacket. “Get me into the palace.”
Viktor seemed puzzled by the request. “Is that all?”
“Shouldn’t be a problem for the head of the Sacred Band. No one would question you.”
Viktor shook his head. “You people are insane. Do you all have a death wish? Bad enough she’s in there. Now you? I can’t be responsible for all this. And, by the way, it’s foolish for us to even be talking. Zovastina knows your face.”
Malone had already checked. The concourse was not equipped with cameras. Those were farther on, in the terminal. No one else was around, which was why he’d decided here was a good place for a chat. “Just get me into the palace. If you point me in the right direction, I can do the heavy lifting. That’ll give you cover. You don’t have to do anything, except watch my back. Washington wants to protect your identity at all costs. That’s why I’m here.”
Viktor shook his head in disbelief. “And who came up with this ridiculous plan?”
He grinned. “I did.”
VINCENTI LED LYNDSEY BEYOND THE HOUSE GROUNDS, ONTO A rocky trail that inclined up into the highlands. He’d ordered the ancient path smoothed, steps carved into the rock at places, and electricity wired, knowing that he’d be making the trek more than a few times. Both the path and the mountain were within the estate’s boundaries. Every time he returned to this place he thought of the old healer who’d clambered up the rock face, catlike, clinging to the path with bare toes and fingers. Vincenti had followed, climbing with anticipation, like a child after his parent up the stairs wondering what awaited in the attic.
And he’d not been disappointed.
Gray rock streaked with mottled veins of gleaming crystals surrounded them in what seemed like a natural cathedral. His legs ached from the exertion and the breath tore at his lungs. He dragged himself up another stretch of cliff and beads of sweat gathered on his brow.
Lyndsey, a thin and wiry man, seemed unaffected.
Vincenti gave a deep exhale of thankfulness as he stopped on the final ledge. “To the west, the Federation. The east, China. We’re standing at the crossroad.”
Lyndsey stared out at the vista. An afternoon sun spotlighted a distant stretch of towering scarps and pyramids. A herd of horses rushed in silence through the valley beyond the house.
Vincenti was enjoying sharing this. Telling Karyn Walde had ignited within him a need for recognition. He’d discovered something remarkable and managed to gain exclusive control of it, no small feat considering this whole region was once Soviet-dominated. But the Federation had changed all that, and through the Venetian League, he’d helped navigate those changes to his personal advantage.
“This way,” he said, motioning toward a crease in the rock. “Through there.”
Three decades ago the narrow slit had been easy to traverse, but he’d been a hundred and fifty pounds lighter. Now it was a tight squeeze.
The crevice opened a short way into a gray chamber beneath an irregular vault of sharp rock, walled in on all sides. Dim light leaked in from the entrance. He stepped to a switch box and powered on incandescent lighting that hung from the ceiling. Two pools dotted the rock floor, each about ten feet in diameter-one, a russet brown; the other, a sea foam green-both illuminated by cabled lights suspended in the water.
“Hot springs dot these mountains,” he said. “From ancient times until today, the locals believed they contained valuable medicinal properties. Here, they were right.”
“Why light them?”
He shrugged. “I needed to study the water and, as you can see, they’re stunning with the contrasting color.”
“This is where the archaea live?”
He pointed at the green-tinted pool. “That’s their home.”
Lyndsey bent down and stroked the surface. A host of ripples shivered across its transparent surface. None of the plants that had been there the first time Vincenti had been there dotted the pool. They’d apparently died out long ago. But they weren’t important.
“Just over a hundred degrees,” he said of the water. “But our modifications now allow them to live at room temperature.”
One of Lyndsey’s tasks had been to prepare an action plan-what the company would do once Zovastina acted-when massive amounts of antiagent would supposedly be needed, so Vincenti asked, “Are we ready to go?”
“Growing the small quantities we’ve been using on the zoonoses was easy. Full-scale production will be different.”
He’d thought as much, which was why he’d secured the loan from Arthur Benoit. Infrastructure would have to be built, people hired, distribution networks created, more research completed. All of which required massive amounts of capital.
“Our production facilities in France and Spain can be converted into acceptable manufacturing sites,” Lyndsey said. “Eventually, though, I’d recommend a separate facility, since we’ll need millions of liters. Luckily, the bacteria reproduce easily.”
Time to see if the man was truly interested. “Have you ever dreamed of going down in history?”
Lyndsey laughed. “Who doesn’t?”
“I mean seriously go down in history, as someone who made a tremendous scientific contribution. What if I could bestow that honor? You interested?”
“Like I said, who wouldn’t be?”
“Imagine schoolchildren, decades from now, looking up HIV and AIDS in an encyclopedia, and there’s your name as the man who helped conquer the scourge of the late twentieth century.” He recalled the first pleasure of that vision. Not all that dissimilar from Lyndsey’s current look of curiosity and amazement. “Would you like to be a part of that?”
No hesitation. “Of course.”
“I can give you that. But there’d be conditions. Needless to say, I can’t do this by myself. I need someone to personally oversee production, someone who understands the biology. Security is, of course, a great concern. Once our patents are filed, I’ll feel better, but somebody still has to manage this on a daily basis. You’re the logical choice, Grant. In return, you’ll receive some discovery credit and generous compensation. And by generous, I’m talking millions.”
Lyndsey opened his mouth to speak, but Vincenti silenced him with an upright finger.
“That’s the good part. Here’s the bad. If you become a problem, or you become greedy, I’ll have O’Conner plant a bullet in your head. Back at the house I told you about how we controlled our competition. Let me explain further.”
He told Lyndsey about a Danish microbiologist found in 1997, comatose in the street near his laboratory. Another, in California, who vanished, his abandoned rental car parked near a bridge, his body never located. A third in 2001 found on the side of an English country road, the apparent victim of a hit and run. A fourth murdered in a French farmhouse. Another died uniquely, his body discovered ten years ago trapped in the airlock to the walk-in refrigerator at his lab. Five died simultaneously in 1999 when their private plane crashed into the Black Sea.
“All worked for our competitors,” he said. “They were making progress. Too much. So, Grant, do as I say. Be grateful for the opportunity I’ve given you, and we’ll both live to be rich, old men.”
“You won’t have any trouble from me.”
He thought he’d guessed right choosing this soul. Lyndsey had handled Zovastina masterfully, never once compromising the antiagents. He’d also maintained security at the lab. Everything had played out perfectly, in no small part thanks to this man.
“I am curious about one thing,” Lyndsey said.
He decided to indulge him.
“Why now? You’ve held the cure. Why not wait longer?”
“Zovastina’s war plan makes the time right. We had a vehicle, through her, where the research could be completed without anyone knowing any better. I see no reason to wait any longer. I just have to stop Zovastina before she goes too far. And what of you, Grant? Now that you know, does all this bother you?”
“You held that secret twenty years. I only found out an hour ago. Not my problem.”
He smiled. Good attitude. “There’ll be a spate of publicity. You’ll be a part of that. But I control everything you say, so watch your words. You should be seen far more than heard. Soon your name will be ranked with the greats.” He swept his hands across an invisible marquee. “Grant Lyndsey, one of the slayers of HIV.”
“Has a nice ring to it.”
“We’re going public within the next thirty days. In the meantime I’m going to want you to work with my patent lawyers. I plan to tell them tomorrow of our breakthrough. When the actual announcement is made, I want you at the podium. I also want samples-they’ll make great photo ops. And slides of the bacteria. We’ll have the PR people make pictures. It’ll be quite a show.”
“Do others know about this?”
He shook his head. “Not a soul, save for a woman back at the house who is, at this moment, experiencing the benefits. We need someone to show off and she’s as good as any.”
Lyndsey stepped to the other pool. Interesting that he’d not noticed what lay in the bottom of each, which was another reason he’d chosen this man. “I told you that this is an ancient place. See the letters at the bottom of the pools?”
Lyndsey found both.
“They mean life in old Greek. How they got there, I have no idea. I managed to learn from that old healer that Greeks once worshipped this area, so that might explain it. They called this mountain Klimax. Ladder, in English. Why? Probably had a lot to do with what the Asians named this place. Arima. I decided to use their name for the estate.”
“I saw the sign at the gate when I drove in. Attico. What does it mean?”
“It’s Italian for Arima. Means the same. Place at the top, like an attic.”
SAMARKAND
ZOVASTINA MARCHED INTO THE PALACE’S AUDIENCE CHAMBER and faced a thin man with bushy gray hair. Her foreign minister, Kamil Revin, was also there, sitting to one side. Protocol demanded his presence. The American introduced himself as Edwin Davis and produced a letter from the president of the United States that attested to his credentials.
“If I may, Minister,” Davis said in a light tone, “could we speak in private?”
She was puzzled. “Anything you would tell me, I would pass on to Kamil anyway.”
“I doubt you would pass on what we’ll be discussing.”
The words came out as a challenge, but the envoy’s facial expression never broke, so she decided to be cautious. “Leave us,” she said to Kamil.
The younger man hesitated. But after Venice and Karyn, she was not in the mood.
“Now,” she said.
Her foreign minister rose and left.
“Do you always treat your people like that?”
“This is not a democracy. Men like Kamil do as told, or-”
“One of your germs will visit their bodies.”
She should have known that even more people knew her business. But this time it ran straight to Washington. “I don’t recall your president ever complaining of the peace the Federation has brought to this region. Once this whole area was a problem, now America enjoys the benefits of a friend. And governing here is not a matter of persuasion. It’s about strength.”
“Don’t misunderstand, Minister. Your methods are not our concern. We agree. Having a friend is worth the occasional”-Davis hesitated-“personnel replacement.” His cold eyes communicated a look of begrudging respect. “Minister, I’ve come here to personally tell you something. The president did not think the usual diplomatic channels appropriate. This conversation needs to remain between us, as friends.”
What choice did she have? “All right.”
“Do you know a woman named Karyn Walde?”
Her legs tightened as emotions ricocheted through her. But she held her composure and decided to be honest. “I do. What of it?”
“She was kidnapped last night. From a house here in Samarkand. She was once your lover, and is currently afflicted with AIDS.”
She fought to maintain a dull look. “You seem to know a lot about my life.”
“We like to know all we can about our friends. Unlike you, we live in an open society where all of our secrets are either on television or the Internet.”
“And what brought you to delve into mine?”
“Does that matter? It’s fortuitous that we did.”
“And what do you know about Karyn’s disappearance?”
“A man named Enrico Vincenti took her. She’s being held at his estate, here in the Federation. Land he purchased as part of your deal with the Venetian League.”
The message was clear. This man knew many things.
“I’m also here to say that Cassiopeia Vitt is not your problem.”
She concealed her surprise.
“Vincenti. He’s your problem.”
“And why is that?”
“I’ll admit that this is just speculation on our part. In most places of the world, nobody would care about your sexual orientation. True, you were once married but, from what we’ve been able to learn, it was for appearances. He died tragically-”
“He and I never had a cross word. He understood why he was there. I actually liked him.”
“That’s not our concern, and I didn’t mean to insult. But you have remained unmarried since. Karyn Walde worked for you for a time. One of your secretaries. So, I imagine, having a private relationship with her proved easy. No one paid much attention, so long as you were careful. But central Asia is not western Europe.” Davis reached into his jacket and removed a small recorder. “Let me play something for you.” He activated the unit and stood it upright on the table between them.
“And it’s good to know your information was accurate.”
“I wouldn’t have bothered you with fantasy.”
“But you still haven’t said how you knew someone would try to kill me today.”
“The League watches over its members, and you, Supreme Minister, are one of our most important.”
“You’re so full of it, Enrico.”
Davis switched off the recorder. “You and Vincenti, talking on the phone two days ago. An international call. Easily monitored.”
He pushed “Play” again.
“We need to talk.”
“Your payment for saving my life?”
“Your end of our bargain, as we originally discussed long ago.”
“I’ll be ready to meet with the Council in a few days. First, there are things I need to resolve.”
“I’m more interested in when you and I will meet.”
“I’m sure you are. I am, too, actually. But there are things I must complete.”
“My time on the Council ends soon. Thereafter, you’ll have others to deal with. They may not be as accommodating.”
“I do enjoy dealing with you, Enrico. We so understand each other.”
“We need to talk.”
“Soon. First, you have that other problem we spoke about. The Americans.”
“Not to worry, I plan to deal with that today.”
Davis switched off the machine. “Vincenti dealt with the problem. He killed one of our agents. We found her body, along with another man, the one who arranged for your assassination.”
“You allowed her to die? Knowing of the conversation?”
“Unfortunately, we did not have this recording until after she disappeared.”
She didn’t like the way Davis’ eyes flickered between her and the recorder-along with the strange uneasiness that accompanied her growing anger.
“Apparently, you and Vincenti are engaged in some sort of joint venture. I’m here-again, as your friend-to tell you that he intends to change that deal. Here’s what we think. Vincenti needs you out of power. With Karyn Walde, he can shame you from office or, at a minimum, cause you enormous political problems. Homosexuality is not accepted here. Religious fundamentalists, whom you keep on a tight leash, would finally have the ammunition to fire back. You’d have problems so massive, not even your germs could ease them.”
She’d never considered the possibility before, but what the American said made sense. Why else would Vincenti take Karyn? Yet there was something that needed to be mentioned. “Like you said, she’s dying of AIDS and may already be dead.”
“Vincenti’s no fool. Maybe he believes a dying declaration could actually carry more weight. You’d have a lot of questions to answer-about that house, why Walde was there, the nurse. I’m told that she knows things, along with many of your Sacred Band, who guarded the house. Vincenti has the nurse, too. That’s a lot of people to contain.”
“This isn’t America. Television can be controlled.”
“But can fundamentalism? Along with the fact that you have plenty of enemies who’d like to take your place. I think the man who just left here falls into that category. By the way, he met with Vincenti last night, too. Picked him up at the airport and drove him into the city.”
This man was superbly informed.
“Minister, we don’t want Vincenti to succeed with whatever he’s planning. That’s why I’m here. To offer our assistance. We’re aware of your trip to Venice and of Cassiopeia Vitt returning here with you. Again she’s not a problem. In fact, she knows quite a bit about what you were seeking in Venice. There’s information you missed.”
“Tell me what it is.”
“If I knew, I would. You’ll have to ask Vitt. She and her two associates, Henrik Thorvaldsen and Cotton Malone, are aware of something called Ptolemy’s riddle and objects known as elephant medallions.” Davis held up his hands in a mock surrender. “Don’t know. Don’t care. That’s your business. All I know is that there was something to find in Venice, which you apparently missed. If you already are aware, I apologize for wasting your time. But President Daniels wanted you to know that, like the Venetian League, he, too, looks after his friends.”
Enough. This man needed to be put in his place. “You must take me for an idiot.”
They exchanged glances, but no words.
“Tell your president I don’t need his help.”
Davis appeared offended.
“If I were you,” she said, “I’d leave this Federation as quickly as you came.”
“A threat, Minister?”
She shook her head. “Just a comment.”
“Strange way to talk to a friend.”
She stood. “You’re not my friend.”
THE DOOR CLOSED AS EDWIN DAVIS LEFT THE CHAMBER. HER mind churned with an ability she’d always managed when seizing an opportune moment.
Kamil Revin reentered and walked to her desk. She studied her foreign minister. Vincenti thought himself clever, cultivating him to be a spy. But this Russian-educated Asian, who professed to be a Muslim but never entered a mosque, had acted as the perfect conduit for disinformation. She’d dismissed him earlier from her meeting with Davis because he could not repeat what he did not know.
“You failed to mention that Vincenti was in the Federation,” she said.
Revin shrugged. “He came in last night on business. He’s at the Intercontinental, as always.”
“He’s at his estate in the mountains.”
She noticed the surprise in the younger man’s eyes. Real? Or an act? Hard to say with this one. But he seemed to sense her suspicion.
“Minister, I’ve been your ally. I’ve lied for you. I’ve delivered enemies to you. I’ve watched Vincenti for years and have faithfully acted as you instructed.”
She had not the time to argue. “Then show your loyalty. I have a special task that only you can perform.”
STEPHANIE LIKED SEEING HENRIK THORVALDSEN FRAZZLED. They’d flown from Aviano Air Base in two F-16s, she in one, Thorvaldsen the other. They’d followed Malone and Edwin Davis, who’d landed in Samarkand, then she and Thorvaldsen continued eastward, landing at Kashgar, just across the Federation border into China. Thorvaldsen did not like to fly. A necessary evil, he called it before they’d suited up. But a ride on a supersonic fighter jet was no ordinary flight. She’d ridden behind the pilot, where the weapons system officer usually sat. Exhilarating and terrifying, the bumps and grinds at over thirteen hundred miles per hour had kept her on edge the entire two hours.
“I cannot believe I did that,” Thorvaldsen was saying.
She noticed that he was still shaking. A car had been waiting for them at the Kashgar airport. The Chinese government had cooperated fully with all of Daniels’ requests. They were apparently quite concerned about their neighbor and willing even to partner with Washington in order to discover if their fears were real or imagined.
“It wasn’t that bad,” she said.
“Here’s a memo to file. Never, ever, no matter what anyone says, fly in one of those things.”
She grinned. They were driving through the Pamirs, in Federation territory, the border crossing nothing more than a welcome sign. They’d climbed in elevation, passing through a succession of barren rounded spurs and equally barren valleys. She knew that pamir was the name for this particular type of valley, places where winter loomed long and rainfall was sparse. Lots of coarse wormwood scrub, dwarf pine, with occasional patches of rich pasture. Mostly uninhabited country, villages here and there and the occasional yurts, which clearly distinguished the scenery from the Alps or the Pyrenees, where she and Thorvaldsen had last been together.
“I’ve read about this area,” she said. “But I’ve never been to this part of the world before. Pretty incredible.”
“Ely loved the Pamirs. He spoke of them religiously. And I can see why.”
“Did you know him well?”
“Oh, yes. I knew his parents. He and my son were close. He practically lived at Christiangade when he and Cai were boys.”
Thorvaldsen appeared weary in the passenger seat, and not because of the flight. She knew better. “Cotton will look after Cassiopeia.”
“I doubt if Zovastina has Ely.” Thorvaldsen seemed suddenly resigned. “Viktor’s right. He’s probably dead.”
The road flattened as they motored through one of the mountain passes and into another valley. The air outside was surprisingly warm, the lower elevations devoid of snow. Without question, the Central Asian Federation was blessed with natural wonder, but she’d read the CIA fact sheets. The Federation had targeted the entire area for economic development. Electricity, telephone, water, and sewer services were being extended, along with an upgrade of roads. This highway seemed a prime example-the asphalt appeared new.
The candle with the gold leaf still wrapped around it lay within a stainless-steel container on the rear seat. A modern-day scytale displaying a single Old Greek word.. Where did it lead? They had no idea, but maybe something in Ely Lund’s mountain retreat would help explain its significance. They’d also come armed. Two 9mms and spare magazines. Courtesy of the U.S. military and allowed by the Chinese.
“Malone’s plan,” she said, “might work.”
But she agreed with Cotton. Random assets, like Viktor, were not reliable. She much preferred a seasoned agent, someone who cared about retirement.
“Malone cares for Cassiopeia,” Thorvaldsen said. “He won’t say it, but he does. I see it in his eyes.”
“I saw the pain on his face when you told him she’s sick.”
“That’s one reason why I thought she and Ely could relate to each other. Their mutual afflictions somehow became part of their attraction.”
They passed through two more sparse villages and kept driving west. Finally, just as Cassiopeia had told Thorvaldsen, the road forked, and they veered north. Ten kilometers later the landscape became more wooded. Ahead, beside a hard-packed drive that disappeared into the blackened woods, she spotted a sarissa plunged into the earth. Hanging from it was a small sign upon which was painted “Soma.”
“Ely named the place appropriately,” she said. “Like Alexander’s tomb in Egypt.”
She turned and the car bumped and swayed up the rough path. The lane climbed a quarter mile into the trees where it ended at a single-storied cabin, fashioned of rough-hewn timber planks. A covered porch shielded the front door.
“Looks like something from northern Denmark,” Thorvaldsen said. “Doesn’t surprise me. I’m sure it was a bit of home for him.”
She parked and they stepped out into the warm afternoon. The woods all around them loomed quiet. Through the trees, northward she believed, more mountains could be seen. An eagle soared overhead.
The cabin’s front door opened.
They both turned.
A man stepped out.
He was tall and handsome, with wavy blond hair. He wore jeans and a long-sleeved shirt with boots. Thorvaldsen stood rigid but his eyes instantly softened, the Dane’s thoughts easily read as to the man’s identity.
Ely Lund.
SAMARKAND
11:40 A.M.
CASSIOPEIA SMELLED WET HAY AND HORSES AND KNEW SHE WAS being held near a stable. The room was some sort of guesthouse, the furnishings adequate but not elegant, probably for staff. Boarded shutters closed the windows from the world, the door was locked and, she assumed, guarded. On the walk from the palace she’d noticed armed men on rooftop perches. Fleeing from this prison could prove dicey.
The room was equipped with a phone that did not work, and a television fed by no signal. She sat on the bed and wondered what was next. She’d managed to get herself to Asia. Now what? She’d tried to bait Zovastina, playing off the woman’s obsessions. How successful she’d been was hard to tell. Something had bothered the Supreme Minister at the airport. Enough that Cassiopeia suddenly was not a priority. But at least she was still alive.
A key scraped the lock and the door swung open.
Viktor entered, followed by two armed men.
“Get up,” he said.
She sat still.
“You shouldn’t ignore me.”
He lunged forward and backhanded her across the face, propelling her off the bed and to the carpet. She recovered and sprang to her feet, ready for a fight. Both of the men standing behind Viktor leveled their guns.
“That was for Rafael,” her captor said.
Rage filled her eyes. But she knew this man was doing exactly what was expected of him. Thorvaldsen had said he was an ally, albeit a secret one. So she played along. “You’re tough when backed up by men with guns.”
Viktor chuckled. “I’m afraid of you? Is that what you’re saying?”
She dabbed her busted lower lip.
Viktor leaped onto her and twisted an arm behind her back. He wrenched her wrist toward her shoulders. He was strong, but she had trust that he knew what he was doing, so she surrendered. Cuffs clamped one wrist, then the other. Her ankles were likewise shackled while Viktor held her down, then rolled her onto her back.
“Bring her,” he ordered.
The two men grabbed her by the feet and shoulders, carrying her outside, down a graveled path to the stables. There, she was tossed, stomach first, across the back of a horse. Blood rushed to her head as she dangled, facing the ground. Viktor tied her secure with a coarse rope, then led the horse outside.
He and three other men walked with the animal in silence, across a grassy stretch about the size of two soccer fields. Goats dotted the field, feeding, and tall trees lined its perimeter. Leaving the open expanse, they entered a forest and threaded a path to a clearing encircled by more trees.
She was untied, slid from the horse’s back, and stood upright. It took a few moments for the blood to drain from her head. The scene flashed in and out, then clarity came and she saw two tall poplars had been bent to the ground and tied to a third tree. Ropes led from the top of each tree and lay on the ground. She was dragged toward them, her hands freed from the cuffs, her wrists tied to each rope.
Then the shackles were removed.
She stood, arms extended, and realized what would happen if the two trees were freed from their restraint.
Out of the woods, another horse approached. A tall, gangly steed atop which rode Irina Zovastina. The Supreme Minister was dressed in leather boots and a quilted leather jacket. She surveyed the scene, dismissed Viktor and the other men, then dismounted.
“Just you and me,” Zovastina said.
VIKTOR SPURRED THE HORSE AND RACED BACK TO THE STABLES. AS soon as he’d arrived at the palace, Zovastina had ordered him to prepare the trees. It was not the first time. Three years ago she’d similarly executed a man who’d plotted revolution. No way to convert him, so she’d tied him between the trunks, brought his coconspirators to watch, then slashed the bindings herself. His body had been ravaged as the trees righted themselves, part of him dangling from one, the rest from the other. Afterward, his compatriots had been easily converted.
The horse galloped into the corral.
MALONE WAITED IN THE TACK ROOM. VIKTOR HAD SMUGGLED him into the palace inside the trunk of a car. No one had questioned or searched the chief of the guard. Once the car was parked in the palace garage, he’d slipped out and Viktor had provided him with palace credentials. Only Zovastina would recognize him and, with Viktor as his escort, they’d easily walked to the stables, where Viktor said he could wait in safety.
He did not like anything about this situation. Both he and Cassiopeia were at the mercy of a man they knew nothing about, besides Edwin Davis’ assurance that Viktor had, so far, proven reliable. He could only hope that Davis would confuse Zovastina enough to buy them time. He still carried his gun and he’d sat patient for the past hour. No sounds came from outside the door.
The stables themselves were magnificent, befitting the supreme leader of a massive Federation. He’d counted forty bays when Viktor had first brought him inside. The tack room was equipped with a variety of quality saddles and expensive equipment. He was no expert rider, but knew how to handle a horse. The room’s one window opened to the stable’s rear, and offered no view.
Enough. Time to act.
He drew his gun and opened the door.
No one in sight.
He turned right and headed for the open barn doorway at the far end, passing stalls accommodating some impressive-looking steeds.
He spotted a rider, beyond the doors, racing straight for the stables. He shifted and hugged the wall, approaching the exit, gun ready. Hooves ground to a halt and he heard the coarse exhales of the horse, exhausted from the gallop.
The rider slid from the saddle.
Feet pounded the earth.
He readied himself. A man rushed inside, then stopped abruptly and turned. Viktor.
“You don’t follow instructions well. I told you to stay in the tack room.”
He lowered the gun. “Needed some air.”
“I ordered this place cleared, but somebody might still have come out.”
He wasn’t in the mood for a lecture. “What’s happening?”
“It’s Vitt. She’s in trouble.”
STEPHANIE WATCHED THORVALDSEN CLAMP ELY LUND IN A FERVENT embrace, like the affection of a father who’d found a lost son.
“It’s so wonderful to see you,” Thorvaldsen said. “I thought you were gone.”
“What in the world are you doing here?” Ely asked, amazement in his voice.
Thorvaldsen seemed to recover his composure and introduced Stephanie.
“Ely,” she said, “we’re kind of like an Egyptian mummy. Pressed for time. Lots happening. Can we talk?”
He led them both inside. The cabin was a dull place, sparsely furnished with lots of books, magazines, and papers. She noticed nothing electrical.
“No power here,” he said. “I cook with gas and heat with wood. But there’s clean water and lots of privacy.”
“How did you get here?” Thorvaldsen asked. “Is Zovastina holding you?”
A puzzled look came to the man’s face. “Not at all. She saved my life. She’s been protecting me.”
They listened as Ely explained how a man had barged into his Samarkand house and held him at gunpoint. But before anything had happened, another man saved him, killing the first. Then, his house was burned with the attacker inside. Ely had been taken to Zovastina, where she explained that her political enemies had targeted him. He was secretly brought to the cabin, where he’d remained the past few months. Only a solitary guard, who lived in the village, came to check on him twice a day and brought supplies.
“The guard has a mobile phone,” Ely said. “That’s how Zovastina and I communicate.”
Stephanie needed to know, “You told her about Ptolemy’s riddle? About elephant medallions and Alexander’s lost tomb?”
Ely grinned. “She loves to talk about it. The Iliad is a passion of hers. Anything Greek, for that matter. She’s asked me lots of questions. Still does, almost every day. And, yes, I told her all about the medallions and the lost tomb.”
She could see that Ely had no conception of what was happening, of the danger all of them, including him, were in. “Cassiopeia is Zovastina’s prisoner. Her life could be at stake.”
She saw all of the confidence leave him. “Cassiopeia’s here? In the Federation? Why would the Supreme Minister want to harm her?”
“Ely,” Thorvaldsen said, “let’s just say that Zovastina is not your savior. She’s your jailer, though she’s constructed a clever jail-one that kept you contained without much effort.”
“You don’t know how many times I wanted to call Cassiopeia. But the Supreme Minister said we needed secrecy right now. I might place others in jeopardy, including Cassiopeia, if I involved them. She assured me all this would be over soon, and I could call who I wanted and go back to work.”
Stephanie decided to get to the point. “We solved Ptolemy’s riddle. We found a scytale that contained a word.” She handed him a square of paper upon which was written. “Can you translate it?”
“Klimax. Old Greek for ladder.”
“What possible significance could that have?” she asked.
He seemed to shake himself free of any speculation. “Is this in the context of the riddle?”
“It’s supposedly the place where the grave is located. Touch the innermost being of the golden illusion. Divide the phoenix. Life provides the measure of the true grave. We did all that and”-she pointed to the paper-“that’s what we found.”
Ely seemed to grasp the enormity with no prompting. He stepped across to one of the tables and plucked a book from one of the stacks. He thumbed through, found what he was after, then flattened the volume on the table. She and Thorvaldsen stepped close and saw a map labeled “Alexander’s Bactrian Conquests.”
“Alexander swept eastward and took what is today Afghanistan and the Federation-what was once Turkmenistan, Tajikistan, and Kyrgyzstan. He never crossed the Pamirs into China. Instead, he veered south to India, where his conquests ended when his army revolted.” Ely pointed to the map. “The area here, between the Jaxartes and Oxus Rivers, Alexander conquered in 330 BCE. To the south was the land of Bactria. To the north Scythia.”
She instantly connected the dots. “That’s where Alexander learned about the draught from the Scythians.”
Ely seemed impressed. “That’s right. Samarkand existed then, in a region called Sogdiana, though the city itself was named Maracanda. Alexander established one of his many Alexandrias, here, calling it Alexandria Eschate, the Furthest. It was the city most east in his empire, and one of the last he founded.”
Ely traced his finger on the map and noted, with a pen, an X. “Klimax was a mountain, here, in what was once Tajikistan, now in the Federation. A place revered by the Scythians and, later, by Alexander, after he negotiated a peace with them. It was said that their kings were buried in these mountains, though no evidence of that has ever been found. The museum in Samarkand sent a couple of expeditions to look around, but found nothing. Pretty barren place, in fact.”
“It’s exactly where the scytale points,” Thorvaldsen said. “Have you been to the area?”
Ely nodded. “Two years ago. Part of an expedition. I’m told that a good bit of this is now privately owned. One of my colleagues at the museum said there’s a huge estate at the base of the mountain. A monstrous thing. Under construction.”
Stephanie recalled what Edwin Davis had told her about the Venetian League. Members were buying property, so she played a hunch. “Do you know who owns it?”
He shook his head. “No idea.”
“We need to go,” Thorvaldsen said. “Ely, can you lead us there?”
The younger man nodded. “It’s about three hours south.”
“How are you feeling?”
Stephanie realized what the Dane meant.
“She knows,” Thorvaldsen said. “Ordinarily, I would have never said a thing, but these are far from ordinary times.”
“Zovastina has been supplying my daily medications. I told you she’s been good to me. How’s Cassiopeia?”
Thorvaldsen shook head. “Unfortunately, I’m afraid her health may well be the least of her worries.”
A car engine grew louder outside.
Stephanie stiffened and raced to the window. A man slid out of an Audi with an automatic rifle.
“My guard,” Ely said over her shoulder. “From the village.”
The man shot out the tires on their car.
SAMARKAND
CASSIOPEIA WAS HAVING TROUBLE GAUGING ZOVASTINA.
“I was just visited by the deputy national security adviser to the American president. He told me the same thing you said at the airport. That I missed something in Venice and that you know what that is.”
“And you think this is going to get me to tell you?”
Zovastina admired the two stout trees, their trunks held close to the ground by a coiled rope. “I had this clearing prepared years ago. Several have felt the agony of being torn apart alive. A couple of them actually survived their arms being ripped from their bodies. It took a few minutes for them to bleed to death.” She shook her head. “Horrible way to leave this world.”
Cassiopeia was helpless. Little she could do but try and bluff her way out. Viktor, who was supposedly here to help, had done nothing but make her situation worse.
“After Hephaestion died, Alexander killed his personal physician this same way. I thought it ingenious, so I resurrected the practice.”
“I’m all you have,” she said in a flat tone.
Zovastina seemed curious. “Really? And what is it you have?”
“Apparently, Ely didn’t share with you what he did with me.”
Zovastina stepped close. She was a muscular woman, sallow-faced. Worrisome was the transient look of madness that occasionally revealed itself in anxious dark eyes. Especially now, when her guts were being stoked with both curiosity and anger. “Do you know the Iliad? When Achilles finally vents his anger and kills Hector, he says something interesting. I only wish my fury would compel me to cut away your flesh and eat it raw for what you’ve done. No one can keep the dogs off of your head, not if they brought me ransom of ten or twenty times as much, or more. Tell me, why are you here?”
“You brought me.”
“You never resisted.”
“You risked a lot coming to Venice. Why? It couldn’t be all political.”
She noticed that Zovastina’s eyes seemed a bit less belligerent.
“Sometimes we’re called upon to act for others. To risk things. No quest worth the effort is without risk. I’ve been searching for Alexander’s grave, hoping there might be answers there to some perplexing problems. Ely surely told you about Alexander’s draught. Who knows if there’s anything there? But to find the place. How glorious that would be.”
Zovastina spoke more in wonder than anger. She seemed genuinely moved by the thought. On the one hand she cast herself a foolish romantic, consumed with notions of greatness gained from dangerous quests. On the other, according to Thorvaldsen, she was plotting the death of millions.
Zovastina clamped Cassiopeia’s chin in a strong hold. “You need to tell me now what you know.”
“The priest lied to you. In the basilica’s treasury is an amulet that was found in the remains of St. Mark. A heart scarab with a phoenix carved into it. Remember the riddle. Touch the innermost being. Divide the phoenix.”
Zovastina seemed not to hear her. “You are beautiful.” Her breath stank of onion. “But you’re a liar and a cheat. Here to deceive me.”
Zovastina released her grip and stepped away.
Cassiopeia heard the bleating of goats.
MALONE MOUNTED THE HORSE.
“None of the roof guards will pay us any attention,” Viktor said. “You’re with me.”
Viktor hopped back onto his ride. “They’re beyond the playing field, in the woods. She’s planning on killing Vitt.”
“What are we waiting for?”
Viktor kicked his horse. Malone followed.
They galloped from the corral toward an open field. He noticed striped poles at each end and an earthen pan in its center and knew what was played here. Buzkashi. He’d read about the game, its violence, how deaths were routine, the barbarity and beauty it simultaneously displayed. Zovastina was apparently a connoisseur and the stabled horses were surely bred to participate, like the steed beneath him, loping forward with uncanny speed and ability. Littered across the grassy field were goats that seemed to provide an excellent manicure service. Maybe a hundred or more, and large, scattering as the horses thundered past.
He glanced back and noticed gun posts atop the palace. As Viktor had predicted, no one seemed alarmed, surely accustomed to their Supreme Minister’s exploits. Ahead, at the far end of the field, stood a thick stand of trees. Two paths cut a route into them. Viktor brought his horse to a stop. Malone reined his in, too. His legs dangled against dark streaks of sweat on the animal’s flanks.
“They’re maybe a hundred meters down that trail, in another clearing. It’s up to you now.”
He slid from the saddle, gun in hand.
“WE HAVE A PROBLEM,” STEPHANIE SAID. “IS THERE ANOTHER WAY out of here?”
Ely motioned toward the kitchen.
She and Thorvaldsen rushed forward just as the cabin’s front door burst inward. The man barked orders in a language she did not understand. She found the kitchen door and opened it, cautioning Thorvaldsen for quiet. Ely was speaking to the man in the same language.
She slipped outside. Thorvaldsen followed.
Automatic gunfire exploded from inside the cabin and bullets ripped into the heavy timbers behind them.
They fell to the ground as a window exploded. Glass showered outward. Bullets found trees. She heard Ely yell something to their attacker and used that instant to spring to her feet and race around the cabin toward the car. Thorvaldsen remained on the ground, struggling to stand, and she could only hope Ely delayed the guard long enough.
She reached the car, opened the rear door, and gripped one of the automatics.
Thorvaldsen rounded the cabin.
She assumed a defensive position with the car as a buffer, aiming across the hood, and motioned with the gun for Henrik to go right onto the front porch. He veered out of her line of fire, just as the guard appeared, his rifle leveled waist high. He seemed to spot Thorvaldsen first and pivoted to adjust his aim.
She fired twice.
Both bullets found the man’s chest.
She fired twice more.
The guard collapsed to the ground.
Silence gripped her. She did not move until Ely appeared from behind the dead guardsman. Thorvaldsen stepped off the porch. Her gun was still aimed, both hands locked on the stock. Shaking. She’d killed a man.
Her first.
Thorvaldsen walked toward her. “You okay?”
“I’ve heard others talk about it. I told them it was their job. But now I understand. Killing someone is a big deal.”
“You had no choice.”
Ely walked over. “He wouldn’t listen. I told him you weren’t a threat.”
“But we are,” Thorvaldsen said. “I’m sure his orders were for no one to make contact with you. That would be the last thing Zovastina would want.”
Stephanie’s mind began to clear. “We need to leave.”
MALONE ADVANCED INTO THE WOODS, BLACK AND SILENT AND seemingly filled with threats. He spied a clearing ahead where sunshine spread unaffected by the leafy canopy. He glanced back and did not see Viktor, but understood why the man had disappeared. He heard voices, so he increased his pace, stopping behind a thick trunk near the path’s end.
He saw Cassiopeia. Tied between two trees. Her arms stretched outward. Irina Zovastina standing beside her.
Viktor was right.
Big trouble.
ZOVASTINA WAS BOTH INTRIGUED AND IRRITATED WITH CASSIOPEIA Vitt. “You don’t seem to care that you’re about to die.”
“If I cared, I wouldn’t have come with you.”
She decided it was time to give the woman a reason to live. “You asked on the plane about Ely. Whether he was alive. I didn’t answer you. Don’t you want to know?”
“I wouldn’t believe a word you said.”
She shrugged. “That’s a fair statement. I wouldn’t, either.”
She found a phone in her pocket and pushed one of the buttons.
STEPHANIE HEARD A RINGING. HER GAZE SHOT TO THE DEAD MAN lying on the rocky ground.
Thorvaldsen heard it, too.
“It’s Zovastina,” Ely said. “She calls me on the phone he brings.”
She darted to the body, found the unit, and said to Ely, “Answer it.”
CASSIOPEIA LISTENED AS ZOVASTINA SAID, “THERE’S SOMEONE here who wants to talk to you.”
Zovastina placed the phone close to her ear. She had no intention of saying anything, but the voice that came from the other side of the call sent an electric shock down her spine.
“What is it, Minister?” A pause. “Minister?”
She could not help herself. The voice confirmed all her doubts.
“Ely. It’s Cassiopeia.”
Silence greeted her.
“Ely? Are you there?” Her eyes burned.
“I’m here. Just shocked. It’s good to hear your voice.”
“Yours, too.” Emotion surged through her. Everything had changed.
“What are you doing here?” Ely asked.
“Looking for you. I knew…I hoped you weren’t dead.” She tried to maintain a tight grip on her emotions. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine, but I’m worried about you. Henrik’s here with a woman named Stephanie Nelle.”
That was news. Cassiopeia tried to shove her apprehension aside and focus. Apparently, Zovastina was unaware of what was happening wherever Ely was being held. “Tell the minister what you just told me.”
Zovastina listened into the phone.
STEPHANIE HEARD ELY REPEAT HIMSELF. SHE UNDERSTOOD THE shock Cassiopeia must be experiencing, but why did Cassiopeia want Ely to tell the Supreme Minister they were here?
ZOVASTINA SAID INTO THE PHONE, “WHEN DID YOUR FRIEND Thorvaldsen and this woman arrive?”
“A short while ago. Your guard tried to kill them, but he’s dead.”
“Minister,” a new voice said in her ear, one she instantly recognized.
Thorvaldsen.
“We have Ely.”
“And I have Cassiopeia Vitt. I’d say she has another ten minutes or so to live.”
“We solved the riddle.”
“Lots of talk. From you and Vitt. Anything to back it up?”
“Oh, yes. We’ll be at the grave before nightfall. But you’ll never know.”
“You’re in my Federation,” she made clear.
“Except that we were able to enter, take your prisoner, and leave with him without you ever knowing.”
“But you made a point to tell me.”
“The only thing you have that I want is Cassiopeia. Call back if you want to bargain.”
And the call ended.
“YOU THINK THAT WAS SMART?” STEPHANIE ASKED THORVALDSEN.
“We have to keep her off balance.”
“But we don’t know what’s happening there.”
“Tell me what I don’t know.”
She could see Thorvaldsen was worried.
“We have to trust that Cotton is handling things,” he said.
ZOVASTINA FOUGHT THE FEELING OF UNEASINESS THAT SWEPT through her. These people fought hard, she’d give them that.
She freed a knife from its leather sleeve. “Your friends are here. And they have Ely. Unfortunately, contrary to what Thorvaldsen may think, he has nothing I want.”
She stepped close to the bundle of rope. “I’d much prefer to watch you die.”
MALONE SAW AND HEARD EVERYTHING. ELY LUND WAS APPARENTLY on the phone. He saw how Cassiopeia had been affected, but he also realized that someone else had come onto the call. Henrik? Stephanie? They were surely with Lund by now.
He could wait no longer. He rushed from his hiding place. “That’s enough.”
Zovastina stood with her back to him. He saw that she’d stopped her assault on the ropes.
“The knife,” he said. “Let it go.”
Cassiopeia watched him with a look of anticipation. He felt it, too. A bad feeling. Almost as if he’d been expected.
Two men stepped from the trees, weapons trained on him.
“Mr. Malone,” Zovastina said, as she turned toward him with a grim look of satisfaction on her face. “You can’t kill us all.”