“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.”
SIXTY-SIX
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.”
SIXTY-SEVEN
V
INCENTI 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 ancien
t 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.”
SIXTY-EIGHT
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.”