by Steve Berry
“Your pope doesn't scare me,” Zovastina said to Michener.
“It's not our intent to scare anyone.”
“You're a sanctimonious hypocrite.”
Michener said nothing.
“Not much to say?” she asked.
“I'll pray for you, Minister.”
She spit at his feet. “I don't need your prayers, priest.” She motioned toward Cassiopeia. “Time to go. Leave the bow and arrows. You won't be needing them.”
Cassiopeia dropped both to the floor.
“Here's her gun,” Viktor said, and he handed over the weapon.
“Once we're away, I'll call. If you don't hear from me in three hours, kill the priest. And Viktor,”
she paused, “make sure he suffers.”
Viktor and Michener left the presbytery and walked through the darkened nave.
“Shall we?” Zovastina said to Cassiopeia. “I assume you'll behave yourself?”
“Like I have a choice.”
“The priest will appreciate it.”
They left the presbytery.
Malone turned to Thorvaldsen. “And they're just going to leave, with no response from us?”
“It had to be done,” Stephanie said, as she and another man stepped from the shadows of the south transept. She introduced the lean man as Edwin Davis, deputy national security adviser, the voice from the phone earlier. Everything about him was neat and restrained, from the pressed slacks and stiff cotton shirt, to his shiny, narrow calf-leather shoes. Malone ignored Davis and asked Stephanie, “Why did it have to be done?”
Thorvaldsen answered. “We weren't sure what was going to happen. We were just trying to make something happen.”
“You wanted Cassiopeia to be taken?”
Thorvaldsen shook his head. “I didn't. But Cassiopeia apparently did. I could see it in her eyes, so I seized the moment and accommodated her. That's why I asked you to drop your weapon.”
“Are you nuts?”
Thorvaldsen stepped closer. “Cotton, three years ago I introduced Ely and Cassiopeia.”
“What does that have to do with anything?”
“When Ely was young, he foolishly experimented with drugs. He wasn't careful with needles and, sadly, contracted HIV. He managed the disease well, taking various cocktail combinations, but the odds were not in his favor. Most of those infected eventually contract AIDS and die. He was lucky.”
He waited for more.
“Cassiopeia shares his illness.”
Had he heard right?
“A blood transfusion, ten years ago. She takes the symptomatic drugs and manages her disease, as well.”
He was shocked, but a lot of her comments now made sense. “How's that possible? She's so active. Strong.”
“Take the drugs every day and you can be, provided the virus cooperates.”
He stared at Stephanie. “You knew?”
“Edwin told me before we came out here. Henrik told him. He and Henrik have been waiting for us to arrive. That's why Michener took me aside.”
“So what were me and Cassiopeia? Expendables? With deniability?” he asked Davis.
“Something like that. We had no idea what Zovastina would do.”
“You sorry son of a bitch.” He moved toward Davis.
“Cotton,” Thorvaldsen said, “I approved it. Be mad at me.”
He stopped and stared at his friend. “What gave you that right?”
“When you and Cassiopeia left Copenhagen, President Daniels called. He told me what happened to Stephanie in Amsterdam and asked what we knew. I told him. He suggested I could be useful here.”
“Along with me? That why you lied to me about Stephanie being in trouble?”
Thorvaldsen cast a glance toward Davis. “Actually, I'm a bit perturbed about that, too. I only told you what they told me. It seems the president wanted all of us involved.”
He looked at Davis. “I don't like the way you do business.”
“Fair enough. But I have to do what I have to do.”
“Cotton,” Thorvaldsen said, “there was little time to think this through. I was improvising as it happened.”
“You think?”
“But I didn't believe Zovastina would do anything foolish here in the basilica. She couldn't. And she'd be caught totally off guard. That's why I agreed to challenge her. Of course, Cassiopeia was another matter. She killed two people.”
“And one more on Torcello.” He cautioned himself to stay focused. “What is all this about?”
“One part,” Stephanie said, “is to stop Zovastina. She's planning a dirty war and has the resources to make it a costly one.”
“She contacted the Church and they tipped us off,” Davis said. “That's why we're here.”
“You could have told us all that,” he said to Davis.
“No, Mr. Malone, we couldn't. I've read your service record. You were a superb agent. A long list of successful missions and commendations. You don't strike me as naive. You, of all people, should understand how the game is played.”
“That's just it,” he said. “I don't play anymore.”
He paced about and allowed himself a moment to calm down. Then he approached the wooden box lying open on the floor. “Zovastina risked everything just to look at these bones?”
“That's the other part to all of this,” Thorvaldsen said. “The more complicated portion. You read some of the manuscript pages Ely found about Alexander the Great and his draught. Ely came to believe, perhaps foolishly, that from the symptoms described, the draught might have some effect on viral pathogens.”
“Like HIV?” he asked.
Thorvaldsen nodded. “We know there are substances found in nature–tree bark, leafy plants, roots–that can combat bacteria and viruses, maybe even some cancers. He was hoping this might be one of those.”
His mind recalled the manuscript. Overcome by remorse and sensing that Ptolemy was sincere, Eumenes revealed the resting place, far away, in the mountains, where the Scythians taught Alexander about life. “The Scythians are the ones who showed Alexander the draught. Eumenes said Alexander was buried where the Scythians taught him about life.”
Something occurred to him. He said to Stephanie, “You have one of the medallions, don't you?”
Stephanie handed him the coin. “From Amsterdam. We recovered it after Zovastina's men tried to take it. We're told it's authentic.”
He held the decadrachm high in the light.
“Concealed within the warrior are tiny letters. ZH,” Stephanie said. “Old Greek for life.”
More of the History of Hieronymus of Cardia. Ptolemy then handed me a silver medallion that showed Alexander when he fought against elephants. He told me that, in honor of those battles, he'd minted the coins. He also told me to come back when I solved his riddle. But a month later Ptolemy lay dead.
Now he knew. “The coins and the riddle go together.”
“No question,” Thorvaldsen answered. “But how?”
He wasn't ready to explain. “None of you ever answered me. Why did you just let them leave here?”
“Cassiopeia clearly wanted to go,” Thorvaldsen said. “Between her and me, we dangled enough information about Ely to intrigue Zovastina.”
“Is that why you called her outside on the phone?”
Thorvaldsen nodded. “She needed information. I had no idea what she would do. You have to understand, Cotton, Cassiopeia wants to know what happened to Ely and the answers are in Asia.”
That obsession bothered Malone. Why? He wasn't sure. But it clearly did. As did her pain. And her illness. Too much to keep track of. Too many emotions for a man who worked hard at ignoring them. “What is she going to do when she gets to the Federation?”
Thorvaldsen shrugged. “I have no idea. Zovastina knows that I'm wise to her overall plan. I made that clear. She knows Cassiopeia is associated with me. She'll use the opportunity we gave her to try and learn from Cassiopeia what she can–”
“Be
fore she kills her.”
“Cotton,” Stephanie said, “that's a chance Cassiopeia freely accepted. No one told her to go.”
More of his melancholy arose. “No. We just let her go. Is that priest involved?”
“He has a job to do,” Davis said. “That's why he volunteered.”
“But there's more,” Thorvaldsen said. “What Ely found, Ptolemy's riddle, it's real. And we now have all the pieces to discover its solution.”
He pointed to the box. “There's nothing there. It's a dead end.”
Thorvaldsen shook his head. “Not true. Those bones lay beneath us, in the crypt, for centuries, before they were moved up here.” Thorvaldsen motioned toward the open sarcophagus. “When they were first removed, in 1835, something else was found with them. Only a few know.”
Thorvaldsen pointed toward the darkened south transept. “It's in the treasury and has been for a long time.”
“And you needed Zovastina gone before taking a look?”
“Something like that.” The Dane held up a key. “Our ticket to see.”
“You realize Cassiopeia may have bitten off more than she can ever chew.”
Thorvaldsen nodded heavily. “Fully.”
He had to think, so he gazed toward the south transept and asked, “Do you know what to do with whatever is in there?”
Thorvaldsen shook his head. “Not me. But we have someone who might.”
He was puzzled.
“Henrik believes,” Stephanie said, “and Edwin seems to agree–”
“It's Ely,” Thorvaldsen said. “We think he's still alive.”
PART FOUR
FIFTY-SEVEN
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 c
riterion 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.”