by Steve Berry
“I don't know. The whole thing seems odd.”
And she agreed.
ZOVASTINA OPENED HER EYES. SHE WAS LYING ON THE GROUND and
immediately recalled Cassiopeia Vitt's attack. She shook confusion from her brain and realized something was tightly gripping both wrists.
Then she realized. She was tied to the trees, just as Vitt had been. She shook her head. Humiliating.
She stood and stared out into the clearing.
The goats, Malone, Vitt, and Viktor were gone. One of the guardsmen lay dead. But the other was still alive, propped against a tree, bleeding from a shoulder wound.
“Can you move?” she asked.
The man nodded, but was clearly in pain. All of her Sacred Band were tough, disciplined souls. She'd made sure of that. Her modern incarnation was every bit as fearless as the original from Alexander's time.
The guard struggled to his feet, his right hand clamped onto his left arm.
“The knife,” she said. “There, on the ground.”
Not a hint of pain seeped from the man's mouth. She tried to remember his name, but could not. Viktor had hired each one of the Sacred Band, and she'd made a point not to become attached to any of them. They were objects. Tools to be used. That's all. The man staggered to the knife and managed to lift it from the ground. He came close to the ropes, lost his balance, and fell to his knees.
“You can do it,” she said. “Fight the agony. Focus on your duty.”
The guard seemed to steel himself. Sweat poured down his brow and she noticed fresh blood oozing from the wound. Amazing he wasn't in shock. But this burly soul seemed in superb physical shape.
He raised the knife, sucked a few breaths, then cut the bindings that held her right wrist. She steadied his shaking arm as he passed her the knife, and she freed herself from the other rope.
“You did well,” she said.
He smiled at her compliment, his breath labored, still on his knees.
“Lie down. Rest,” she said.
She heard him settle on the ground as she searched the forest floor. Near the other body she found a gun.
She returned to the injured guardsman.
He'd seen her vulnerable and, for the first time in a long while, she'd felt vulnerable. The man lay on his back, still gripping his shoulder.
She stood over him. His dark eyes focused on her and, in them, she saw that he knew. She smiled at his courage.
Then aimed the gun at his head and fired.
SEVENTY-SIX
MALONE GLANCED DOWN AT THE ROUGH TERRAIN, A MIXTURE OF parched
earth, greenlands, rolling hills, and trees. Viktor piloted the chopper, a Hind, which had been parked on a concrete pad a few miles from the palace. He knew the craft. Russian made, twin top-mounted turboshaft engines driving a main and tail rotors. The Soviets called it a flying tank. NATO dubbed the mean-looking thing the Crocodile, due to its camouflage color and distinct fuselage. All in all a formidable gunship, this one modified with a large rear compartment for low-capacity troop transport. Thankfully, they'd managed to leave both the palace and Samarkand with no problems.
“Where'd you learn to fly?” he asked Viktor.
“Bosnia. Croatia. That's what I did in the military. Search and destroy.”
“Good place to build your nerves.”
“And get killed.”
He couldn't argue with that.
“How far?” Cassiopeia asked through the headset.
They were flying east, at nearly three hundred kilometers an hour, toward Ely's cabin in the Pamirs. Zovastina would soon be free, if not already, so he asked, “What about anyone coming after us?”
Viktor motioned ahead. “Those mountains will give us cover. Tough to track anything in there. We'll be into them shortly, and we're only minutes from the Chinese border. We can always escape there.”
“Don't act like you didn't hear me,” Cassiopeia said. “How far?”
Malone had intentionally avoided answering. She was anxious. He wanted to tell her he knew she was sick. Let her know somebody cared. That he understood her frustration. But he knew better. Instead, he said, “We're moving as fast as we can.” He paused. “But this is probably better than being tied to trees.”
“I assume I'll never live that one down.”
“Something like that.”
“Okay, Cotton, I'm a little upset. But you have to understand, I thought Ely was dead. I wanted him to be alive, but I knew–I thought–” She caught herself. “And now–”
He turned and saw excitement in her eyes, which both energized and saddened him. Then he caught himself and finished her thought, “And now he's with Stephanie and Henrik. So calm down.”
She was seated alone in the rear compartment. He saw her tap Viktor on the shoulder. “Did you know about Ely being alive?”
Viktor shook his head. “I was taunting you on the boat in Venice when I told you he was dead. I had to say something. Truth is, I'm the one who saved Ely. Zovastina thought someone might move on him. He was her adviser and political murder is commonplace in the Federation. She wanted Ely protected. After that attempt on his life, she hid him. I haven't had anything to do with him since. Though I was head of the guard, she was in charge. So I really don't know what happened to him. I learned not to ask questions, just do what she said.”
Malone caught the past tense observation concerning Viktor's job status. “She'll kill you if she finds you.”
“I knew the rules before all this started.”
They continued flying smooth and straight. He'd never flown in a Hind. Its instrumentation was impressive, as was its firepower. Guided missiles. Multibarrel machine guns. Twin cannon pods.
“Cotton,” Cassiopeia said, “do you have a way of communicating with Stephanie?”
Not a question he wanted to answer at the moment, but he had no choice. “I do.”
“Give it to me.”
He found the world phone–Magellan Billet–issue, provided by Stephanie in Venice–and dialed the number, slipping off his headset. A few seconds were needed before a pulsating buzz confirmed a connection and Stephanie's voice greeted him.
“We're headed your way,” he said.
“We left the cabin,” she said. “We're driving south on a highway marked M45 to what was once Mt. Klimax. Ely knows where it is. He says the locals call the place Arima.”
“Tell me more.”
He listened, then repeated the information to Viktor, who nodded. “I know where that is.”
Viktor banked the copter southeast and increased speed.
“We're on our way,” he told Stephanie. “Everyone here is fine.”
He saw that Cassiopeia wanted the phone, but that wasn't going to happen. He motioned no with his head, hoping she'd understand that now was not the time. But to comfort her, he asked Stephanie, “Ely okay?”
“Yeah, but anxious.”
“I know what you mean. We'll be there before you. I'll call. We can do some aerial recon until you get there.”
“Viktor any help?”
“Wouldn't be here now if it wasn't for him.”
He clicked off the phone and told Cassiopeia where Ely was headed. An alarm sounded in the cabin.
His gaze found the radar display that indicated two targets approaching from the west.
“Black Sharks,” Viktor said, “coming straight for us.”
Malone knew those choppers, too. NATO called them Hokums. KA-50s. Fast, efficient, loaded with guided missiles and 30mm cannons. He saw that Viktor also realized the threat.
“They found us quick,” Malone said.
“There's a base near here.”
“What do you plan to do?”
They started to climb, gaining altitude, changing course. Six thousand feet. Seven. Nine. Leveling at ten.
“You know how to use the guns?” Viktor asked.
He was sitting in the weapons officer's seat, so he scanned the instrument panel. Luckily, he could read Russi
an. “I can manage.”
“Then get ready for a fight.”
SEVENTY-SEVEN
SAMARKAND
ZOVASTINA WATCHED AS HER GENERALS CONSIDERED THE WAR plan. The men sitting around the conference table were her most trusted subordinates, though she tempered that trust with a realization that one or more of them could be a traitor. After the past twenty-four hours she could not be sure of anything. These men had all been with her from the beginning, rising as she rose, steadily building the Federation's offensive strength, readying themselves for what was about to come.
“We'll take Iran first,” she declared.
She knew the calculations. The current population of Pakistan was a hundred and seventy million. Afghanistan, thirty-two million. Iran, sixty-eight million. All three were targets. Originally, she'd planned a simultaneous assault, now she believed a strategic strike better. If infection points were chosen with care, places of maximum density, and the viruses planted with skill, the computer models predicted a population reduction of seventy percent or more would occur within fourteen days. She told the men what they already knew, then added, “We need a total panic. A crisis. The Iranians have to want our assistance. What do you have planned?”
“We'll start with their military forces and government,” one of the generals said. “Most of the viral agents work in less than forty-eight hours. But we'll vary which ones we use. They'll identify a virus fairly quickly, but then they'll have another to deal with. That should keep them off guard and prevent any productive medical response.”
She'd been concerned on that point, but not anymore. “The scientists tell me the viruses have all been modified, making their detection and prevention even more difficult.”
Eight men surrounded the table, all from her army and air force. Central Asia had long languished between China, the USSR, India, and the Middle East, not part of any of them, but desired by all. The Great Game had played itself out here two centuries ago when Russia and Britain battled each other for dominance, neither caring what the native populations wanted. Not anymore.
Central Asia now spoke with unity through a democratically elected parliament, ministers, elections, courts, and a rule of law.
One voice.
Hers.
“What of the Europeans and the Americans?” a general asked. “How will they react to our aggression?”
“That's what it cannot be,” she made clear. “No aggression. We'll simply occupy and extend aid and relief to the embattled populations. They'll be far too busy burying the dead to worry about us.”
She'd learned from history. The world's most successful conquerors–the Greeks, Mongols, Huns, Romans, and Ottomans–all practiced tolerance over the lands they claimed. Hitler could have changed the course of World War II if he'd simply enlisted the aid of millions of Ukrainians, who hated the Soviets, instead of annihilating them. Her forces would enter Iran as savior, not oppressor, knowing that by the time her viruses finished there'd be no opposition left to challenge her. Then she'd annex the land. Repopulate. Move people from the Soviet-ruined regions of her nation into new locales. Blend the races. Do precisely what Alexander the Great had done with his Hellenistic revolution, only in reverse, migrating east to west.
“Can we be sure the Americans will not intervene?” one of the generals asked. She understood the apprehension. “The Americans will not say or do a thing. Why will they care? After the Iraqi debacle, they won't interfere, especially if we're handling the load. They'll actually be thrilled at the prospect of eliminating Iran.”
“Once we move on Afghanistan, there'll be American deaths,” one of the men noted. “Their military is still present.”
“When that time comes, let's try to minimize those,” she said. “We want the end result to be that the Americans withdraw from the country as we take control. I'm assuming that will be a popular decision in the United States. Use a virus there that's containable. Strategic infections, targeted at specific groups and regions. The majority of the dead must be natives, especially Taliban, make sure U.S. personnel are only a consequence.”
She met the gaze of each of the men at the table. Not one of them said a word about the bruise on her face–leftover from her bout with Cassiopeia Vitt. Was her leak here? How had the Americans learned so much about her intentions?
“Millions are about to die,” one of the men said in a whisper.
“Millions of problems,” she made clear. “Iran is a harbinger of terrorists. A place governed by fools. That's what the West says over and over. Time to end that problem, and we have the way. The people who survive will be better off. We will, too. We'll have their oil and their gratitude. What we do with those will determine our success.”
She listened as troop strengths, contingency plans, and strategies were discussed. Squads of men had been trained in deploying the viruses and were ready to move south. She was pleased. Years of anticipation were finally over. She imagined how Alexander the Great must have felt when he crossed from Greece into Asia and began his global conquest. Like him, she, too, envisioned total success. Once she controlled Iran, Pakistan, and Afghanistan, she'd move on to the rest of the Middle East. That dominance, though, would be more subtle, the viral rampages made to appear as simply a spread of the initial infections. If she'd read the West correctly, Europe, China, Russia, and America would withdraw into themselves. Restrict their borders. Minimize travel. Hope the public health disaster was contained in countries that, by and large, none of them cared about. Their inaction would give her time to claim more links in the chain of nations that stood between the Federation and Africa. Played right, she could conquer the entire Middle East in a matter of months and never fire a shot.
“Do we have control of the antiagents?” her chief of staff finally asked. She'd been waiting for the question. “We will.” The uneasy peace that connected her and Vincenti was about to end.
“Philogen has not provided stockpiles to treat our population,” one of the men noted. “Nor do we have the quantities needed to stop the viral spread in the target nations, once victory is assured.”
“I'm aware of the problem,” she said.
A chopper was waiting.
She stood. “Gentlemen, we're about to start the greatest conquest since ancient times. The Greeks came and defeated us, ushering in the Hellenistic Age, which eventually molded Western civilization. We will now begin a new dawn in human development. The Asiatic Age.”
SEVENTY-EIGHT
CASSIOPEIA STRAPPED HERSELF ONTO THE STEEL BENCH IN THE rear
compartment. The chopper lurched as Viktor began evasive maneuvers to elude their pursuers. She knew Malone was aware that she'd wanted to talk to Ely, but she also saw that now was not the time. She appreciated Malone risking his neck. How would she have escaped from Zovastina without him? Doubtful that she would have, even with Viktor there. Thorvaldsen had told her that Viktor was an ally, but he'd also warned about his limitations. His mission was to remain undetected, but apparently that directive had changed.
“They're firing,” Viktor said through the headset.
The chopper banked left, knifing through the air. Her harness held her secure against the bulkhead. Her hands gripped the bench. She was fighting a rising nausea since, truth be told, she was prone to motion sickness. Boats she generally avoided and planes, as long as they flew straight, weren't a problem. This, though, was a problem. Her stomach seemed to roll up into her throat as they constantly changed altitude, like an elevator out of control. Nothing she could do but hold on and hope to heaven Viktor knew what he was doing. She saw Malone work the firing controls and heard cannon shots from both sides of the fuselage. She gazed ahead into the cockpit, through the windshield, and spotted mountain haunches lurching from the clouds on both sides.
“They still back there?” Malone asked.
“Coming fast,” Viktor said. “And trying to fire.”
“Missiles we don't need.”
“I agree. But firing those
in here would be tricky for us and them.”
They emerged into clearer skies. The helicopter angled right and plummeted in altitude.
“Do we have to do that?” she asked, trying to keep her stomach under control.
“Afraid so,” Malone answered. “We need to use these valleys to avoid them. In and out, like a maze.”
She knew Malone had once flown fighter jets and still held a pilot's license. “Some of us don't like this kind of thing.”
“You're welcome to toss your cookies anytime.”
“I wouldn't give you the pleasure.” Thank goodness she hadn't eaten since lunch yesterday on Torcello.
More sharp banks as they roared through the afternoon sky. The engine noise seemed deafening. She'd only flown on a few helicopters, never in a combat situation, the ride like a three dimensional roller coaster.
“Two more choppers within radar range,” Viktor said. “But they're off to our north.”
“Where are we headed?” Malone asked.
The copter veered into another steep turn.
“South,” Viktor said.
MALONE STARED AT THE RADAR MONITOR. THE MOUNTAINS WERE both a
shield and a problem that compounded tracking their pursuers. The targets steadily winked in and out. The American military relied more on satellites and AWACS planes to provide a clear picture. Luckily, the Central Asian Federation did not enjoy those high-tech amenities. The radar screen cleared.
“Nothing behind us,” Malone said.
He had to admit, Viktor could fly. They were winding a path through the Pamirs, rotors dangerously close to steep gray precipices. He'd never learned to fly a helicopter, though he'd always wanted to, and he'd not been behind the controls of a supersonic fighter in ten years. He'd maintained his jet fighter proficiency for a few years after transferring to the Billet, but he'd let the certification slide. At the time he hadn't minded. Now he wished he'd kept those skills current.
Viktor leveled the chopper off at six thousand feet and asked, “You hit anything?”
“Hard to say. I think we just forced them to keep their distance.”
“Where we're headed is about a hundred and fifty kilometers south. I know Arima. I've been there before, but it's been a while.”