by Steve Berry
Ahead, she spotted the villa. Rigidly symmetrical, casting an air of lost distinction, its beauty sprang from a pleasing contrast of redbrick walls veined with emerald vines, highlighted with marble trim.
She stepped through a wrought-iron gate and announced her presence with a knock on the front door. An older woman with an airy face, dressed in a servant’s uniform, answered.
“I’m here to see Mr. Vincenti,” Stephanie said. “Tell him I bring greetings from President Danny Daniels.”
The woman appraised her with a curious look and she wondered if the name of the president of the United States struck a chord. So, to be sure, she handed the attendant a folded slip of paper. “Give this to him.”
The woman hesitated, then closed the door.
Stephanie waited.
Two minutes later the door reopened.
Wider this time.
And she was invited in.
“Fascinating introduction,” Vincenti said to her.
They sat in a rectangular room beneath a gilded ceiling, the room’s elegance highlighted by the dull gleam of lacquer that had surely coated the furniture for centuries. She sniffed the dank fragrance and thought she detected the odor of cats mixed with a scent of lemon polish.
Her host held up the note. “ ‘The President of the United States sent me.’ Quite a statement.” He seemed pleased at his perceived importance.
“You’re an interesting man, Mr. Vincenti. Born in upstate New York. A U.S. citizen. August Rothman.” She shook her head. “Enrico Vincenti? You changed the name. I’m curious, why?”
He shrugged. “It’s all about image.”
“It does sound more,” she hesitated, “continental.”
“Actually, a lot of thought was given to that name. Enrico came from Enrico Dandolo, thirty-ninth doge of Venice, in the late twelfth century. He led the Fourth Crusade that conquered Constantinople and ended the Byzantine Empire. Quite a man. Legendary, you might say.
“Vincenti I took from another twelfth-century Venetian. A Benedictine monk and nobleman. When his entire family was wiped out in the Aegean Sea, he applied for and got permission to dispense with his monastic vows. He married and founded five new lines of his family from his children. Quite resourceful. I admired his flexibility.”
“So you became Enrico Vincenti. Venetian aristocracy.”
He nodded. “Sounds great, no?”
“Want me to continue on what I know?”
He motioned his assent.
“You’re sixty years old. Bachelor of science from the University of North Carolina, in biology. Master’s degree from Duke University. A doctorate in virology from the University of East Anglia, the John Innes Centre, in England. Recruited there by a Pakistani pharmaceutical firm with ties to the Iraqi government. You worked for the Iraqis early on, with their initial biological weapons program, just after Saddam assumed power in 1979. At Salman Pak, north of Baghdad, operated by the Technical Research Center, which oversaw their germ search. Though Iraq signed the Biological Weapons Convention in 1972, Saddam never ratified it. You stayed with them until 1990, just before the first Gulf War went to shit in a handbasket for the Iraqis. That’s when they shut everything down and you hauled ass.”
“All correct, Ms. Nelle, or do I get to call you Stephanie?”
“Whatever you prefer.”
“Okay, Stephanie, why am I so interesting to the president of the United States?”
“I wasn’t finished.”
He motioned again for her to continue.
“Anthrax, botulinum, cholera, plague, ricin, salmonella, even smallpox—you and your colleagues dabbled with them all.”
“Didn’t your people in Washington finally figure out that was all fiction?”
“May have been in 2003 when Bush invaded, but it sure as hell wasn’t in 1990. Then, it was real. I particularly liked camel pox. You assholes thought it the perfect weapon. Safer than smallpox to handle in the lab, but a great ethnic weapon since Iraqis were generally immune thanks to all of the camels they’ve handled through the centuries. But for Westerners and Israelis, another matter entirely. Quite a deadly zoonosis.”
“More fiction,” Vincenti said, and she wondered how many times he’d voiced the same lie with similar conviction.
“Too many documents, photos, and witnesses to make that cover story stick,” she said. “That’s why you disappeared from Iraq, after 1990.”
“Get real, Stephanie, nobody in the eighties thought biological warfare was even a weapon of mass destruction. Washington could not have cared less. Saddam, at least, saw its potential.”
“We know better now. It’s quite a threat. In fact, many believe that the first biological war won’t be a cataclysmic exchange. It’ll be a low-intensity, regional conflict. A rogue state versus its neighbor. No global consensual morality will apply. Just local hatred and indiscriminate killing. Similar to the Iran/Iraq War of the nineteen-eighties where some of your bugs were actually used on people.”
“Interesting theory, but isn’t that your president’s problem? Why do I care?”
She decided to change tack. “Your company, Philogen Pharmaceutique, is quite a success story. You personally own two point four million shares of its stock, representing about forty-two percent of the company, the single largest shareholder. An impressive conglomerate. Assets at just under ten billion euros, which includes wholly owned subsidiaries that manufacture cosmetics, toiletries, soap, frozen foods, and a chain of European department stores. You bought the company fifteen years ago for practically nothing—”
“I’m sure your research showed it was nearly bankrupt at the time.”
“Which begs the question—how and why did you manage to both buy and save it?”
“Ever hear of public offerings? People invested.”
“Not really. You funneled most of the start-up capital into it. About forty million dollars, by our estimate. Quite a nest egg you amassed from working for a rogue government.”
“The Iraqis were generous. They also had a superb health plan and a wonderful retirement system.”
“Many of you profited. We monitored a lot of key microbiologists back then. You included.”
He seemed to catch the edge in her voice. “Is there a point to this visit?”
“You’re quite the businessman. From all accounts, an excellent entrepreneur. But your corporation is overextended. Your debt service is straining every resource you possess, yet you continue onward.”
Edwin Davis had briefed her well.
“Daniels looking to invest? What’s left, three years on his term? Tell him I could find a place on my board of directors for him.”
She reached into her pocket and tossed him the jacketed elephant medallion. He caught the offering with a surprising quickness.
“You know what that is?”
He studied the decadrachm. “Looks like a man fighting an elephant. Then a man standing, holding a spear. I’m afraid history is not my strong point.”
“Germs are your specialty.”
He appraised her with a look of conviction.
“When the UN weapons inspectors questioned you, after the first Gulf War, about Iraq’s biological weapons program, you told them nothing had been developed. Lots of research, but the whole venture was underfunded and poorly managed.”
“All those toxins you mentioned? They’re bulky, difficult to store, cumbersome, and nearly impossible to control. Not practical weapons. I was right.”
“Smart guys like you can conquer those problems.”
“I’m not that good.”
“That’s what I said, too. But others disagree.”
“You shouldn’t listen to them.”
She ignored his challenge. “Within three years after you left Iraq, Philogen Pharmaceutique was up and running and you were a member of the Venetian League.” She watched to see if her words spurred a reaction. “That membership comes with a price. Quite an expensive one, I’m told.”
“I don’t believe it’s illegal for men and women to enjoy one another’s company.”
“You’re not the Rotary Club.”
“We have a purpose, quality members, and a dedication to our mission. Sounds like any service club I know of.”
“You still never answered my question,” she pointed out. “Ever seen one of those coins before?”
He tossed it back to her. “Never.”
She tried to read this man of commanding girth whose face was as deceptive as his voice. From everything she’d been told, he was a mediocre virologist with an ordinary education who had a knack for business. But he may also have been responsible for the death of Naomi Johns.
Time to find out.
“You’re not half as smart as you think you are.”
Vincenti smoothed back a rebellious lock of his thin hair. “This is becoming tiresome.”
“If she’s dead, so are you.”
She watched again for a reaction and he seemed to be weighing the minimum truth he could voice against a lie she’d never tolerate.
“Are we finished?” he asked, still with a warm cloak of politeness.
She stood. “Actually, we’re just getting started.” She held up the medallion. “On the face of this coin, hidden within the folds of the warrior’s cloak, are microletters. Amazing that ancient people could engrave like that. But I checked with experts and they could. The letters were like watermarks. Security devices. This one has two. ZH. Zeta. Eta. Mean anything to you?”
“Not a thing.”
But she caught a moment when his eyes flickered with interest. Or was it surprise? Perhaps even a nanosecond of shock.
“I asked some experts on Old Greek. They said ZH means ‘life.’ Interesting, wouldn’t you say, that someone went to the trouble of engraving tiny letters with such a message, when so few at the time could have read them. Lenses were practically unknown in those days.”
He shrugged. “Doesn’t concern me.”
Vincenti waited a full five minutes after the palazzo’s front door closed. He sat in the salon and allowed the quiet to ease his anxiety. Only a rustle of caged wings and the clicking of his canaries’ beaks disturbed the stillness. The palazzo had once been owned by a bon viveur of intellectual tastes who, centuries ago, made it a central location for Venetian literary society. Another owner took advantage of the Grand Canal and accommodated the many funeral processions, utilizing the room where he sat as a theater for autopsies and a holding place for corpses. Later, smugglers chose the house as a mart for contraband, deliberately surrounding its walls with ominous legends to keep the curious away.
He longed for those days.
Stephanie Nelle, employed with the U. S. Justice Department, sent supposedly by the president of the United States, had rattled him.
But not because of anything the Americans knew about his past—that would soon become irrelevant. And not because of what may have happened to their agent sent to spy on him—she was dead and buried, never to be found. No. His stomach ached because of the letters on the coin.
ZH.
Zeta. Eta.
Life.
“You can come in now,” he called out.
Peter O’Conner strolled into the room, having listened to the entire conversation from the adjacent parlor. One of Vincenti’s many house cats scampered into the main parlor, too.
“What do you think?” Vincenti asked.
“She’s a messenger who chose her words with care.”
“That medallion she showed me is exactly what Zovastina is after. It matches the description I read yesterday in the materials you gave me at the hotel.” But he still did not know why the coins were so important.
“There’s something new. Zovastina is coming to Venice. Today.”
“On a state visit? I’ve heard nothing of that.”
“Not official. In and out tonight. Private plane. Special arrangement, by the Vatican, with Italian customs. A source called and told me.”
Now he knew. Something was definitely happening and Zovastina was several steps ahead of him. “We need to know when she arrives and where she goes.”
“I’m already on it. We’ll be ready.”
Time for him to move, as well. “Are we ready in Samarkand?”
“Just say the word.”
He decided to take advantage of his enemy’s absence. No sense waiting till the weekend. “Have the jet ready. We’ll leave within the hour. But while we’re gone, make sure we know exactly what the Supreme Minister is doing here.”
O’Conner nodded his understanding.
Now for what really troubled him. “One more thing. I need to send a message to Washington. One that will be perfectly understood. Have Stephanie Nelle killed. And get that medallion.”
THIRTY-SIX
5:50 P.M.
Malone enjoyed his plate of spinach pasta swirled with cheese and ham. Viktor and his cohort had left the island an hour ago, after spending twenty minutes inside the museum, then surveying the area around the basilica, especially the garden that separated the church from the Canale Borgognoni, a riverlike waterway that stretched between Torcello and the next patchy island over. He and Cassiopeia had watched from varying positions. Viktor had not seemed to notice anything, surely concentrating on the task that lay ahead, comfortable in his anonymity.
After Viktor and his accomplice departed on the water bus, he and Cassiopeia retreated to the village. One of the vendors peddling souvenirs told them that the restaurant, Locanda Cipriani, which had been around for decades, was regarded as one of Venice’s most famous. People boated over each evening to enjoy its ambiance. Inside, among wooden ceilings, terra-cotta brick, and impressive bas-reliefs, hung a gallery of photographs—Hemingway, Picasso, Diana and Charles, Queen Elizabeth, Churchill, countless actors and performers—each one personalized with a testament of thanks.
They were seated in the garden, beneath a pergola of sweet-smelling roses, in the shadow of the two churches and campanile, the tranquil oasis framed by blossoming pomegranate trees. He had to admit, the food was excellent. Even Cassiopeia seemed hungry. Neither one of them had eaten since breakfast in Copenhagen.
“He’ll be back after dark,” she quietly said.
“Another bonfire?”
“Seems their way, though it’s not necessary. Nobody will miss that coin.”
After Viktor left, they’d ventured inside the museum. Cassiopeia had been right. Not much there. Bits and pieces, fragments of columns, capitals, mosaics, and a few paintings. On the second floor, two rickety glass-topped cases displayed pottery shards, jewelry, and ancient household items, all supposedly found in and around Torcello. The elephant medallion lay in one of the cases, among a variety of coinage. Malone had noticed that the building possessed no alarms or security and the lone attendant, a heavyset woman in a plain white dress, seemed only concerned that no one take photographs.
“I’m going to kill the son of a bitch,” Cassiopeia muttered.
The declaration did not surprise him. He’d sensed her rising anger in the bell tower. “You think Irina Zovastina ordered Ely’s murder.”
She’d stopped eating.
“Any proof, besides the fact that his house burned to the ground?”
“She did it. I know it.”
“Actually, you don’t know crap.”
She sat immobile. Beyond the garden, dusk was beginning to take hold. “I know enough.”
“Cassiopeia, you’re leaping to conclusions. I agree, the fire is suspect, but if she did it, you need to know why.”
“When Gary was threatened, what did you do?”
“I got him back. Unharmed.”
He saw she knew he was right. First rule of a mission. Never lose sight of the goal.
“I don’t need your advice.”
“What you need to do is stop and think.”
“Cotton, there’s more happening here than you realize.”
“That’s a shocker.”
; “Go home. Let me be.”
“Can’t do that.”
A vibration in his trouser pocket startled him. He removed the cell phone, noticed the number, and said to her, “It’s Henrik.” He answered.
“Cotton, President Daniels just called.”
“I’m sure that was interesting.”
“Stephanie is in Venice. She was sent there to see a man named Enrico Vincenti. The president is concerned. They’ve lost contact.”
“Why call you?”
“He was looking for you, though I sensed he knew you were already here.”
“Not a hard thing to check, what with passport scans made at the airport. Provided you know what country to check.”
“Apparently he knew the right one.”
“Why was Stephanie sent here?”
“He said this Vincenti is connected to Irina Zovastina. I know of Vincenti. He’s a problem. Daniels also told me that another agent has been missing now for over a day and is presumed dead. He said you knew her. A woman named Naomi Johns.”
He shut his eyes. They had joined the Magellan Billet together and worked as a team several times. A good agent. A better friend. That was the problem with his fomer profession—rarely was someone fired. You either quit, retired, or died. He’d attended many memorials.
“Vincenti implicated in that?” he asked.
“Daniels thought so.”
“Tell me about Stephanie.”
“She’s staying at the Montecarlo, a block north and behind the basilica in San Marco, on the Calle degli Specchieri.”
“Why not use one of their own people?”
“He said Naomi Johns was their person on the scene. No one else in position. He was hoping I could contact you and ask if you’d check on Stephanie. Is it possible?”
“I’ll take care of it.”
“How are things there?”
He stared across the table at Cassiopeia. “Not good.”
“Tell Cassiopeia the package she ordered will be there shortly.”
He clicked off and asked her, “You called Henrik?”
She nodded. “Three hours ago. After we spotted our thieves.”