by Steve Berry
“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 i
n 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.”
SIXTY-THREE
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.
SIXTY-FOUR
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.