The Cotton Malone Series 7-Book Bundle

by Steve Berry

  So that’s where he’d start selling.

  Let the world see them being cured while American and European AIDS patients died. Approval would come then, without him even asking.

  “I’ve never asked,” Lyndsey said, “and you’ve never said. But where did you find these bacteria?”

  The time for silence was over. He needed Lyndsey on board—completely. But answering his question about where also meant discussing when.

  “Have you ever considered the value of a company that manufactured condoms prior to HIV? Sure, there was a market. What? Several million a year? But after the resurgence of AIDS, billions were manufactured and sold worldwide. And what about the symptomatic drugs? Treating AIDS is the perfect money machine. A triple drug cocktail treatment is twelve to eighteen thousand U.S. dollars a year. Multiply that by the millions infected and you’re talking billions spent on drugs that cure nothing.

  “Think about the supply benefits—things like latex gloves, gowns, sterile needles. You have any idea how many millions of sterile needles are bought and distributed in trying to stop the HIV spread among drug users? And, like condoms, the price has gone through the roof. The range here is endless. For a medical supply and manufacturing house, like Philogen, HIV has been a huge cash bonanza.

  “Over the past eighteen years, our business has soared, our condom manufacturing plant has tripled in size. Sales went through the roof for all of our products. We even developed a couple of symptomatic drugs that sold well. Ten years ago I took the company public, raised capital, and used the expanding medical supply and drug divisions to fund more expansion. I bought a cosmetics firm, a soap company, a department store chain, and a frozen food business, knowing one day Philogen could easily pay all the debt back.”

  “How did you know?”

  “I found the bacteria almost thirty years ago. I realized their potential twenty years ago. Then I held the cure for HIV, knowing I could release it at any time.”

  He watched the realization take hold.

  “And you told no one?”

  “Not a soul.” He needed to know if Lyndsey was as amoral as he believed him to be. “Is that a problem? I simply let the market build.”

  “Knowing that you didn’t have a partial fix, something the virus would eventually work around. Knowing you had the cure. The one way to totally destroy HIV. Even if somebody eventually found a drug to quell the virus, yours worked better, faster, safer, and costs pennies to produce.”

  “That was the idea.”

  “It didn’t matter to you that people were dying by the millions?”

  “And you think the world cares about AIDS? Get real, Grant. Lots of talk, little action. It’s a unique disease. The perception is that it mainly kills blacks, gays, and drug users. The whole epidemic has rolled back a big rotting log and revealed all the squirming life underneath—the main themes of our existence—sex, death, power, money, love, hate, panic. In nearly every way that AIDS has been conceptualized, imagined, researched, and financed, it’s become the most political of diseases.”

  And what Karyn Walde said earlier came to mind. It’s just not killing the right people yet.

  “What about the other pharmaceutical companies?” Lyndsey said. “Weren’t you afraid they’d find a cure?”

  “A risk, but I’ve kept a close eye on our competition. Let’s just say that their research bought little more than mistakes.” He was feeling good. After all this time, he liked talking about it. “Would you like to see where the bacteria live?”

  The man’s eyes lit up. “Here?”

  He nodded. “Close by.”

  SIXTY-FIVE

  SAMARKAND

  9:15 A.M.

  Cassiopeia was taken from the plane by two of Zovastina’s guardsmen. She’d been told that they would escort her to the palace, where she’d be held.

  “You realize,” she said to Zovastina, from beside the open car door, “that you’ve bargained for trouble.”

  Zovastina surely would not want to have this conversation here, on an open tarmac, with an airport crew and her guardsmen nearby. On the plane, alone, would have been the time. But Cassiopeia had purposefully stayed silent the last two hours of the flight.

  “Trouble is a way of life here,” Zovastina said.

  As she was guided into the rear seat, her hands cuffed behind her back, Cassiopeia decided to insert the knife. “You were wrong about the bones.”

  Zovastina seemed to consider the challenge. Venice had, for all intents and purposes, been a failure, so it was no surprise when Zovastina approached and asked, “How so?”

  The whine of jet engines and a stiff spring breeze stirred the fume-filled air. Cassiopeia sat calmly in the rear seat and stared out through the front windshield. “There was something to find.” She faced the Supreme Minister. “And you missed it.”

  “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

  Vincenti 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. “Bu
t 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.”