The Cotton Malone Series 7-Book Bundle

by Steve Berry

  “I can give you that. But there’d be conditions. Needless to say, I can’t do this by myself. I need someone to personally oversee production, someone who understands the biology. Security is, of course, a great concern. Once our patents are filed, I’ll feel better, but somebody still has to manage this on a daily basis. You’re the logical choice, Grant. In return, you’ll receive some discovery credit and generous compensation. And by generous, I’m talking millions.”

  Lyndsey opened his mouth to speak, but Vincenti silenced him with an upright finger.

  “That’s the good part. Here’s the bad. If you become a problem, or you become greedy, I’ll have O’Conner plant a bullet in your head. Back at the house I told you about how we controlled our competition. Let me explain further.”

  He told Lyndsey about a Danish microbiologist found in 1997, comatose in the street near his laboratory. Another, in California, who vanished, his abandoned rental car parked near a bridge, his body never located. A third in 2001 found on the side of an English country road, the apparent victim of a hit and run. A fourth murdered in a French farmhouse. Another died uniquely, his body discovered ten years ago trapped in the airlock to the walk-in refrigerator at his lab. Five died simultaneously in 1999 when their private plane crashed into the Black Sea.

  “All worked for our competitors,” he said. “They were making progress. Too much. So, Grant, do as I say. Be grateful for the opportunity I’ve given you, and we’ll both live to be rich, old men.”

  “You won’t have any trouble from me.”

  He thought he’d guessed right choosing this soul. Lyndsey had handled Zovastina masterfully, never once compromising the antiagents. He’d also maintained security at the lab. Everything had played out perfectly, in no small part thanks to this man.

  “I am curious about one thing,” Lyndsey said.

  He decided to indulge him.

  “Why now? You’ve held the cure. Why not wait longer?”

  “Zovastina’s war plan makes the time right. We had a vehicle, through her, where the research could be completed without anyone knowing any better. I see no reason to wait any longer. I just have to stop Zovastina before she goes too far. And what of you, Grant? Now that you know, does all this bother you?”

  “You held that secret twenty years. I only found out an hour ago. Not my problem.”

  He smiled. Good attitude. “There’ll be a spate of publicity. You’ll be a part of that. But I control everything you say, so watch your words. You should be seen far more than heard. Soon your name will be ranked with the greats.” He swept his hands across an invisible marquee. “Grant Lyndsey, one of the slayers of HIV.”

  “Has a nice ring to it.”

  “We’re going public within the next thirty days. In the meantime I’m going to want you to work with my patent lawyers. I plan to tell them tomorrow of our breakthrough. When the actual announcement is made, I want you at the podium. I also want samples—they’ll make great photo ops. And slides of the bacteria. We’ll have the PR people make pictures. It’ll be quite a show.”

  “Do others know about this?”

  He shook his head. “Not a soul, save for a woman back at the house who is, at this moment, experiencing the benefits. We need someone to show off and she’s as good as any.”

  Lyndsey stepped to the other pool. Interesting that he’d not noticed what lay in the bottom of each, which was another reason he’d chosen this man. “I told you that this is an ancient place. See the letters at the bottom of the pools?”

  Lyndsey found both.

  “They mean life in old Greek. How they got there, I have no idea. I managed to learn from that old healer that Greeks once worshipped this area, so that might explain it. They called this mountain Klimax. Ladder, in English. Why? Probably had a lot to do with what the Asians named this place. Arima. I decided to use their name for the estate.”

  “I saw the sign at the gate when I drove in. Attico. What does it mean?”

  “It’s Italian for Arima. Means the same. Place at the top, like an attic.”

  SIXTY-EIGHT

  SAMARKAND

  Zovastina marched into the palace’s audience chamber and faced a thin man with bushy gray hair. Her foreign minister, Kamil Revin, was also there, sitting to one side. Protocol demanded his presence. The American introduced himself as Edwin Davis and produced a letter from the president of the United States that attested to his credentials.

  “If I may, Minister,” Davis said in a light tone, “could we speak in private?”

  She was puzzled. “Anything you would tell me, I would pass on to Kamil anyway.”

  “I doubt you would pass on what we’ll be discussing.”

  The words came out as a challenge, but the envoy’s facial expression never broke, so she decided to be cautious. “Leave us,” she said to Kamil.

  The younger man hesitated. But after Venice and Karyn, she was not in the mood.

  “Now,” she said.

  Her foreign minister rose and left.

  “Do you always treat your people like that?”

  “This is not a democracy. Men like Kamil do as told, or—”

  “One of your germs will visit their bodies.”

  She should have known that even more people knew her business. But this time it ran straight to Washington. “I don’t recall your president ever complaining of the peace the Federation has brought to this region. Once this whole area was a problem, now America enjoys the benefits of a friend. And governing here is not a matter of persuasion. It’s about strength.”

  “Don’t misunderstand, Minister. Your methods are not our concern. We agree. Having a friend is worth the occasional”—Davis hesitated—“personnel replacement.” His cold eyes communicated a look of begrudging respect. “Minister, I’ve come here to personally tell you something. The president did not think the usual diplomatic channels appropriate. This conversation needs to remain between us, as friends.”

  What choice did she have? “All right.”

  “Do you know a woman named Karyn Walde?”

  Her legs tightened as emotions ricocheted through her. But she held her composure and decided to be honest. “I do. What of it?”

  “She was kidnapped last night. From a house here in Samarkand. She was once your lover, and is currently afflicted with AIDS.”

  She fought to maintain a dull look. “You seem to know a lot about my life.”

  “We like to know all we can about our friends. Unlike you, we live in an open society where all of our secrets are either on television or the Internet.”

  “And what brought you to delve into mine?”

  “Does that matter? It’s fortuitous that we did.”

  “And what do you know about Karyn’s disappearance?”

  “A man named Enrico Vincenti took her. She’s being held at his estate, here in the Federation. Land he purchased as part of your deal with the Venetian League.”

  The message was clear. This man knew many things.

  “I’m also here to say that Cassiopeia Vitt is not your problem.”

  She concealed her surprise.

  “Vincenti. He’s your problem.”

  “And why is that?”

  “I’ll admit that this is just speculation on our part. In most places of the world, nobody would care about your sexual orientation. True, you were once married but, from what we’ve been able to learn, it was for appearances. He died tragically—”

  “He and I never had a cross word. He understood why he was there. I actually liked him.”

  “That’s not our concern, and I didn’t mean to insult. But you have remained unmarried since. Karyn Walde worked for you for a time. One of your secretaries. So, I imagine, having a private relationship with her proved easy. No one paid much attention, so long as you were careful. But central Asia is not western Europe.” Davis reached into his jacket and removed a small recorder. “Let me play something for you.” He activated the unit and stood it upright on the ta
ble between them.

  “And it’s good to know your information was accurate.”

  “I wouldn’t have bothered you with fantasy.”

  “But you still haven’t said how you knew someone would try to kill me today.”

  “The League watches over its members, and you, Supreme Minister, are one of our most important.”

  “You’re so full of it, Enrico.”

  Davis switched off the recorder. “You and Vincenti, talking on the phone two days ago. An international call. Easily monitored.”

  He pushed “Play” again.

  “We need to talk.”

  “Your payment for saving my life?”

  “Your end of our bargain, as we originally discussed long ago.”

  “I’ll be ready to meet with the Council in a few days. First, there are things I need to resolve.”

  “I’m more interested in when you and I will meet.”

  “I’m sure you are. I am, too, actually. But there are things I must complete.”

  “My time on the Council ends soon. Thereafter, you’ll have others to deal with. They may not be as accommodating.”

  “I do enjoy dealing with you, Enrico. We so understand each other.”

  “We need to talk.”

  “Soon. First, you have that other problem we spoke about. The Americans.”

  “Not to worry, I plan to deal with that today.”

  Davis switched off the machine. “Vincenti dealt with the problem. He killed one of our agents. We found her body, along with another man, the one who arranged for your assassination.”

  “You allowed her to die? Knowing of the conversation?”

  “Unfortunately, we did not have this recording until after she disappeared.”

  She didn’t like the way Davis’ eyes flickered between her and the recorder—along with the strange uneasiness that accompanied her growing anger.

  “Apparently, you and Vincenti are engaged in some sort of joint venture. I’m here—again, as your friend—to tell you that he intends to change that deal. Here’s what we think. Vincenti needs you out of power. With Karyn Walde, he can shame you from office or, at a minimum, cause you enormous political problems. Homosexuality is not accepted here. Religious fundamentalists, whom you keep on a tight leash, would finally have the ammunition to fire back. You’d have problems so massive, not even your germs could ease them.”

  She’d never considered the possibility before, but what the American said made sense. Why else would Vincenti take Karyn? Yet there was something that needed to be mentioned. “Like you said, she’s dying of AIDS and may already be dead.”

  “Vincenti’s no fool. Maybe he believes a dying declaration could actually carry more weight. You’d have a lot of questions to answer—about that house, why Walde was there, the nurse. I’m told that she knows things, along with many of your Sacred Band, who guarded the house. Vincenti has the nurse, too. That’s a lot of people to contain.”

  “This isn’t America. Television can be controlled.”

  “But can fundamentalism? Along with the fact that you have plenty of enemies who’d like to take your place. I think the man who just left here falls into that category. By the way, he met with Vincenti last night, too. Picked him up at the airport and drove him into the city.”

  This man was superbly informed.

  “Minister, we don’t want Vincenti to succeed with whatever he’s planning. That’s why I’m here. To offer our assistance. We’re aware of your trip to Venice and of Cassiopeia Vitt returning here with you. Again she’s not a problem. In fact, she knows quite a bit about what you were seeking in Venice. There’s information you missed.”

  “Tell me what it is.”

  “If I knew, I would. You’ll have to ask Vitt. She and her two associates, Henrik Thorvaldsen and Cotton Malone, are aware of something called Ptolemy’s riddle and objects known as elephant medallions.” Davis held up his hands in a mock surrender. “Don’t know. Don’t care. That’s your business. All I know is that there was something to find in Venice, which you apparently missed. If you already are aware, I apologize for wasting your time. But President Daniels wanted you to know that, like the Venetian League, he, too, looks after his friends.”

  Enough. This man needed to be put in his place. “You must take me for an idiot.”

  They exchanged glances, but no words.

  “Tell your president I don’t need his help.”

  Davis appeared offended.

  “If I were you,” she said, “I’d leave this Federation as quickly as you came.”

  “A threat, Minister?”

  She shook her head. “Just a comment.”

  “Strange way to talk to a friend.”

  She stood. “You’re not my friend.”

  The door closed as Edwin Davis left the chamber. Her mind churned with an ability she’d always managed when seizing an opportune moment.

  Kamil Revin reentered and walked to her desk. She studied her foreign minister. Vincenti thought himself clever, cultivating him to be a spy. But this Russian-educated Asian, who professed to be a Muslim but never entered a mosque, had acted as the perfect conduit for disinformation. She’d dismissed him earlier from her meeting with Davis because he could not repeat what he did not know.

  “You failed to mention that Vincenti was in the Federation,” she said.

  Revin shrugged. “He came in last night on business. He’s at the Intercontinental, as always.”

  “He’s at his estate in the mountains.”

  She noticed the surprise in the younger man’s eyes. Real? Or an act? Hard to say with this one. But he seemed to sense her suspicion.

  “Minister, I’ve been your ally. I’ve lied for you. I’ve delivered enemies to you. I’ve watched Vincenti for years and have faithfully acted as you instructed.”

  She had not the time to argue. “Then show your loyalty. I have a special task that only you can perform.”

  SIXTY-NINE

  Stephanie liked seeing Henrik Thorvaldsen frazzled. They’d flown from Aviano Air Base in two F-16s, she in one, Thorvaldsen the other. They’d followed Malone and Edwin Davis, who’d landed in Samarkand, then she and Thorvaldsen continued eastward, landing at Kashgar, just across the Federation border into China. Thorvaldsen did not like to fly. A necessary evil, he called it before they’d suited up. But a ride on a supersonic fighter jet was no ordinary flight. She’d ridden behind the pilot, where the weapons system officer usually sat. Exhilarating and terrifying, the bumps and grinds at over thirteen hundred miles per hour had kept her on edge the entire two hours.

  “I cannot believe I did that,” Thorvaldsen was saying.

  She noticed that he was still shaking. A car had been waiting for them at the Kashgar airport. The Chinese government had cooperated fully with all of Daniels’ requests. They were apparently quite concerned about their neighbor and willing even to partner with Washington in order to discover if their fears were real or imagined.

  “It wasn’t that bad,” she said.

  “Here’s a memo to file. Never, ever, no matter what anyone says, fly in one of those things.”

  She grinned. They were driving through the Pamirs, in Federation territory, the border crossing nothing more than a welcome sign. They’d climbed in elevation, passing through a succession of barren rounded spurs and equally barren valleys. She knew that pamir was the name for this particular type of valley, places where winter loomed long and rainfall was sparse. Lots of coarse wormwood scrub, dwarf pine, with occasional patches of rich pasture. Mostly uninhabited country, villages here and there and the occasional yurts, which clearly distinguished the scenery from the Alps or the Pyrenees, where she and Thorvaldsen had last been together.

  “I’ve read about this area,” she said. “But I’ve never been to this part of the world before. Pretty incredible.”

  “Ely loved the Pamirs. He spoke of them religiously. And I can see why.”

  “Did you know him well?”

>   “Oh, yes. I knew his parents. He and my son were close. He practically lived at Christiangade when he and Cai were boys.”

  Thorvaldsen appeared weary in the passenger seat, and not because of the flight. She knew better. “Cotton will look after Cassiopeia.”

  “I doubt if Zovastina has Ely.” Thorvaldsen seemed suddenly resigned. “Viktor’s right. He’s probably dead.”

  The road flattened as they motored through one of the mountain passes and into another valley. The air outside was surprisingly warm, the lower elevations devoid of snow. Without question, the Central Asian Federation was blessed with natural wonder, but she’d read the CIA fact sheets. The Federation had targeted the entire area for economic development. Electricity, telephone, water, and sewer services were being extended, along with an upgrade of roads. This highway seemed a prime example—the asphalt appeared new.

  The candle with the gold leaf still wrapped around it lay within a stainless-steel container on the rear seat. A modern-day scytale displaying a single Old Greek word. . Where did it lead? They had no idea, but maybe something in Ely Lund’s mountain retreat would help explain its significance. They’d also come armed. Two 9mms and spare magazines. Courtesy of the U.S. military and allowed by the Chinese.

  “Malone’s plan,” she said, “might work.”

  But she agreed with Cotton. Random assets, like Viktor, were not reliable. She much preferred a seasoned agent, someone who cared about retirement.

  “Malone cares for Cassiopeia,” Thorvaldsen said. “He won’t say it, but he does. I see it in his eyes.”

  “I saw the pain on his face when you told him she’s sick.”

  “That’s one reason why I thought she and Ely could relate to each other. Their mutual afflictions somehow became part of their attraction.”

  They passed through two more sparse villages and kept driving west. Finally, just as Cassiopeia had told Thorvaldsen, the road forked, and they veered north. Ten kilometers later the landscape became more wooded. Ahead, beside a hard-packed drive that disappeared into the blackened woods, she spotted a sarissa plunged into the earth. Hanging from it was a small sign upon which was painted “Soma.”