by Steve Berry
“Ely named the place appropriately,” she said. “Like Alexander’s tomb in Egypt.”
She turned and the car bumped and swayed up the rough path. The lane climbed a quarter mile into the trees where it ended at a single-storied cabin, fashioned of rough-hewn timber planks. A covered porch shielded the front door.
“Looks like something from northern Denmark,” Thorvaldsen said. “Doesn’t surprise me. I’m sure it was a bit of home for him.”
She parked and they stepped out into the warm afternoon. The woods all around them loomed quiet. Through the trees, northward she believed, more mountains could be seen. An eagle soared overhead.
The cabin’s front door opened.
They both turned.
A man stepped out.
He was tall and handsome, with wavy blond hair. He wore jeans and a long-sleeved shirt with boots. Thorvaldsen stood rigid but his eyes instantly softened, the Dane’s thoughts easily read as to the man’s identity.
Ely Lund.
SEVENTY
SAMARKAND
11:40 A.M.
Cassiopeia smelled wet hay and horses and knew she was being held near a stable. The room was some sort of guesthouse, the furnishings adequate but not elegant, probably for staff. Boarded shutters closed the windows from the world, the door was locked and, she assumed, guarded. On the walk from the palace she’d noticed armed men on rooftop perches. Fleeing from this prison could prove dicey.
The room was equipped with a phone that did not work, and a television fed by no signal. She sat on the bed and wondered what was next. She’d managed to get herself to Asia. Now what? She’d tried to bait Zovastina, playing off the woman’s obsessions. How successful she’d been was hard to tell. Something had bothered the Supreme Minister at the airport. Enough that Cassiopeia suddenly was not a priority. But at least she was still alive.
A key scraped the lock and the door swung open.
Viktor entered, followed by two armed men.
“Get up,” he said.
She sat still.
“You shouldn’t ignore me.”
He lunged forward and backhanded her across the face, propelling her off the bed and to the carpet. She recovered and sprang to her feet, ready for a fight. Both of the men standing behind Viktor leveled their guns.
“That was for Rafael,” her captor said.
Rage filled her eyes. But she knew this man was doing exactly what was expected of him. Thorvaldsen had said he was an ally, albeit a secret one. So she played along. “You’re tough when backed up by men with guns.”
Viktor chuckled. “I’m afraid of you? Is that what you’re saying?”
She dabbed her busted lower lip.
Viktor leaped onto her and twisted an arm behind her back. He wrenched her wrist toward her shoulders. He was strong, but she had trust that he knew what he was doing, so she surrendered. Cuffs clamped one wrist, then the other. Her ankles were likewise shackled while Viktor held her down, then rolled her onto her back.
“Bring her,” he ordered.
The two men grabbed her by the feet and shoulders, carrying her outside, down a graveled path to the stables. There, she was tossed, stomach first, across the back of a horse. Blood rushed to her head as she dangled, facing the ground. Viktor tied her secure with a coarse rope, then led the horse outside.
He and three other men walked with the animal in silence, across a grassy stretch about the size of two soccer fields. Goats dotted the field, feeding, and tall trees lined its perimeter. Leaving the open expanse, they entered a forest and threaded a path to a clearing encircled by more trees.
She was untied, slid from the horse’s back, and stood upright. It took a few moments for the blood to drain from her head. The scene flashed in and out, then clarity came and she saw two tall poplars had been bent to the ground and tied to a third tree. Ropes led from the top of each tree and lay on the ground. She was dragged toward them, her hands freed from the cuffs, her wrists tied to each rope.
Then the shackles were removed.
She stood, arms extended, and realized what would happen if the two trees were freed from their restraint.
Out of the woods, another horse approached. A tall, gangly steed atop which rode Irina Zovastina. The Supreme Minister was dressed in leather boots and a quilted leather jacket. She surveyed the scene, dismissed Viktor and the other men, then dismounted.
“Just you and me,” Zovastina said.
Viktor spurred the horse and raced back to the stables. As soon as he’d arrived at the palace, Zovastina had ordered him to prepare the trees. It was not the first time. Three years ago she’d similarly executed a man who’d plotted revolution. No way to convert him, so she’d tied him between the trunks, brought his coconspirators to watch, then slashed the bindings herself. His body had been ravaged as the trees righted themselves, part of him dangling from one, the rest from the other. Afterward, his compatriots had been easily converted.
The horse galloped into the corral.
Malone waited in the tack room. Viktor had smuggled him into the palace inside the trunk of a car. No one had questioned or searched the chief of the guard. Once the car was parked in the palace garage, he’d slipped out and Viktor had provided him with palace credentials. Only Zovastina would recognize him and, with Viktor as his escort, they’d easily walked to the stables, where Viktor said he could wait in safety.
He did not like anything about this situation. Both he and Cassiopeia were at the mercy of a man they knew nothing about, besides Edwin Davis’ assurance that Viktor had, so far, proven reliable. He could only hope that Davis would confuse Zovastina enough to buy them time. He still carried his gun and he’d sat patient for the past hour. No sounds came from outside the door.
The stables themselves were magnificent, befitting the supreme leader of a massive Federation. He’d counted forty bays when Viktor had first brought him inside. The tack room was equipped with a variety of quality saddles and expensive equipment. He was no expert rider, but knew how to handle a horse. The room’s one window opened to the stable’s rear, and offered no view.
Enough. Time to act.
He drew his gun and opened the door.
No one in sight.
He turned right and headed for the open barn doorway at the far end, passing stalls accommodating some impressive-looking steeds.
He spotted a rider, beyond the doors, racing straight for the stables. He shifted and hugged the wall, approaching the exit, gun ready. Hooves ground to a halt and he heard the coarse exhales of the horse, exhausted from the gallop.
The rider slid from the saddle.
Feet pounded the earth.
He readied himself. A man rushed inside, then stopped abruptly and turned. Viktor.
“You don’t follow instructions well. I told you to stay in the tack room.”
He lowered the gun. “Needed some air.”
“I ordered this place cleared, but somebody might still have come out.”
He wasn’t in the mood for a lecture. “What’s happening?”
“It’s Vitt. She’s in trouble.”
SEVENTY-ONE
Stephanie watched Thorvaldsen clamp Ely Lund in a fervent embrace, like the affection of a father who’d found a lost son.
“It’s so wonderful to see you,” Thorvaldsen said. “I thought you were gone.”
“What in the world are you doing here?” Ely asked, amazement in his voice.
Thorvaldsen seemed to recover his composure and introduced Stephanie.
“Ely,” she said, “we’re kind of like an Egyptian mummy. Pressed for time. Lots happening. Can we talk?”
He led them both inside. The cabin was a dull place, sparsely furnished with lots of books, magazines, and papers. She noticed nothing electrical.
“No power here,” he said. “I cook with gas and heat with wood. But there’s clean water and lots of privacy.”
“How did you get here?” Thorvaldsen asked. “Is Zovastina holding you?”
A puzzled look came to the man’s face. “Not at all. She saved my life. She’s been protecting me.”
They listened as Ely explained how a man had barged into his Samarkand house and held him at gunpoint. But before anything had happened, another man saved him, killing the first. Then, his house was burned with the attacker inside. Ely had been taken to Zovastina, where she explained that her political enemies had targeted him. He was secretly brought to the cabin, where he’d remained the past few months. Only a solitary guard, who lived in the village, came to check on him twice a day and brought supplies.
“The guard has a mobile phone,” Ely said. “That’s how Zovastina and I communicate.”
Stephanie needed to know, “You told her about Ptolemy’s riddle? About elephant medallions and Alexander’s lost tomb?”
Ely grinned. “She loves to talk about it. The Iliad is a passion of hers. Anything Greek, for that matter. She’s asked me lots of questions. Still does, almost every day. And, yes, I told her all about the medallions and the lost tomb.”
She could see that Ely had no conception of what was happening, of the danger all of them, including him, were in. “Cassiopeia is Zovastina’s prisoner. Her life could be at stake.”
She saw all of the confidence leave him. “Cassiopeia’s here? In the Federation? Why would the Supreme Minister want to harm her?”
“Ely,” Thorvaldsen said, “let’s just say that Zovastina is not your savior. She’s your jailer, though she’s constructed a clever jail—one that kept you contained without much effort.”
“You don’t know how many times I wanted to call Cassiopeia. But the Supreme Minister said we needed secrecy right now. I might place others in jeopardy, including Cassiopeia, if I involved them. She assured me all this would be over soon, and I could call who I wanted and go back to work.”
Stephanie decided to get to the point. “We solved Ptolemy’s riddle. We found a scytale that contained a word.” She handed him a square of paper upon which was written . “Can you translate it?”
“Klimax. Old Greek for ladder.”
“What possible significance could that have?” she asked.
He seemed to shake himself free of any speculation. “Is this in the context of the riddle?”
“It’s supposedly the place where the grave is located. Touch the innermost being of the golden illusion. Divide the phoenix. Life provides the measure of the true grave. We did all that and”—she pointed to the paper—“that’s what we found.”
Ely seemed to grasp the enormity with no prompting. He stepped across to one of the tables and plucked a book from one of the stacks. He thumbed through, found what he was after, then flattened the volume on the table. She and Thorvaldsen stepped close and saw a map labeled “Alexander’s Bactrian Conquests.”
“Alexander swept eastward and took what is today Afghanistan and the Federation—what was once Turkmenistan, Tajikistan, and Kyrgyzstan. He never crossed the Pamirs into China. Instead, he veered south to India, where his conquests ended when his army revolted.” Ely pointed to the map. “The area here, between the Jaxartes and Oxus Rivers, Alexander conquered in 330 BCE. To the south was the land of Bactria. To the north Scythia.”
She instantly connected the dots. “That’s where Alexander learned about the draught from the Scythians.”
Ely seemed impressed. “That’s right. Samarkand existed then, in a region called Sogdiana, though the city itself was named Maracanda. Alexander established one of his many Alexandrias, here, calling it Alexandria Eschate, the Furthest. It was the city most east in his empire, and one of the last he founded.”
Ely traced his finger on the map and noted, with a pen, an X. “Klimax was a mountain, here, in what was once Tajikistan, now in the Federation. A place revered by the Scythians and, later, by Alexander, after he negotiated a peace with them. It was said that their kings were buried in these mountains, though no evidence of that has ever been found. The museum in Samarkand sent a couple of expeditions to look around, but found nothing. Pretty barren place, in fact.”
“It’s exactly where the scytale points,” Thorvaldsen said. “Have you been to the area?”
Ely nodded. “Two years ago. Part of an expedition. I’m told that a good bit of this is now privately owned. One of my colleagues at the museum said there’s a huge estate at the base of the mountain. A monstrous thing. Under construction.”
Stephanie recalled what Edwin Davis had told her about the Venetian League. Members were buying property, so she played a hunch. “Do you know who owns it?”
He shook his head. “No idea.”
“We need to go,” Thorvaldsen said. “Ely, can you lead us there?”
The younger man nodded. “It’s about three hours south.”
“How are you feeling?”
Stephanie realized what the Dane meant.
“She knows,” Thorvaldsen said. “Ordinarily, I would have never said a thing, but these are far from ordinary times.”
“Zovastina has been supplying my daily medications. I told you she’s been good to me. How’s Cassiopeia?”
Thorvaldsen shook head. “Unfortunately, I’m afraid her health may well be the least of her worries.”
A car engine grew louder outside.
Stephanie stiffened and raced to the window. A man slid out of an Audi with an automatic rifle.
“My guard,” Ely said over her shoulder. “From the village.”
The man shot out the tires on their car.
SEVENTY-TWO
SAMARKAND
Cassiopeia was having trouble gauging Zovastina.
“I was just visited by the deputy national security adviser to the American president. He told me the same thing you said at the airport. That I missed something in Venice and that you know what that is.”
“And you think this is going to get me to tell you?”
Zovastina admired the two stout trees, their trunks held close to the ground by a coiled rope. “I had this clearing prepared years ago. Several have felt the agony of being torn apart alive. A couple of them actually survived their arms being ripped from their bodies. It took a few minutes for them to bleed to death.” She shook her head. “Horrible way to leave this world.”
Cassiopeia was helpless. Little she could do but try and bluff her way out. Viktor, who was supposedly here to help, had done nothing but make her situation worse.
“After Hephaestion died, Alexander killed his personal physician this same way. I thought it ingenious, so I resurrected the practice.”
“I’m all you have,” she said in a flat tone.
Zovastina seemed curious. “Really? And what is it you have?”
“Apparently, Ely didn’t share with you what he did with me.”
Zovastina stepped close. She was a muscular woman, sallow-faced. Worrisome was the transient look of madness that occasionally revealed itself in anxious dark eyes. Especially now, when her guts were being stoked with both curiosity and anger. “Do you know the Iliad? When Achilles finally vents his anger and kills Hector, he says something interesting. I only wish my fury would compel me to cut away your flesh and eat it raw for what you’ve done. No one can keep the dogs off of your head, not if they brought me ransom of ten or twenty times as much, or more. Tell me, why are you here?”
“You brought me.”
“You never resisted.”
“You risked a lot coming to Venice. Why? It couldn’t be all political.”
She noticed that Zovastina’s eyes seemed a bit less belligerent.
“Sometimes we’re called upon to act for others. To risk things. No quest worth the effort is without risk. I’ve been searching for Alexander’s grave, hoping there might be answers there to some perplexing problems. Ely surely told you about Alexander’s draught. Who knows if there’s anything there? But to find the place. How glorious that would be.”
Zovastina spoke more in wonder than anger. She seemed genuinely moved by the thought. On the one hand she cas
t herself a foolish romantic, consumed with notions of greatness gained from dangerous quests. On the other, according to Thorvaldsen, she was plotting the death of millions.
Zovastina clamped Cassiopeia’s chin in a strong hold. “You need to tell me now what you know.”
“The priest lied to you. In the basilica’s treasury is an amulet that was found in the remains of St. Mark. A heart scarab with a phoenix carved into it. Remember the riddle. Touch the innermost being. Divide the phoenix.”
Zovastina seemed not to hear her. “You are beautiful.” Her breath stank of onion. “But you’re a liar and a cheat. Here to deceive me.”
Zovastina released her grip and stepped away.
Cassiopeia heard the bleating of goats.
Malone mounted the horse.
“None of the roof guards will pay us any attention,” Viktor said. “You’re with me.”
Viktor hopped back onto his ride. “They’re beyond the playing field, in the woods. She’s planning on killing Vitt.”
“What are we waiting for?”
Viktor kicked his horse. Malone followed.
They galloped from the corral toward an open field. He noticed striped poles at each end and an earthen pan in its center and knew what was played here. Buzkashi. He’d read about the game, its violence, how deaths were routine, the barbarity and beauty it simultaneously displayed. Zovastina was apparently a connoisseur and the stabled horses were surely bred to participate, like the steed beneath him, loping forward with uncanny speed and ability. Littered across the grassy field were goats that seemed to provide an excellent manicure service. Maybe a hundred or more, and large, scattering as the horses thundered past.
He glanced back and noticed gun posts atop the palace. As Viktor had predicted, no one seemed alarmed, surely accustomed to their Supreme Minister’s exploits. Ahead, at the far end of the field, stood a thick stand of trees. Two paths cut a route into them. Viktor brought his horse to a stop. Malone reined his in, too. His legs dangled against dark streaks of sweat on the animal’s flanks.