The Cotton Malone Series 7-Book Bundle

by Steve Berry

  “Can we be sure the Americans will not intervene?” one of the generals asked.

  She understood the apprehension. “The Americans will not say or do a thing. Why will they care? After the Iraqi debacle, they won’t interfere, especially if we’re handling the load. They’ll actually be thrilled at the prospect of eliminating Iran.”

  “Once we move on Afghanistan, there’ll be American deaths,” one of the men noted. “Their military is still present.”

  “When that time comes, let’s try to minimize those,” she said. “We want the end result to be that the Americans withdraw from the country as we take control. I’m assuming that will be a popular decision in the United States. Use a virus there that’s containable. Strategic infections, targeted at specific groups and regions. The majority of the dead must be natives, especially Taliban, make sure U.S. personnel are only a consequence.”

  She met the gaze of each of the men at the table. Not one of them said a word about the bruise on her face—leftover from her bout with Cassiopeia Vitt. Was her leak here? How had the Americans learned so much about her intentions?

  “Millions are about to die,” one of the men said in a whisper.

  “Millions of problems,” she made clear. “Iran is a harbinger of terrorists. A place governed by fools. That’s what the West says over and over. Time to end that problem, and we have the way. The people who survive will be better off. We will, too. We’ll have their oil and their gratitude. What we do with those will determine our success.”

  She listened as troop strengths, contingency plans, and strategies were discussed. Squads of men had been trained in deploying the viruses and were ready to move south. She was pleased. Years of anticipation were finally over. She imagined how Alexander the Great must have felt when he crossed from Greece into Asia and began his global conquest. Like him, she, too, envisioned total success. Once she controlled Iran, Pakistan, and Afghanistan, she’d move on to the rest of the Middle East. That dominance, though, would be more subtle, the viral rampages made to appear as simply a spread of the initial infections. If she’d read the West correctly, Europe, China, Russia, and America would withdraw into themselves. Restrict their borders. Minimize travel. Hope the public health disaster was contained in countries that, by and large, none of them cared about. Their inaction would give her time to claim more links in the chain of nations that stood between the Federation and Africa. Played right, she could conquer the entire Middle East in a matter of months and never fire a shot.

  “Do we have control of the antiagents?” her chief of staff finally asked.

  She’d been waiting for the question. “We will.” The uneasy peace that connected her and Vincenti was about to end.

  “Philogen has not provided stockpiles to treat our population,” one of the men noted. “Nor do we have the quantities needed to stop the viral spread in the target nations, once victory is assured.”

  “I’m aware of the problem,” she said.

  A chopper was waiting.

  She stood. “Gentlemen, we’re about to start the greatest conquest since ancient times. The Greeks came and defeated us, ushering in the Hellenistic Age, which eventually molded Western civilization. We will now begin a new dawn in human development. The Asiatic Age.”

  SEVENTY-EIGHT

  Cassiopeia strapped herself onto the steel bench in the rear compartment. The chopper lurched as Viktor began evasive maneuvers to elude their pursuers. She knew Malone was aware that she’d wanted to talk to Ely, but she also saw that now was not the time. She appreciated Malone risking his neck. How would she have escaped from Zovastina without him? Doubtful that she would have, even with Viktor there. Thorvaldsen had told her that Viktor was an ally, but he’d also warned about his limitations. His mission was to remain undetected, but apparently that directive had changed.

  “They’re firing,” Viktor said through the headset.

  The chopper banked left, knifing through the air. Her harness held her secure against the bulkhead. Her hands gripped the bench. She was fighting a rising nausea since, truth be told, she was prone to motion sickness. Boats she generally avoided and planes, as long as they flew straight, weren’t a problem. This, though, was a problem. Her stomach seemed to roll up into her throat as they constantly changed altitude, like an elevator out of control. Nothing she could do but hold on and hope to heaven Viktor knew what he was doing.

  She saw Malone work the firing controls and heard cannon shots from both sides of the fuselage. She gazed ahead into the cockpit, through the windshield, and spotted mountain haunches lurching from the clouds on both sides.

  “They still back there?” Malone asked.

  “Coming fast,” Viktor said. “And trying to fire.”

  “Missiles we don’t need.”

  “I agree. But firing those in here would be tricky for us and them.”

  They emerged into clearer skies. The helicopter angled right and plummeted in altitude.

  “Do we have to do that?” she asked, trying to keep her stomach under control.

  “Afraid so,” Malone answered. “We need to use these valleys to avoid them. In and out, like a maze.”

  She knew Malone had once flown fighter jets and still held a pilot’s license. “Some of us don’t like this kind of thing.”

  “You’re welcome to toss your cookies anytime.”

  “I wouldn’t give you the pleasure.” Thank goodness she hadn’t eaten since lunch yesterday on Torcello.

  More sharp banks as they roared through the afternoon sky. The engine noise seemed deafening. She’d only flown on a few helicopters, never in a combat situation, the ride like a three dimensional roller coaster.

  “Two more choppers within radar range,” Viktor said. “But they’re off to our north.”

  “Where are we headed?” Malone asked.

  The copter veered into another steep turn.

  “South,” Viktor said.

  Malone stared at the radar monitor. The mountains were both a shield and a problem that compounded tracking their pursuers. The targets steadily winked in and out. The American military relied more on satellites and AWACS planes to provide a clear picture. Luckily, the Central Asian Federation did not enjoy those high-tech amenities.

  The radar screen cleared.

  “Nothing behind us,” Malone said.

  He had to admit, Viktor could fly. They were winding a path through the Pamirs, rotors dangerously close to steep gray precipices. He’d never learned to fly a helicopter, though he’d always wanted to, and he’d not been behind the controls of a supersonic fighter in ten years. He’d maintained his jet fighter proficiency for a few years after transferring to the Billet, but he’d let the certification slide. At the time he hadn’t minded. Now he wished he’d kept those skills current.

  Viktor leveled the chopper off at six thousand feet and asked, “You hit anything?”

  “Hard to say. I think we just forced them to keep their distance.”

  “Where we’re headed is about a hundred and fifty kilometers south. I know Arima. I’ve been there before, but it’s been a while.”

  “Mountains all the way?”

  Viktor nodded. “And more valleys. I think I can stay beneath any radar. This area is not a security zone. The border with China has been open for years. Most of Zovastina’s resources are directed to the south, on the Afghan and Pakistani lines.”

  Cassiopeia came up behind them. “That over?”

  “Looks like it.”

  “I’m going to take a roundabout way,” Viktor said, “to avoid any more encounters. It’ll take a little longer, but the farther east I go the safer we’ll be.”

  “How long will that slow us up?” Cassiopeia asked.

  “Maybe a half hour.”

  Malone nodded and Cassiopeia did not offer any objections. Dodging bullets was one thing, but air-to-air missiles were another matter. Soviet offensive equipment, like their missiles, were top-notch. Viktor’s suggestion was a good one.r />
  Malone settled into his seat and watched the naked rush of rounded spurs. In the distance, haze claimed a stadium of white-tipped peaks. A river cleaved purple veins through the foothills in a silty torrent. Both Alexander the Great and Marco Polo had walked that sooty earth—the whole place once a battleground. British dependencies to the south, Russian to the north, and the Chinese and Afghans to the east and west. For most of the twentieth century, Moscow and Peking fought for control, each testing the other, ultimately settling into an uneasy peace, only the Pamirs themselves emerging a victor.

  Alexander the Great chose his last resting place wisely.

  But he wondered.

  Was he really down there?

  Waiting?

  SEVENTY-NINE

  2:00 P.M.

  Zovastina flew from Samarkand to Vincenti’s estate in a direct path aboard the fastest helicopter her air force owned.

  Vincenti’s house loomed below. Excessive, expensive, and, like its owner, expendable. Allowing capitalism to flourish within the Federation may not be a smart idea. Changes would be needed. The Venetian League would have to be reined in.

  But first things first.

  The chopper touched down.

  After Edwin Davis left the palace, she’d ordered Kamil Revin to contact Vincenti and alert him of the visit. But the warning had been delayed long enough to allow her troops time to arrive. She’d been told that the house was now secure, so she’d ordered her men to leave in the choppers that had brought them, save for nine soldiers. The house staff had also been evacuated. She possessed no quarrel with locals who were only trying to earn a living—her dispute was with Vincenti.

  She stepped from the helicopter and marched across manicured grounds to a stone terrace where she entered the mansion. Though Vincenti thought she was disinterested in the estate, she’d closely followed its construction. Fifty-three rooms. Eleven bedrooms. Sixteen baths. Its architect had willingly provided her a set of plans. She knew of the regal dining hall, elaborate parlors, gourmet kitchen, and wine cellar. Staring firsthand at the decor it was easy to see why it carried an eight-figure price tag.

  In the main foyer two of her troops guarded the front entrance. Two more men flanked a marble stairway. Everything here reminded her of Venice. And she’d never liked to recall failure.

  She caught the attention of one of the sentinels, who motioned right with his rifle. She paraded down a short hall and entered what appeared to be a library. Three more armed men occupied the room along with another man. Though they’d never met, she knew his name and background.

  “Mr. O’Conner, you have a decision to make.”

  The man stood from a leather settee and faced her.

  “You’ve worked for Vincenti a long time. He depends on you. And, frankly, without you he may not have made it so far.”

  She allowed her compliment to be absorbed as she inspected the opulent room. “Vincenti lives well. I’m curious, does he share the wealth with you?”

  O’Conner said nothing.

  “Let me tell you some things you may or may not know. Last year, Vincenti netted over forty million euros from his company. He owns stock worth over a billion euros. What does he pay you?”

  No answer.

  “One hundred fifty thousand euros.” She saw the look on his face as the truth sank in. “You see, Mr. O’Conner, I know quite a lot. One hundred fifty thousand euros for all that you do for him. You’ve intimidated, coerced, even killed. He makes tens of millions and you received one hundred and fifty thousand euros. He lives like this and you,” she hesitated, “simply live.”

  “I’ve never complained,” O’Conner said.

  She stopped behind Vincenti’s desk. “No. You haven’t. Which is admirable.”

  “What do you want?”

  “Where’s Vincenti?”

  “Gone. Left before your men arrived.”

  She grinned. “There it is. Another thing you do so well. Lie.”

  He shrugged. “Believe what you will. Surely your men have searched the house.”

  “They have and, you’re right, Vincenti is not to be found. But you and I both know why that’s so.”

  She noticed the lovely alabaster carvings that dotted the desk. Chinese figurines. She never really cared for Oriental art. She lifted one of the figurines. A contorted fat man, half-dressed. “During the construction of this obscene monstrosity, Vincenti incorporated back passages, ostensibly for servants’ use, but you and I know what they’re really used for. He also had a large underground room hewn from the rock beneath us. That’s probably where he is right now.”

  O’Conner’s face never flinched.

  “So, as I said, Mr. O’Conner, you have a choice. I’ll find Vincenti, with or without your assistance. But your aid will speed the process and, I must admit, time is of the essence. That’s why I’m willing to bargain. I could use a man like you. Resourceful.” She paused. “Without greed. So here’s your choice. Do you switch sides or stay with Vincenti?”

  She’d offered the same alternative to others. Most were members of the national assembly, part of her government, or a rising opposition. Some weren’t worth recruiting, far easier to kill them and be done with it, but the majority had proven worthy converts. They’d all been either Asian or Russian or some combination. Here, she was dangling bait to an American and was curious how the lure would be received.

  “I choose you,” O’Conner said. “What can I do for you?”

  “Answer my question.”

  O’Conner reached into his pocket and one of the troops instantly leveled a rifle. O’Conner quickly displayed empty hands. “I need something to answer your question.”

  “Go ahead,” she said.

  He retrieved a silver controller with three buttons. “Those rooms are accessed from doors throughout the house. But the underground room can only be entered from here.” He displayed the device. “One button opens every portal in case of a fire. The other activates the alarm. The third button,” he pointed across the room and pressed, “opens that.”

  An eloquent Chinese cabinet rotated, revealing a dimly lit passage.

  The warmth of victory filled her.

  She approached one of her infantrymen and unholstered his Makarov 9mm.

  She then turned and shot O’Conner in the head.

  “Loyalty that shallow I don’t need.”

  EIGHTY

  Things were wrong and Vincenti knew it. But if he sat tight, kept calm, and was careful, this could play itself out. O’Conner would handle things, like always. But Karyn Walde and Grant Lyndsey were another matter.

  Karyn was pacing the lab like a caged animal, her strength apparently returning, fueled by anticipation.

  “You need to relax,” he said. “Zovastina needs me. She won’t be doing anything stupid.”

  He knew the antiagents would keep her in line, which was precisely why he’d never allowed her to learn much about them.

  “Grant, secure your computer. Password protect everything, like we discussed.”

  He could see Lyndsey was even more anxious than Karyn, but where she seemed fueled by anger, Lyndsey was gripped with fear. He needed the man to think clearly, so he said, “We’re fine down here. Don’t sweat it.”

  “She resented me from the start. Hated having to deal with me.”

  “She may have hated you, but she needed you, and still does. Use that to your advantage.”

  Lyndsey was not listening. He was pounding on a keyboard, muttering to himself in a panicked frenzy.

  “Both of you,” he said, voice rising. “Calm down. We don’t even know if she’s here.”

  Lyndsey stared up from the computer. “It’s been a long time. What are those troops doing here? What the hell’s going on?”

  Good questions, but he had to rely on O’Conner.

  “That woman she took from the lab the other day,” Lyndsey said. “I’m sure she never made it back to the Federation. I saw it in her eyes. Zovastina was going t
o kill her. For amusement. She’s ready to slaughter millions. What are we to her?”

  “Her salvation.”

  Or at least he hoped.

  Stephanie turned off the highway onto a paved lane guarded by tall poplars lined like sentries. They’d made good time, driving the hundred and fifty kilometers in less than two hours. Ely had commented on how travel had changed over the past few years, road quality being a top priority for the Federation, along with tunneling. A new system had been blasted through the mountains, greatly shortening the distances from north to south.

  “This place is different,” Ely said from the rear seat. “It’s been two years since I was here. This road was rock and gravel.”

  “This asphalt is recent,” she said.

  A fertile valley floor, checkered with pastures, spread beyond the trees, ending at stark rolling foothills that steadily rose into highlands, then mountains. She spotted shepherds tending flocks of sheep and goats. Horses roamed freely. The road stretched straight between the trees, taking them due east toward a distant gallery of silver flanks.

  “We came here on an exploratory mission,” Ely said. “Lots of chids. The local Pamiri house, built of stone and plaster with flat roofs. We stayed in one. There was a small village out there, in that valley. But it’s gone.”

  She’d not heard any more from Malone, and she dare not try and reach him. She had no idea of his situation, other than that he’d apparently managed to free Cassiopeia and compromise Viktor. Edwin Davis and President Daniels would not be happy, but rarely did things go according to plan.

  “Why is everything so green?” Henrik asked. “I always thought of the Pamirs as dry and barren.”

  “Most of the valleys are, but where there’s water the valleys can be quite beautiful. Like a piece of Switzerland. We’ve been dry lately with warm temperatures. Way above normal for here.”

  Up ahead, through the thin line of trees, she spotted a massive stone structure perched on a grassy promontory, backdropped by mountain spurs devoid of snow. The house rose in sharp verticals, broken by steep gables topped with black slate, the exterior a mosaic of flat stone in varying shades of brown, silver, and gold. Mullioned windows symmetrically broke the elegant facade, each outlined with thick cornices, reflecting ribbons of light from the afternoon sun. Three storeys. Four stone chimneys. Scaffolding wrapped one side. The whole thing reminded her of one of the many mansions that dotted north Atlanta, or something from Architectural Digest.