The Cotton Malone Series 7-Book Bundle

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The Cotton Malone Series 7-Book Bundle Page 127

by Steve Berry


  He grinned. “I’ll keep that in mind.” He pointed at the tombs. “What about these?”

  “They’ve been waiting here a long time,” Ely said. “They can rest a little longer. Right now, there’s something else we have to do.”

  Cassiopeia was the last to climb from the tawny pool, back into the first chamber.

  “Lyndsey said the bacteria in the green pool could be swallowed,” Ely said. “They’re harmless to us, but destroy HIV.”

  “We don’t know if any of that is true,” Stephanie said.

  Ely seemed convinced. “It is. That man’s ass was on the line. He was using what he had to save his skin.”

  “We have the disk,” Thorvaldsen said. “I can have the best scientists in the world get us an answer immediately.”

  Ely shook his head. “Alexander the Great had no scientists. He trusted his world.”

  Cassiopeia admired his courage. She’d been infected for over a decade, always wondering when the disease would finally manifest itself. To have a time bomb ticking away inside, waiting for the day when your immune system finally failed, that changed your life. She knew Ely suffered from the same anxiety, clutched at every hope. And they were the lucky ones. They could afford the drugs that kept the virus at bay. Millions of others could not.

  She stared into the tawny pool, at the Greek letter Z that lay at its bottom. She recalled what she’d read in one of the manuscripts. Eumenes revealed the resting place, far away, in the mountains, where the Scythians taught Alexander about life. She walked to the green pool and again admired the H at its bottom.

  Life.

  What a lovely promise.

  Ely grasped her hand. “Ready?”

  She nodded.

  They dropped to their knees and drank.

  NINETY-FIVE

  COPENHAGEN

  SATURDAY, JUNE 6

  7:45 P.M.

  Malone sat on the second floor of the Café Norden and enjoyed more of the tomato bisque soup. Still the best he’d ever eaten. Thorvaldsen sat across from him. The second-floor windows were flung open, allowing a lovely late-spring evening to wash over them. Copenhagen’s weather this time of year was nearly perfect, another one of the many reasons why he so enjoyed living here.

  “I heard from Ely today,” Thorvaldsen said.

  He’d wondered what was happening in central Asia. They’d returned home six weeks ago and he’d been busy selling books. That was the thing about being a field agent. You did your job, then moved on. No postanalysis or follow-up. That task was always left to others.

  “He’s excavating Alexander’s tomb. The new Federation government is cooperating with the Greeks.”

  He knew that Ely had taken a position in Athens with the Museum of Antiquities, thanks to Thorvaldsen’s intervention. Of course, knowing the location of Alexander the Great’s grave certainly fueled the museum’s enthusiasm.

  Zovastina had been succeeded by a moderate deputy minister who, according to the Federation constitution, temporarily assumed power until elections could be held. Washington had quietly ensured that all of the Federation’s biological stockpiles were destroyed and Samarkand had been given a choice. Cooperate or the Federation’s neighbors would learn what Zovastina and her generals had planned, and then nature could take its course. Luckily, moderation prevailed and the United States sent a team to oversee the viral extermination. Of course, with the West holding the antiagent, there’d been no choice. The Federation could start killing, but they could not stop it. The uneasy alliance between Zovastina and Vincenti had been replaced with one between two distrusting nations.

  “Ely has full control of the tomb and is quietly working it,” Thorvaldsen said. “He says a lot of history may have to be rewritten. Lots of inscriptions inside. Artwork. Even a map or two. Incredible stuff.”

  “And how are Edwin Davis and Danny Daniels?” he asked. “Satisfied?”

  Thorvaldsen smiled. “I spoke with Edwin a couple of days ago. Daniels is grateful for all we did. He especially liked Cassiopeia blowing up that helicopter. Not a lot of sympathy from that man. He’s a tough one.”

  “Glad we could help the president out one more time.” He paused. “What about the Venetian League?”

  Thorvaldsen shrugged. “Faded into the woodwork. It didn’t do anything that can be proven.”

  “Except kill Naomi Johns.”

  “Vincenti did that, and I believe he paid.”

  That was true. “You know, it’d be nice if Daniels could, for once, just ask for my help.”

  “Not going to happen.”

  “Like with you?”

  His friend nodded. “Like with me.”

  He finished his soup and stared down at Højbro Plads. The square was lively with people enjoying a warm evening, which were few and far between in Copenhagen. His bookshop across the plaza was closed. Business had been great lately and he was planning a buying trip to London the following week, before Gary arrived for his yearly summer visit. He was looking forward to seeing his fifteen-year-old.

  But he was also melancholy. He’d been that way every since returning home. He and Thorvaldsen ate dinner together at least once a week, but never had they discussed what was really on his mind. Some places need not be trod.

  Unless allowed.

  So he asked, “How’s Cassiopeia?”

  “I was wondering when you’d inquire.”

  “You’re the one who got me into all that.”

  “All I did was tell you she needed help.”

  “I’d like to think she’d help me, if needed.”

  “She would. But, to answer your question, both she and Ely are virus free. Edwin tells me scientists have also verified the bacteria’s effectiveness. Daniels will announce the cure shortly and the United States government will control its distribution. The president has ordered that it be available to all at minimal cost.”

  “A lot of people will be affected by that.”

  “Thanks to you. You solved the riddle and found the grave.”

  He didn’t want to hear that. “We all did our job. And, by the way, I heard you’re a gun-toting fool. Stephanie said you were hell in that house.”

  “I’m not helpless.”

  Thorvaldsen had told him about Stephanie and the shooting. He’d spoken to her about it before they left Asia and had called her again last week.

  “Stephanie’s realizing it’s tough out in the field,” he said.

  “I spoke to her myself a few days ago.”

  “You two becoming buddies?”

  His friend smiled. “We’re a lot alike, though neither one of us would admit that to the other.”

  “Killing is never easy. No matter what the reason.”

  “I killed three men myself in that house. You’re right. It’s never easy.”

  He still had not received an answer to his initial question, and Thorvaldsen seemed to sense what he truly wanted to know.

  “I haven’t spoke with Cassiopeia much since we left the Federation. She went home to France. I don’t know about she and Ely—the two of them. She offers little.” Thorvaldsen shook his head. “You’ll have to ask her.”

  He decided to take a walk. He liked roaming the Strøget. He asked Thorvaldsen if he wanted to join him but his friend declined.

  He stood.

  Thorvaldsen tossed some folded papers across the table. “The deed to that property by the sound, where the house burned. I have no use for it.”

  He unfolded the sheets and saw his name on the grantee line.

  “I want you to have it.”

  “That property is worth a lot of money. It’s oceanfront. I can’t take that.”

  “Rebuild the house. Enjoy it. Call it compensation for me bringing you into the middle of all this.”

  “You knew I’d help.”

  “This way, my conscience, what little of it there is, will be satisfied.”

  From their two years together he’d learned that when Henrik Thorvaldsen made up h
is mind, that was it. So he stuffed the deed into his pocket and descended the stairs.

  He pushed through the main doors into the warm touch of a Danish evening. People and conversations greeted him from occupied tables that sprawled out from the café.

  “Hey, Malone.”

  He turned.

  Sitting at one of the tables was Cassiopeia.

  She stood and walked his way.

  She wore a navy canvas jacket and matching canvas pants. A leather shoulder bag draped one shoulder and T-strap sandals accented her feet. The dark hair hung in thick curls. He could still see her in the mountain. Tight leather pants and a sports bra, as she swam with him into the tomb. And those few minutes when they both were down to their underwear.

  “What are you doing in town?” he asked.

  She shrugged. “You’re always telling me how good the food is at this café, so I came to eat dinner.”

  He smiled. “Long way for a meal.”

  “Not if you can’t cook.”

  “I hear you’re cured. I’m glad.”

  “Does take a few things off your mind. Wondering if today is the day you start to die.”

  He recalled her preoccupation that first night in Copenhagen, when she aided his escape from the Greco-Roman museum. All the melancholy seemed gone.

  “Where you headed?” she asked.

  He stared out across the square. “Just for a walk.”

  “Want some company?”

  He glanced back at the café, up to the second story, and the window table where he and Thorvaldsen had been sitting. His friend gazed out the open frame, smiling. He should have known.

  He faced her and said, “Are you two always up to something?”

  “You haven’t answered my question about the walk.”

  What the hell. “Sure. I’d love some company.”

  She slid her arm into his and led him forward.

  He had to ask. “What about you and Ely? I thought—”

  “Malone.”

  He knew what was coming, so he saved her the trouble.

  “I know. Just shut up and walk.”

  WRITER’S NOTE

  Time to separate fact from fiction.

  The style of execution described in the prologue was utilized during the time of Alexander the Great. The physician who treated Hephaestion was ordered killed by Alexander, but not in the manner depicted. Hanging is what most chronicles mention.

  The relationship between Alexander and Hephaestion was complex. Friend, confidant, lover—all would apply. Alexander’s deep distress at Hephaestion’s untimely death is documented, as is Hephaestion’s elaborate funeral, which some say may be the most expensive in history. Of course, the embalming and secreting away of Hephaestion’s body (Chapter 24) is fictional.

  Greek fire (Chapter 5) is real. The formula was indeed held personally by Byzantine emperors and was lost when that empire fell. To this day, its chemical composition remains a mystery. As to any salt water vulnerability, that is my invention—actual Greek fire was used offensively against ships at sea.

  The game of buzkashi (Chapter 7) is both ancient and violent and continues to be played across central Asia. The rules, dress, and equipment, as detailed, are correct, as is the fact that players die routinely.

  The Central Asian Federation is fictional, but the political and economic details outlined in Chapter 27, of this region of the world, are accurate. Unfortunately, that land has always been a convenient battleground, and the region’s governments remain riddled with corruption.

  Frank Holt’s book, Alexander the Great and the Mystery of the Elephant Medallions, taught me about these unusual objects. Herein, their existence was narrowed to eight—many more than that still exist. Their description (Chapters 8–9) is faithful, save for the microletters—ZH—which are my addition. Amazingly, utilizing crude lenses, ancient engravers actually possessed the ability to micro-engrave.

  With regard to the use of ZH, the literal translation of that word in Old Greek is the verb “to live.” The noun “life” is more accurately . Some liberty was taken with the translation for the sake of the story. As for the description of Greek language throughout the story, the term “Old Greek” was employed, though some would say the more accurate term would be “ancient Greek.”

  The Sacred Band that guards Irina Zovastina (Chapter 12) is adapted from ancient Greece’s fiercest fighting unit. One hundred and fifty male couples, from the city of Thebes, slaughtered to a man by Philip II and his son, Alexander the Great, in 338 BCE. A funerary monument to their courage still stands in Greece at Chaeronea.

  The draught that appears throughout the story is fictional, as is the account of its discovery in Chapter 14. Archaea bacteria (Chapter 62), though, do exist and some bacteria and viruses do, in fact, prey on one another. My use of archaea in that way is pure invention.

  As to Venice, the locales are accurate. The inside of St. Mark’s Basilica is stunning and the tomb of St. Mark (Chapter 42), along with its history, is accurately described. On Torcello, the museum, two churches, bell tower, and restaurant are there. The island’s geography and history (Chapter 34) are likewise retold faithfully. The Venetian League is not real. However, during its long history, the Venetian republic did periodically form alliances with other city-states in what were then called leagues.

  X-ray fluorescence (Chapter 11) is a recent scientific breakthrough that is being used to study ancient parchments. I’m indebted to the talented novelist Christopher Reich for sending me an article on the concept.

  The History of Hieronymus of Cardia (Chapter 24) is purely fictional as is Ptolemy’s riddle, though all of Ptolemy’s actions in relation to Alexander’s funeral cortege and his dominance of Egypt are historically correct. The appropriation of St. Mark’s body from Alexandria by Venetian merchants in 828 CE (Chapters 29 and 45) happened as related, and the body did indeed disappear, in Venice, for long periods of time. The story of its reappearance in 1094 (Chapter 45) is proudly retold daily by Venetians.

  Unfortunately, zoonoses (Chapter 31) exist and periodically wreak havoc with human health. The search for these natural toxins and their adaptation for offensive uses (Chapter 54) is nothing new. Mankind has toyed with biological war for centuries and my fictional Irina Zovastina is just another example.

  The statistics detailed in Chapter 32 reflect accurately the growing problem of HIV. Africa and Southeast Asia are indeed its favorite haunts. The biology of the virus described in Chapter 51, and how HIV may have moved from monkeys to humans (Chapter 60), is correct. The idea of someone discovering the cure for HIV, then holding it while the market built (Chapter 64), is simply part of this story. But the politics of HIV, as well as the insufficient global response to this threatening pandemic, are all too real.

  Vozrozhdeniya Island is where the Soviets produced many of their biological weapons and the dilemma caused by its abandonment (Chapter 33) actually happened. The disappearing Aral Sea (Chapter 33), precipitated by the insane Soviet divergence of its main water source, is generally regarded as one of the worst ecological disasters in history. Unfortunately, no happy resolution to this catastrophe has occurred in real life.

  The heart amulet (Chapter 59) is actual, though my inclusion of a gold coil inside is fictional. Scytales (Chapter 61) were used in Alexander the Great’s time for sending coded messages. One is on display at the International Spy Museum, in Washington, D.C., and I could not resist its inclusion. The Scythians (Chapter 75) existed and their history is correctly retold, except that there is no indication they buried their kings in anything other than mounds.

  Now to Alexander the Great.

  The story of his death (Chapter 8) is a composite of several accounts. Lots of contradictions in those. The three versions of what Alexander said in answer to the question Who do you leave your kingdom to? are mine. The generally accepted answer is to the strongest, but a different response fit better here. Historians have long pondered Alexander’s death, its suddenness an
d inexplicable nature, suggesting foul play (Chapter 14), but no proof exists.

  Alexander’s embalming with honey, what happened to his funeral cortege, and his ultimate Egyptian tomb in Alexandria are all taken from historical accounts. The possibility that the remains of St. Mark in Venice may actually be those of Alexander the Great is not mine. Andrew Michael Chugg in his excellent The Lost Tomb of Alexander the Great postulated the theory. It is fact, though, that early Christians routinely appropriated pagan artifacts (Chapter 74), and the body of Alexander the Great did disappear from Alexandria at about the same time that the body of St. Mark reappeared (Chapter 45). Further, the political debate over the return of all or some of the remains located in St. Mark’s Basilica to Egypt continues and the Vatican did, in fact, hand over a few small relics to Alexandria in 1968.

  Alexander’s tomb being located in central Asia is purely fictional, but the items described therein (Chapter 94) were adapted from the tomb of Alexander’s father, Philip II, which was supposedly located by archaeologists in 1977. Recently, though, doubt has been cast on the identity of that tomb’s occupant.

  Alexander’s political and historical legacy continues to be a matter of intense debate. Was he a wise visionary or a reckless, bloody conqueror? Malone and Cassiopeia’s discussion in Chapter 10 mirrors the two sides. Many books have been written on this subject, but the best is Peter Green’s Alexander of Macedon, A Historical Biography. Green’s thoughtful study makes clear that Alexander spent his entire life, with legendary success, in pursuit of nothing but personal glory. And though the empire he fought so hard to create collapsed the moment he was gone, his legend lives on. Proof of this immortality can be seen in the belief he has long inspired in others. Sometimes good, other times (as with Irina Zovastina) detrimental. To Peter Green, Alexander is an enigma, whose greatness simply defies any final judgment. He personifies an archetype, restless and perennial, the embodiment of an eternal quest, a personality that has grown greater than the measurable sum of his impressive works.

 

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