by Steve Berry
“They're all on life support. They've been clinically dead for days. I need autopsies to verify the infectious parameters, but I wanted to show you before we sliced them up.”
“And the antiagent?”
“One dosage and all twelve were on their way to good health. Total reversal in a matter of hours. Then I substituted a placebo to all of them, except the first woman. She's the control. As expected, the others lapsed quickly and died.” He brought the image on the screen back to the first woman. “But she's virus free. Perfectly normal.”
“Why was this trial needed?”
“You wanted a new virus. I needed to see if the adjustments worked.” Lyndsey threw her a smile. “And, like I said, I had to verify the antiagent.”
“When do I get the new virus?”
“You can take it today. That's why I called.”
She never liked transporting the viruses, but only she knew this lab's location. Her deal was with Vincenti. A personal arrangement between them. No way she could trust anyone with the fruits of that bargain. And her helicopter would never be stopped by the Chinese.
“Get the virus ready,” she said.
“All frozen and packed.”
She pointed at the screen. “What about her?”
He shrugged. “She'll be reinfected. Dead by tomorrow.”
Her nerves were still on edge. Trampling the would-be assassin had vented some of her frustration, but unanswered questions remained about the murder attempt. How had Vincenti known? Perhaps because he'd ordered it? Hard to say. But she'd been caught off guard. Vincenti had been a step ahead of her. And that she did not like.
Nor did she like Lindsey.
She pointed at the screen. “Have her ready to leave, too. Immediately.”
“Is that wise?”
“That's my concern.”
He grinned. “Some amusement?”
“Would you like to come along and see?”
“No, thanks. I like it here, on the Chinese side of the border.”
She rose. “And if I were you, I'd stay here.”
NINETEEN
DENMARK
MALONE KEPT HIS GUN READY AS THORVALDSEN CONCLUDED HIS business with Viktor.
“We can make the exchange back here,” Thorvaldsen said. “Tomorrow.”
“You don't strike me as a man who requires money,” Viktor said.
“Actually, I like as much as I can acquire.”
Malone repressed a smile. His Danish friend actually gave away millions of euros to causes all around the world. He'd often wondered if he was one of those causes, since Thorvaldsen had made a point, two years ago, to travel to Atlanta and offer him a chance to change his life in Copenhagen. An opportunity he'd taken and never regretted.
“I'm curious,” Viktor said. “The quality of the forgery was remarkable. Who's the craftsman?”
“A person of talent, who takes pride in his work.”
“Pass on my compliments.”
“Some of your euros will go that way.” Thorvaldsen paused. “Now I have a question. Are you going after the last two medallions, here in Europe?”
“What do you think?”
“And the third one, in Samarkand?”
Viktor did not reply, but Thorvaldsen's message had surely been received. I know your business well.
Viktor started to leave. “I'll call tomorrow.”
Thorvaldsen stayed seated as the man left the room. “Look forward to hearing from you.”
The front door opened, then closed.
“Cotton,” Thorvaldsen said, producing a paper bag from his pocket. “We have little time. Carefully, slide the case with the medallion into this.”
He understood. “Fingerprints? That's why you gave him the coin.”
“You saw how he touched nothing. But he had to hold the medallion so he could switch them.”
Malone used the barrel of the gun to slide the plastic case into the bag, careful that it landed flat. He rolled the top closed, leaving an air pocket. He knew the drill. Unlike on television, paper, not plastic, was the best repository for fingerprint evidence. Far less chance of smearing. Thorvaldsen stood. “Come, now.” He watched as his friend shuffled across the room, head cocked forward. “We must hurry.”
He noticed Thorvaldsen was moving toward the rear of the house. “Where are you going?”
“Out of here.”
He hustled after his friend and they left through a kitchen door that opened onto a railed deck, facing the sea. Fifty yards away, a dock jutted from the rocky shoreline where a motorboat waited. The morning sky had turned overcast. Gunmetal gray clouds now hung low. A brisk northern wind cascaded across the sound, swirling the frothy brown water.
“We're leaving?” he asked, as Thorvaldsen stepped from the deck. The Dane continued to move with surprising speed for a man with a crooked spine.
“Where's Cassiopeia?” Malone asked.
“In trouble,” Thorvaldsen said. “But that's our only saving grace.”
CASSIOPEIA WATCHED AS THE MAN FROM INSIDE THE HOUSE climbed into his rental car and sped back down the tree-lined lane that led to the highway. She switched on a handheld LCD monitor, linked by radio with two video cameras she'd installed the previous week–one at the highway entrance, the other mounted high in a tree fifty meters from the house. On the tiny screen the car stopped.
Tire Slasher scampered from the woods. The driver opened his door and stepped out. Both men hustled a few meters back down the lane toward the house.
She knew exactly what they were waiting for.
So she switched off the display and rushed from her hiding place. VIKTOR WAITED TO SEE IF HE WAS RIGHT. HE'D PARKED THE CAR just past a bend in the hard-packed lane and watched the house from behind a tree trunk.
“They're not going anywhere,” Rafael said. “Two flat tires.”
Viktor knew the woman had to have been watching.
“I never let on,” Rafael said. “I acted like I was on guard and sensed nothing.”
Which was what Viktor had told his partner to do.
From his pocket he removed the medallion that he'd managed to steal. Minister Zovastina's orders were clear. Retrieve and return all of them intact. Five were accounted for. Only three remained.
“What were they like?” Rafael asked.
“Puzzling.”
And he meant it. He'd anticipated their moves, almost too well, and that bothered him. The same slender woman with lioness moves emerged from the woods. Surely she'd seen the tires slashed and was racing to report to her compatriots. He was pleased to know that he'd been right. But why had she not stopped the assault? Maybe her task was simply to watch? He noticed she was carrying something. Small and rectangular. He wished he'd brought binoculars. Rafael reached into his jacket pocket and removed the radio controller. He gently laid a hand on his partner's arm. “Not yet.”
The woman stopped and examined the tires, then trotted toward the front door.
“Give her time.”
Three hours ago, after arranging the meeting, they'd driven straight here. A thorough reconnaissance had confirmed that the house stood empty, so they'd stashed packs of Greek fire beneath the raised foundation and inside the attic. Instead of one of the turtles igniting this mixture, they'd rigged a radio charge.
The woman disappeared inside the house.
Viktor silently counted to ten and prepared to lift his hand from Rafael's arm.
MALONE STOOD IN THE BOAT. THORVALDSEN BESIDE HIM.
“What did you mean Cassiopeia is in trouble?”
“The house is loaded with Greek fire. They came before us and prepared. Now that he has the medallion, Viktor doesn't intend for us to survive the meeting.”
“And they're waiting to make sure Cassiopeia is in there.”
“That's my estimate. But we're about to see if it's also theirs.”
CASSIOPEIA ALLOWED THE FRONT DOOR TO CLOSE, THEN RACED through the house. This was chancy. She could only hope that the t
hieves gave her a few seconds before they detonated the mixture. Her nerves were tingling, her mind surging, her melancholy replaced with an adrenaline-driven rush.
At the museum, Malone had sensed her anxiety, seemingly knowing that something was wrong. And there was.
But at the moment she couldn't worry about it. Enough emotion had been expended on things she could not change. Right now, finding the rear door was all that mattered. She burst out into dull daylight.
Malone and Thorvaldsen waited in the boat.
The house blocked any view of their escape from down the lane in front. She still held the compact LCD monitor.
Sixty meters to the water.
She leaped from the wooden deck.
MALONE SPOTTED CASSIOPEIA AS SHE FLED FROM THE HOUSE AND ran straight for them.
Fifty feet.
Thirty.
A massive swoosh and the house suddenly caught fire. One second it stood intact, the next flames poured from the windows, out from beneath, and stretched skyward through the roof. Like magician's flash paper, he thought. No explosion. Instant combustion. Total. Complete. And, in the absence of salt water, unstoppable.
Cassiopeia found the dock and leaped into the boat.
“You cut that close,” he said.
“Get down,” she urged.
They crouched in the boat and he watched as she adjusted a video receiver and the image of a car appeared.
Two men climbed inside. He recognized Viktor. The car drove away, disappearing from the screen. She flicked a switch and another image showed the car turning onto the highway. Thorvaldsen seemed pleased. “Apparently, our ruse worked.”
“Don't you think you could have told me what was happening?” Malone asked. Cassiopeia threw him a mischievous grin. “Now what fun would that have been?”
“He has the medallion.”
“Which is precisely what we wanted him to have,” Thorvaldsen said. The house continued to consume itself. Smoke billowed into the sky. Cassiopeia cranked the outboard and steered the boat out into open water. Thorvaldsen's seaside estate lay only a few miles to the north.
“I had the boat delivered just after we arrived,” Thorvaldsen said, as he grabbed Malone by the arm and led him to the stern. Cold salt spray misted over the bow. “I appreciate you being here. We were going to ask for your help today, after the museum was destroyed. That's why she wanted to meet with you. She needs your help, but I doubt she'll ask now.”
He wanted to inquire further, but knew now was not the time. His answer, though, was never in doubt. “She's got it.” He paused. “You've both got it.”
Thorvaldsen squeezed his arm in appreciation. Cassiopeia kept her attention ahead, navigating the boat through the swells.
“How bad is it?” he asked.
The roar of the engine and the wind masked his question so that only Thorvaldsen heard him.
“Bad enough. But now we have hope.”
TWENTY
XINYANG PROVINCE, C H I N A
3:30 P.M.
ZOVASTINA SAT STRAPPED INTO HER SEAT IN THE HELICOPTER'S rear
compartment. Usually she traveled by a more luxurious method, but today she'd used the faster, military-issue chopper. One of her Sacred Band piloted the craft. Half of her personal guard, including Viktor, were licensed pilots. She sat across from the female prisoner from the laboratory, another of her guard beside the woman. She'd been brought aboard handcuffed, but Zovastina had ordered them removed.
“What's your name?” she asked the woman.
“Does it matter?”
They spoke through headsets in Khask, which she knew none of the foreigners aboard understood.
“How do you feel?”
The woman hesitated before answering, as if debating whether to lie. “The best I've felt in years.”
“I'm glad. It's our goal to improve the lives of all our citizens. Perhaps when you're released from prison, you'll have a greater appreciation for our new society.”
A look of contempt formed on the woman's pitted face. Nothing about her was attractive, and Zovastina wondered how many defeats had been needed to strip her of all self-respect.
“I doubt I'll be a part of your new society, Minister. My sentence is long.”
“I'm told you were involved in the trafficking of cocaine. If the Soviets were still here, you would have been executed.”
“The Russians?” She laughed. “They were the ones who bought the drugs.”
She wasn't surprised. “The way of our new world.”
“What happened to the others who came with me?”
She decided to be honest. “Dead.”
Though this woman was surely accustomed to difficulties, she noticed an unease. Understandable, really. Here she was, aboard a helicopter with the Supreme Minister of the Central Asian Federation, after being whisked from prison and subjected to some unknown medical test, of which she was the only survivor. “I'll make sure your sentence is reduced. Though you may not appreciate us, the Federation appreciates your assistance.”
“Am I supposed to be grateful?”
“You volunteered.”
“I don't recall anyone saying I had a choice.”
She glanced out the window at the silent peaks of the Pamirs, which signaled the border and friendly territory. She caught the woman's gaze. “Don't you want to be a part of what's about to happen?”
“I want to be free.”
Something from her university years, what Sergej had said long ago, flashed through her mind. Anger seemed always directed at individuals–hatred preferred classes. Time cured anger, but never hatred. So she asked, “Why do you hate?”
The woman studied her with a blank expression. “I should have been one of those who died.”
“Why?”
“Your prisons are nasty places, from which few emerge.”
“As they should be, to discourage anyone from wanting to be there.”
“Many have no choice.” The woman paused. “Unlike you, Supreme Minister.”
The bastion of mountains grew larger in the window. “Centuries ago Greeks came east and changed the world. Did you know that? They conquered Asia. Changed our culture. Now Asians are about to go west and do the same. You're helping to make it possible.”
“I care nothing about your plans.”
“My name, Irina–Eirene in Greek–means peace. That's what we seek.”
“And killing prisoners will bring this peace?”
This woman cared not about destiny. Zovastina's entire life had seemed destined. So far, she'd forged a new political order–just as Alexander had done. Another lesson from Sergej spoke loudly. Remember, Irina, what Arrian said of Alexander. He was always the rival of his own self. Only in the past few years had she come to understand that malady. She stared at the woman who'd ruined her life over a few thousand rubles.
“Ever heard of Menander?”
“Why don't you tell me?”
“He was a Greek playwright from the fourth century BCE. He wrote comedies.”
“I prefer tragedies.”
She was tiring of this defeatism. Not everyone could be changed. Unlike Colonel Enver, who'd earlier seen the possibilities she'd offered and willingly become a convert. Men like him would be useful in the years ahead, but this pitiful soul represented nothing but failure.
“Menander wrote something I've always found to be true. If you want to live your whole life free from pain, you must either be a god or a corpse. ”
She reached across and unsnapped the woman's harness. The guardsman, sitting beside the prisoner, wrenched open the cabin door. The woman seemed momentarily stunned by the bitter air and the engine roar that rushed inside.
“I'm a god,” Zovastina said. “You're a corpse.”
The guard ripped off the woman's headset, who apparently realized what was about to happen and started to resist.
But he shoved her out the door.
Zovastina watched as the body tumbled through the cry
stalline air, vanishing into the peaks below.
The guard slammed the cabin door shut and the helicopter kept flying west back to Samarkand. For the first time since this morning, she felt satisfied.
Everything was now in place.
PART TWO
TWENTY-ONE
AMSTERDAM, NETHERLANDS
7:30 P.M.
STEPHANIE NELLE SCRAMBLED OUT OF THE CAB AND QUICKLY jerked up the hood of her overcoat. An April rain poured down and water puddled between the rough cobbles, furiously streaming toward the city canals. The source, a nasty storm that had blown in earlier off the North Sea, now lay hidden behind indigo clouds, but a steady drizzle remained visible within the penumbra of streetlamps.
She pushed through the rain, stuffing bare hands into coat pockets. She crossed an arched pedestrian bridge, entered the Rembrandtplein, and noticed that the torrid evening had not dampened the crowds at the peep shows, pickup clubs, gay bars, and striptease outlets. Farther into the bowels of the red-light district, she passed brothels, their plate-glass windows littered with girls promising fulfillment with leather and lace. In one, an Asian woman, dressed in tight bondage gear, sat on a padded seat and flipped through the pages of a magazine. Stephanie had been told that night was not the most threatening time for a visit to the renowned district. The morning desperation of passing junkies and the early-afternoon edginess of pimps waiting for the evening's business were usually more intense. But she'd been warned that the northern end, near the Nieuwmarkt, in an area just beyond the crowds, constantly exuded a quiet sense of menace. So she was on guard as she breached the invisible line and entered. Her eyes shot back and forth, like a prowling cat's, her course set straight for the café at the far end of the street.
The Jan Heuval occupied the ground floor of a three-story warehouse. A brown café, one of hundreds that dotted the Rembrandtplein. She shoved open the front door and immediately noticed the aroma of burning cannabis along with the absence of any “No Drugs Please” sign. The café was jammed, its warm air saturated with a hallucinogenic fog scented like singed rope. The aroma of fried fish and roasted chestnuts mixed with the intoxicating waft and her eyes burned. She pushed back the hood and shook rain onto the foyer's already damp tiles. Then she spotted Klaus Dyhr. Mid-thirties, blond-haired, pale, weathered face–exactly as he'd been described.
