by Steve Berry
had enemies. But they were all afraid. Maybe he could provide them with courage through the bitter soul staring up at him.
Neither the League nor he were interested in world conquest. Wars were expensive in a great many ways, the most critical of which was the depletion of wealth and national resources. The League wanted its new utopia just as it is, not as Zovastina envisioned it should be. For himself, he wanted billions in profits and to savor his status as the man who conquered HIV. Louis Pasteur, Linus Pauling, Jonas Salk, and, now, Enrico Vincenti.
So he emptied the contents of the hypodermic into the IV port.
“How long does it take?” she asked, her voice expectant, her tired face alive.
“In a few hours you'll feel much better.”
MALONE SAT BEFORE THE COMPUTER AND FOUND GOOGLE. THERE, he located websites that dealt with Old Greek and eventually opened one that offered translations. He typed in the six letters––and was surprised at both the pronunciation and the meaning.
“Klimax in Greek. Ladder in English,” he said.
He found another site that also offered a conversion. He typed in the same letters from the alphabet supplied and received the same response.
Stephanie still held the candle wrapped with gold leaf.
“Ptolemy,” Thorvaldsen said, “went to a lot of trouble to leave this. That word must have great relevance.”
“And what happens when we figure it out?” Malone asked. “What's the big deal?”
“The big deal,” a new voice said, “is that Zovastina is planning to kill millions of people.”
They all turned and saw Michener standing in the doorway.
“I just left Viktor out in the lagoon. He was shocked that I knew about him.”
“I imagine he was,” Thorvaldsen said.
“Is Zovastina gone?” Malone asked.
Michener nodded. “I checked. Left the ground a little while ago.”
Malone wanted to know, “How does Cassiopeia know about Viktor?” Then it hit him. He faced Thorvaldsen. “The call. Out at the dock when we first got here. You told her then.”
The Dane nodded. “Information she needed. We're lucky she didn't kill him on Torcello. But, of course, I didn't know any of this then.”
“More of that 'plan as you go,'” Malone said, directing his comment to Davis.
“I'll take the blame for that one. But it worked out.”
“And three men are dead.”
Davis said nothing.
He wanted to know, “And if Zovastina had not insisted on a hostage for safe passage to the airport?”
“Luckily, that didn't happen.”
“You're too damn reckless for me.” He was becoming irritated. “If you have Viktor on the inside, why don't you know if Ely Lund's alive?”
“That fact wasn't important, until yesterday, when you three became involved. Zovastina had a teacher, we just didn't know who. It makes sense it's Lund. Once we learned that, we needed Viktor contacted.”
“Viktor said Ely Lund was alive. But probably not now,” Michener told them.
“Cassiopeia has no idea what she's facing,” Malone said. “She's in there blind.”
“She set all that up herself,” Stephanie said, “perhaps hoping that Ely might still be alive.”
He didn't want to hear that. For a variety of reasons. None of which he needed to face at the moment.
“Cotton,” Thorvaldsen said, “you asked why all this matters. Beyond the obvious disaster of a biological war, what if this draught is some sort of natural cure? The ancients thought it so. Alexander thought it so. The chroniclers who wrote those manuscripts thought it so. What if something is there? I don't know why, but Zovastina wants it. Ely wanted it. And Cassiopeia wants it.”
He remained skeptical. “We don't know a damn thing.”
Stephanie motioned with the candle. “We know this riddle is real.”
She was right about that and, he had to admit, he was curious. That godforsaken curiosity which always seemed to keep him in trouble.
“And we know Naomi is dead,” she said.
He'd not forgotten.
He stared again at the scytale. Ladder. A location? If so, it was a designation that would have made more sense in Ptolemy's time. He knew Alexander the Great had insisted that his empire be accurately mapped. Cartography was then an infant art, but he'd seen reproductions of those ancient charts. So he decided to see what was on the web. Twenty minutes of searching found nothing that indicated what
–klimax, ladder–might be.
“There might be another source,” Thorvaldsen said. “Ely had a place in the Pamirs. A cabin. He'd go there to work and think. Cassiopeia told me about it. He kept his books and papers there. Quite an array on Alexander. She said there were lots of maps from his time.”
“That's in the Federation,” Malone pointed out. “I doubt Zovastina is going to grant us a visa.”
“How near is the border?” Davis asked.
“Thirty miles.”
“We can enter through China. They're cooperating with us on this.”
“And what is this?” Malone asked. “Why are we even involved? Don't you have a CIA and a multitude of other intelligence agencies?”
“Actually, Mr. Malone, you involved yourself, as did Thorvaldsen and Stephanie. Zovastina, publicly, is the only ally we possess in that region, so politically we can't be seen challenging her. Using official assets comes with the risk of exposure. Since we had Viktor on the inside, keeping us informed, we knew most of her moves. But this is escalating. I understand the dilemma with Cassiopeia–”
“Actually, you don't. But that's why I'm staying in. I'm going after her.”
“I'd prefer you go to the cabin and see what's there.”
“That's the great thing about being retired. I can do what I please.” He turned to Thorvaldsen.
“You and Stephanie go to the cabin.”
“I agree,” his friend said. “See about her.”
Malone stared at Thorvaldsen. The Dane had aided Cassiopeia and cooperated with the president, involving them all. But his friend didn't like the idea of Cassiopeia being there alone.
“You have a plan,” Thorvaldsen said. “Don't you?”
“I think I do.”
SIXTY-THREE
4:30 A.M.
ZOVASTINA DRANK FROM A BOTTLED WATER AND ALLOWED HER passenger the continued luxury of her troubled thoughts. They'd flown in silence for the past hour, ever since she'd tantalized Cassiopeia Vitt with the possibility that Ely Lund might still be alive. Clearly, her captive was on a mission. Personal? Or professional? That remained to be seen.
“How do you and the Dane know my business?”
“A lot of people know your business.”
“If they know it so well, why hasn't anyone stopped me?”
“Maybe we're about to?”
She grinned. “An army of three? You, the old man, and Mr. Malone? By the way, is Malone a friend of yours?”
“United States Justice Department.”
She assumed what happened in Amsterdam had generated official interest, but the situation made little sense. How would the Americans have mobilized so quickly–and known she'd be in Venice? Michener? Maybe. United States Justice Department. The Americans. Another problem flashed through her mind. Vincenti.
“You have no idea,” Vitt said to her, “how much we do know.”
“I don't need an idea. I have you.”
“I'm expendable.”
She doubted that declaration. “Ely taught me a great deal. More than I ever knew existed. He opened my eyes to the past. I suspect he opened yours, too.”
“It's not going to work. You can't use him to get to me.”
She needed to break this woman. Her whole plan had been based on moving in secret. Exposure would open her not only to failure but also to retaliation. Cassiopeia Vitt represented, for the moment, the quickest and easiest way to ascertain the full extent of her problem.
“That's dreaming.”
“But it's a dream he shared with you, wasn't it?”
“Is he alive?”
Finally, a direct question. “You won't believe me no matter how I answer.”
“Try me.”
“He didn't die in that house fire.”
“That's not an answer.”
“It's all you're going to get.”
The plane dipped as turbulence buffeted the wings and the engines continued their constant whine, driving them farther east. The cabin was empty save for them. Both of her guardsmen, who'd made the flight to Venice, were dead, their bodies now Michener's and the Church's problem. Only Viktor had kept faith and performed, as usual.
She and her captive were a lot alike. Both of them cared for people afflicted with HIV. Cassiopeia Vitt to the point that she'd risked her life, Zovastina to the point that she gambled on a questionable journey to Venice and placed herself in physical and political jeopardy. Foolishness? Perhaps.
But heroes, at times, had to be fools.
SIXTY-FOUR
CENTRAL ASIAN FEDERATION
8:50 A.M.
VINCENTI WAS HOLED UP IN THE LAB HE'D BUILT BENEATH HIS estate, only he and Grant Lyndsey inside. Lyndsey had come straight from China, his duties there done. Two years ago he'd taken Lyndsey into his confidence. He'd needed somebody out front to supervise all the testing on the viruses and antiagents. Also, somebody had to placate Zovastina.
“How's the temperature?” he asked.
Lyndsey checked the digital readouts. “Stable.”
The lab was Vincenti's domain. A passive, sterile space encased within cream-colored walls atop a black tile floor. Stainless-steel tables ran in two rows down the center. Flasks, beakers, and burettes towered on metal stands above an autoclave, distilling equipment, a centrifuge, analytical balances, and two computer terminals. Digital simulation played a key role in their experimentation, so different from his days with the Iraqis, when trial and error cost time, money, and mistakes. Today's sophisticated programs were able to duplicate most any chemical or biological effect, so long as there were parameters. And, over the past year, Lyndsey had done an admirable job establishing parameters for the cyber-testing of ZH.
“The solution is at room temperature,” Lyndsey said. “And they're swimming like crazy. Amazing.”
The pool where he'd found the archaea was thermal fed, its temperature pushing one hundred degrees Fahrenheit. Producing the bacteria in the trillions that would be needed, then safely transporting them around the world at such high temperatures, could prove impossible. So they'd changed them. Slowly adapting the archaea to lower and lower thermal environments. Interestingly, at room temperature their activity only slowed, almost going dormant, but once inside a warm bloodstream at ninety-eight point six degrees, they quickly reactivated.
“The clinical trial I finished a few days ago,” Lyndsey said, “confirmed that they can be stored at room temperature for a prolonged time. I'd held those for over four months. It's incredible, their adaptability.”
“Which is how they've survived billions of years, waiting for us to find them.”
He huddled close to one of the tables, fleshy hands inserted through rubber gloves into a hermetically sealed container. Air purred overhead, forced through laminar microfilters, cleansed of impurities, the constant rumble nearly hypnotic. He stared through a plexiglass portal and deftly manipulated the evaporating dish. He dabbed a sample of active HIV culture onto a slide, swirling the drop with another already there. He then clipped the slide onto the built-in microscope's stage. He freed his hands of the sweaty rubber and focused the objective. Two adjustments and he found the right power.
One look was all he required.
“The virus is gone. Almost on contact. It's like they've been waiting to devour it.”
He knew their biological modifications were the key to success. A few years ago a New York law firm he'd engaged advised him that a new mineral discovered in the earth, or a new plant found in the wild, was not something that could be patented. Einstein could not patent his celebrated E=mc2, nor could Newton have patented the law of gravity. Those were manifestations of nature, free to all. But genetically engineered plants, man-made multicellular animals, and archaea-bacteria altered from their natural state, these were patentable. He'd make a call to the same law firm later and start the patent process. FDA approval would also be needed. Twelve years was the average time for an experimental solution to travel from lab to medicine chest–the American system of drug approvals the most rigorous in the world. And he knew the odds. Only five in four thousand compounds screened in FDA preclinical testing made it to human testing. Only one of those five ultimately gained approval. Seven years ago a new fast-track testing procedure for compounds that targeted life-threatening diseases had been okayed–AIDS treatments specifically in that category. Still, quick by FDA standards was six to nine months. European approval processes were stringent, but nothing like the FDA. African and Asian nations, where the major problem existed, didn't require government approvals.
So that's where he'd start selling.
Let the world see them being cured while American and European AIDS patients died. Approval would come then, without him even asking.
“I've never asked,” Lyndsey said, “and you've never said. But where did you find these bacteria?”
The time for silence was over. He needed Lyndsey on board–completely. But answering his question about where also meant discussing when.
“Have you ever considered the value of a company that manufactured condoms prior to HIV?
Sure, there was a market. What? Several million a year? But after the resurgence of AIDS, billions were manufactured and sold worldwide. And what about the symptomatic drugs?
Treating AIDS is the perfect money machine. A triple drug cocktail treatment is twelve to eighteen thousand U.S. dollars a year. Multiply that by the millions infected and you're talking billions spent on drugs that cure nothing.
“Think about the supply benefits–things like latex gloves, gowns, sterile needles. You have any idea how many millions of sterile needles are bought and distributed in trying to stop the HIV
spread among drug users? And, like condoms, the price has gone through the roof. The range here is endless. For a medical supply and manufacturing house, like Philogen, HIV has been a huge cash bonanza.
“Over the past eighteen years, our business has soared, our condom manufacturing plant has tripled in size. Sales went through the roof for all of our products. We even developed a couple of symptomatic drugs that sold well. Ten years ago I took the company public, raised capital, and used the expanding medical supply and drug divisions to fund more expansion. I bought a cosmetics firm, a soap company, a department store chain, and a frozen food business, knowing one day Philogen could easily pay all the debt back.”
“How did you know?”
“I found the bacteria almost thirty years ago. I realized their potential twenty years ago. Then I held the cure for HIV, knowing I could release it at any time.”
He watched the realization take hold.
“And you told no one?”
“Not a soul.” He needed to know if Lyndsey was as amoral as he believed him to be. “Is that a problem? I simply let the market build.”
“Knowing that you didn't have a partial fix, something the virus would eventually work around. Knowing you had the cure. The one way to totally destroy HIV. Even if somebody eventually found a drug to quell the virus, yours worked better, faster, safer, and costs pennies to produce.”
“That was the idea.”
“It didn't matter to you that people were dying by the millions?”
“And you think
the world cares about AIDS? Get real, Grant. Lots of talk, little action. It's a unique disease. The perception is that it mainly kills blacks, gays, and drug users. The whole epidemic has rolled back a big rotting log and revealed all the squirming life underneath–the main themes of our existence–sex, death, power, money, love, hate, panic. In nearly every way that AIDS has been conceptualized, imagined, researched, and financed, it's become the most political of diseases.”
And what Karyn Walde said earlier came to mind. It's just not killing the right people yet.
“What about the other pharmaceutical companies?” Lyndsey said. “Weren't you afraid they'd find a cure?”
“A risk, but I've kept a close eye on our competition. Let's just say that their research bought little more than mistakes.” He was feeling good. After all this time, he liked talking about it.
“Would you like to see where the bacteria live?”
The man's eyes lit up. “Here?”
He nodded. “Close by.”
SIXTY-FIVE
SAMARKAND
9:15 A.M.
CASSIOPEIA WAS TAKEN FROM THE PLANE BY TWO OF ZOVASTINA'S guardsmen. She'd been told that they would escort her to the palace, where she'd be held.
“You realize,” she said to Zovastina, from beside the open car door, “that you've bargained for trouble.”
Zovastina surely would not want to have this conversation here, on an open tarmac, with an airport crew and her guardsmen nearby. On the plane, alone, would have been the time. But Cassiopeia had purposefully stayed silent the last two hours of the flight.
“Trouble is a way of life here,” Zovastina said.
As she was guided into the rear seat, her hands cuffed behind her back, Cassiopeia decided to insert the knife. “You were wrong about the bones.”
Zovastina seemed to consider the challenge. Venice had, for all intents and purposes, been a failure, so it was no surprise when Zovastina approached and asked, “How so?”
The whine of jet engines and a stiff spring breeze stirred the fume-filled air. Cassiopeia sat calmly in the rear seat and stared out through the front windshield. “There was something to find.” She faced the Supreme Minister. “And you missed it.”
