The Venetian Betrayal

by Steve Berry

  “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.

  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. D
on'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 to 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.

  “That's a house,” she said.

  “Which was not here two years ago,” Ely noted.

  Thorvaldsen stared out the windshield. “Apparently the new owner of all this is a person of means.”

  The dwelling loomed about a half mile away, across a green valley that steadily rose toward the promontory. Ahead, an iron gate blocked the drive. Two stone pillars, like compact minarets, support a wrought-iron arch that displayed the word “Attico.”

  “Italian for attic,” Thorvaldsen said. “Seems the new owner is attuned to the local designation.”

  “Place names are sacred in this part of the world,” Ely said. “That's one reason why the Asians hated the Soviets. They changed all of them. Of course, they were changed back when the Federation was created. Another reason Zovastina is so popular.”

  Stephanie searched for a way to contact the house from the gate, a call box or a switch, but saw nothing. Instead, two men appeared from behind the minarets. Young, thin, dressed in camouflage fatigues, bearing AK-74s. One pointed his weapon while the other opened the gate.

  “Interesting welcome,” Thorvaldsen said.

  One of the men approached the car and motioned, yelling something in a language she did not understand.

  But she didn't need to.

  She knew exactly what he wanted.

  ZOVASTINA ENTERED THE PASSAGEWAY. SHE'D RETRIEVED THE controller from O'Conner's dead grasp and used it to close the portal. A series of bulbs, linked by wire, hung inside iron brackets at periodic intervals. The narrow corridor ended ten meters ahead at a metal door.

  She approached and listened.

  No sound from the other side.

  She tried the latch.

  It opened.

  The top of a stone staircase, chiseled from the bedrock, began on the other side and dropped steeply.

  Impressive.

  Her opponent had certainly thought ahead.

  VINCENTI CHECKED HIS WATCH. HE SHOULD HAVE HEARD FROM O'Conner by now. The phone affixed to the wall provided a direct line upstairs. He'd resisted calling, not wanting to reveal himself. They'd been ensconced here now pushing three hours and he was starving, though his gut churned more from anxiety than hunger. He'd occupied the time securing data on the lab's two computers. He'd also brought to a conclusion a couple of experiments that he and Lyndsey had been running to verify that the archaea could be safely stored at room temperature, at least for the few months needed between production and sale. Concentrating on the experiments had helped with Lyndsey's apprehension, but Walde remained agitated.

  “Flush everything,” he said to Lyndsey. “All the liquids. The keeping solutions. Samples. Leave nothing.”

  “What are you doing?” Karyn asked.

  He didn't feel like arguing with her. “We don't need them.”

  She rose from the chair where she'd been seated. “What about my treatment? Did you give me enough? Am I cured?”

  “We'll know tomorrow or the next day.”

  “And if I'm not? What then?”

  He appraised her with a calculating look. “You're awful demanding for a woman who was dying.”

  “Answer me. Am I cured?”

  He ignored her question and concentrated on the computer screen. A few flicks of the mouse and he copied all of its data onto a flash drive. He then enabled the hard drive's encryption. Karyn grabbed his shirt. “You're the one who came to me. You wanted my help. You wanted Irina. You gave me hope. Don't let me hang.”

  This woman may prove more trouble than she was worth. But he decided to be conciliatory.

  “We can make more,” he calmly said. “It's easy. And if we need to, we can take you where the bacteria live and let you drink them. They work that way, too.”

  But his assurance did not seem to satisfy her.

  “You lying son of a bitch.” She released her hold. “I can't believe I'm in this mess.”

  Neither could he. But it was too late now.

  “Everything done?” he asked Lyndsey.

  The man nodded.

  Glass shattering caught Vincenti's attention. He turned to see Karyn holding the jagged remains of a flask and lunging toward him. She brought the improvised dagger close to his belly and stopped, her eyes alive with fire. “I need to know. Am I cured?”

  “Answer her,” a new voice said.

  He turned toward the lab's exit.

  Irina Zovastina stood in the doorway, with a gun. “Is she cured, Enrico?”

  EIGHTY-ONE

  MALONE SPOTTED A HOUSE ABOUT TWO MILES AWAY. VIKTOR HAD flown them in from the north, after veering east and skirting the Chinese border. He assessed the structure and estimated forty or so thousand square feet spread over three levels. They faced its rear, the front overlooking a v
alley that scooped a cul-de-sac out of the mountains on three sides. The house seemed to have been situated intentionally on a flat, rocky hillock overlooking the broad plain. Scaffolding wrapped one side where, it appeared, masons had been working. He noticed a sand pile and a mortar mixer. Beyond the promontory, iron fencing was being erected, some already standing, more stacked nearby. No workers. No security. Nobody in sight. A six-bay garage stood off to one side, the doors closed. A garden that showed evidence of careful tending sprouted between a terrace and the beginnings of a grove that ended at the base of one of the rising peaks. The trees sprouted brassy new spring leaves.

  “Who owns that house?” Malone asked.

  “I have no idea. The last time I was here, maybe two or three years ago, it wasn't there.”

  “Is this the place?” Cassiopeia asked, looking out over his shoulder.

  “This is Arima.”

  “Damn quiet down there,” Malone said.

  “The mountains shielded our approach,” Viktor pointed out. “Radar's clean. We're alone.”

  Malone noticed a defined trail that routed through a bushy grove, then worked a path up the rocky incline, disappearing into a shadowy cleft. He also saw what looked like a power conduit marching up the rock waste, parallel to the trail, fastened close to the ground. “Looks like somebody is interested in that mountain.”

  “I saw that, too,” Cassiopeia said.

  He said, “We need to find out who owns this place. But we also need to be prepared.” He still carried the gun that he'd brought with him into the country. But he'd used a few rounds. “You have weapons on board?”

  Viktor nodded. “The cabinet in back.”

  He looked at Cassiopeia. “Get us each one.”

  ZOVASTINA ENJOYED THE SHOCK ON BOTH LYNDSEY AND VINCENTI'S faces.

  “Did you think me that stupid?”

  “Damn you, Irina,” Karyn said.

  “That's enough.” Zovastina leveled her gun.

  Karyn hesitated at the challenge, then retreated to the far side of one of the tables. Zovastina turned her attention back to Vincenti. “I warned you about the Americans. Told you they were watching. And this is how you show your gratitude?”