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.
"I went to Venice to find answers," she said. "Ely pointed me there. He believed the body in the basilica might lead to Alexander the Great's true grave. He thought that location may hold the secret of an ancient cure. Something that might help even him."
"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."
"Taunting me will not help."
She ignored the threat. "If you want to solve the riddle, you're going to have to bargain."
This demon was easy to read. Certainly, Zovastina had suspected she knew things. Why else bring her? And Cassiopeia had been careful so far, knowing that she could not reveal too much. After all, her life literally depended on how much information she could effectively withhold.
One of the guardsmen stepped forward and whispered in Zovastina's ear. The Minister listened, and she saw a momentary shock sweep across her face. Then Zovastina nodded and the guardsman withdrew.
"Trouble?" Cassiopeia asked.
"The perils of being Supreme Minister. You and I will talk later."
And she marched off.
THE FRONT DOOR OF THE HOUSE STOOD OPEN. NOTHING DAMAGED. No evidence of forced entry. Inside, two of her Sacred Band waited. Zovastina glared at one and asked, "What happened?"
"Both of our men were shot through the head. Sometime last night. The nurse and Karyn Walde are gone. Their clothes are still here. The nurse's alarm clock was set and on for six A.M. Nothing shows they intended to voluntarily leave."
She walked back to the master bedroom. The respirator stood silent, the intravenous drip connected to no one. Had Karyn escaped? And where would she go? She stepped back to the foyer and asked her two men, "Any witnesses?"
"We asked at the other residences, but no one saw or heard anything."
It had all happened while she was gone. That could not be a coincidence. She decided to play a hunch. She stepped to one of the house phones and dialed her personal secretary. She told her what she wanted and waited three minutes until the woman returned on the line and said, "Vincenti entered the Federation last night at 1:40 A.M. Private plane using his open visa."
She still believed Vincenti had been behind the assassination attempt. He must have known she'd left the Federation. Her government clearly possessed a multitude of leaks-Henrik Thorvaldsen and Cassiopeia Vitt were proof of that-but what to do about those things?
"Minister," her secretary said through the phone, "I was about to try and locate you. You have a visitor."
"Vincenti?" she asked, a bit too quickly.
"Another American."
"The ambassador?" Samarkand was dotted with foreign embassies, and many of her days were filled with visits from their various representatives.
"Edwin Davis, the deputy national security adviser to the American president. He entered the country a few hours ago on a diplomatic passport."
"Unannounced?"
"He simply appeared at the palace, asking to see you. He will not discuss with anyone why he's here."
That was not a coincidence, either.
"I'll be there shortly."
SIXTY-SIX
SAMARKAND
10:30 A.M
MALONE DRANK A COCA-COLA LIGHT AND WATCHED AS THE LEAR Jet 36A approached the terminal. Samarkand's airport lay north of the city, a single runway facility that accommodated not only commercial traffic, but also private and military. He'd beaten both Viktor and Zovastina back from Italy thanks to an F-16-E Strike Eagle that President Daniels had ordered placed at his disposal. Aviano Air Base, fifty miles north of Venice, had been a quick chopper ride and the flight east, thanks to supersonic speeds at over thirteen hundred miles an hour, had taken just over two hours. Zovastina and the Lear Jet he was now watching taxi closer had needed almost five hours.
Two F-16s had arrived in Samarkand without incident, as the United States possessed unrestricted landing rights at all Federation airports and bases. Ostensibly, the U.S. was an ally, but that distinction, he knew, was fleeting at best in this part of the world. The other fighter had carried Edwin Davis, who was, by now, at the palace. President Daniels had not liked involving Davis, he had preferred to keep him at a distance, but wisely recognized that Malone was not going to take no for an answer. Besides, as the president had said with a chuckle, the whole plan had at least a ten percent chance of working, so what the hell.
He gulped the last of the soft drink, weak by American standards but tasty enough. He'd slept an hour on the flight, the first time he'd been inside a strike fighter in twenty years. He'd been trained to fly them early in his navy career, before he became a lawyer and switched to the Judge Advocate General's corps. Naval friends of his father had urged him to make the choice.
His father.
A full commander. Until one August day when the submarine he captained sank. Malone had been ten, but the memory always brought a pang of sadness. By the time he'd enlisted in the navy, his father's contemporaries had risen to high rank and they had plans for Forrest Malone's son. So out of respect, he'd done as they'd asked and ended up as an agent with the Magellan Billet.
He never regretted his choices, and his Justice Department career had been memorable. Even in retirement the world had not ignored him. Templars. The Library of Alexandria. Now Alexander the Great's grave. He shook his head. Choices. Everybody made them.
Like the man now deplaning from the Lear Jet. Viktor. Government informant. Random asset.
Problem.
He tossed the bottle into the trash and waited for Viktor to step into the concourse. An AWACS E3 Sentry, always in orbit over the Middle East, had tracked the Lear Jet from Venice, Malone knowing precisely when it would arrive.
Viktor appeared as in the basilica, his face chapped, his clothes dirty. He walked with the stiffness of a man who'd just endured a long night.
Malone retreated behind a short wall and waited until Viktor was inside, turning toward the terminal, then he stepped out and followed. "Took you long enough."
Viktor stopped and turned. Not a hint of surprise clouded the other man's face. "I thought I was to help Vitt."
"I'm here to help you."
"You and your friends set me up in Copenhagen. I don't like being played."
"Who does?"
"Go back where you came from, Malone. Let me handle this."
Malone withdrew a pistol. One of the advantages of arriving by military jet had been no Customs checks for U.S. military personnel or their passengers. "I've been told to help you. That's what I'm going to do, whether you like it or not."
"You going to shoot me?" Viktor shook his head. "Cassiopeia Vitt killed my partner in Venice and tried to kill me."
"At the time, she didn't know you wore the white hat."
"You sound like you think that's a problem."
"I haven't decided whether you're a problem or not."
"That woman is the problem," Viktor said. "I doubt she's going to let either one of us help her."
"Probably right, but she's going to get it." He decided to try a pat on the back. "I'm told you've been a good asset. So let's help her."
"I planned to. I just didn't count on an assistant."
He stuffed the gun back beneath his jacket. "Get me into the palace."
Viktor seemed puzzled by the request. "Is that all?"
"Shouldn't be a problem for the head of the Sacred Band. No one would question you."
Viktor shook his head. "You people are insane. Do you all have a death wish? Bad enough she's in there. Now you? I can't be responsible for all this. And, by the way, it's foolish for us to even be talking. Zovastina knows your face."
Malone had already checked. The concourse was not equipped with cameras. Those were farther on, in the terminal. No one else was around, which was why he'd decided here was a good place for a chat. "Just get me into the palace. If you point me in the right direction, I can do the heavy lifting. That'll give you cover. You don't have to do anything, except watch my back. Washington wants to protect your identity at all costs. That's why I'm here."
Viktor shook his head in disbelief. "And who came up with this ridiculous plan?"
He grinned. "I did."
SIXTY-SEVEN
VINCENTI LED LYNDSEY BEYOND THE HOUSE GROUNDS, ONTO A rocky trail that inclined up into the highlands. He'd ordered the ancient path smoothed, steps carved into the rock at places, and electricity wired, knowing that he'd be making the trek more than a few times. Both the path and the mountain were within the estate's boundaries. Every time he returned to this place he thought of the old healer who'd clambered up the rock face, catlike, clinging to the path with bare toes and fingers. Vincenti had followed, climbing with anticipation, like a child after his parent up the stairs wondering what awaited in the attic.
And he'd not been disappointed.
Gray rock streaked with mottled veins of gleaming crystals surrounded them in what seemed like a natural cathedral. His legs ached from the exertion and the breath tore at his lungs. He dragged himself up another stretch of cliff and beads of sweat gathered on his brow.
Lyndsey, a thin and wiry man, seemed unaffected.
Vincenti gave a deep exhale of thankfulness as he stopped on the final ledge. "To the west, the Federation. The east, China. We're standing at the crossroad."
Lyndsey stared out at the vista. An afternoon sun spotlighted a distant stretch of towering scarps and pyramids. A herd of horses rushed in silence through the valley beyond the house.
Vincenti was enjoying sharing this. Telling Karyn Walde had ignited within him a need for recognition. He'd discovered something remarkable and managed to gain exclusive control of it, no small feat considering this whole region was once Soviet-dominated. But the Federation had changed all that, and through the Venetian League, he'd helped navigate those changes to his personal advantage.
"This way," he said, motioning toward a crease in the rock. "Through there."
Three decades ago the narrow slit had been easy to traverse, but he'd been a hundred and fifty pounds lighter. Now it was a tight squeeze.
The crevice opened a short way into a gray chamber beneath an irregular vault of sharp rock, walled in on all sides. Dim light leaked in from the entrance. He stepped to a switch box and powered on incandescent lighting that hung from the ceiling. Two pools dotted the rock floor, each about ten feet in diameter-one, a russet brown; the other, a sea foam green-both illuminated by cabled lights suspended in the water.
"Hot springs dot these mountains," he said. "From ancient times until today, the locals believed they contained valuable medicinal properties. Here, they were right."
"Why light them?"
He shrugged. "I needed to study the water and, as you can see, they're stunning with the contrasting color."
"This is where the archaea live?"
He pointed at the green-tinted pool. "That's their home."
Lyndsey bent down and stroked the surface. A host of ripples shivered across its transparent surface. None of the plants that had been there the first time Vincenti had been there dotted the pool. They'd apparently died out long ago. But they weren't important.
"Just over a hundred degrees," he said of the water. "But our modifications now allow them to live at room temperature."
One of Lyndsey's tasks had been to prepare an action plan-what the company would do once Zovastina acted-when massive amounts of antiagent would supposedly be needed, so Vincenti asked, "Are we ready to go?"
"Growing the small quantities we've been using on the zoonoses was easy. Full-scale production will be different."
He'd thought as much, which was why he'd secured the loan from Arthur Benoit. Infrastructure would have to be built, people hired, distribution networks created, more research completed. All of which required massive amounts of capital.
"Our production facilities in France and Spain can be converted into acceptable manufacturing sites," Lyndsey said. "Eventually, though, I'd recommend a separate facility, since we'll need millions of liters. Luckily, the bacteria reproduce easily."
Time to see if the man was truly interested. "Have you ever dreamed of going down in history?"
Lyndsey laughed. "Who doesn't?"
"I mean seriously go down in history, as someone who made a tremendous scientific contribution. What if I could bestow that honor? You interested?"
"Like I said, who wouldn't be?"
"Imagine schoolchildren, decades from now, looking up HIV and AIDS in an encyclopedia, and there's your name as the man who helped conquer the scourge of the late twentieth century." He recalled the first pleasure of that vision. Not all that dissimilar from Lyndsey's current look of curiosity and amazement. "Would you like to be a part of that?"
No hesitation. "Of course."
"I can give you that. But there'd be conditions. Needless to say, I can't do this by myself. I need someone to personally oversee production, someone who understands the biology. Security is, of course, a great concern. Once our patents are filed, I'll feel better, but somebody still has to manage this on a daily basis. You're the logical choice, Grant. In return, you'll receive some discovery credit and generous compensation. And by generous, I'm talking millions."
Lyndsey opened his mouth to speak, but Vincenti silenced him with an upright finger.
"That's the good part. Here's the bad. If you become a problem, or you become greedy, I'll have O'Conner plant a bullet in your head. Back at the house I told you about how we controlled our competition. Let me explain further."
He told Lyndsey about a Danish microbiologist found in 1997, comatose in the street near his laboratory. Another, in California, who vanished, his abandoned rental car parked near a bridge, his body never located. A third in 2001 found on the side of an English country road, the apparent victim of a hit and run. A fourth murdered in a French farmhouse. Another died uniquely, his body discovered ten years ago trapped in the airlock to the walk-in refrigerator at his lab. Five died simultaneously in 1999 when their private plane crashed into the Black Sea.
"All worked for our competitors," he said. "They were making progress. Too much. So, Grant, do as I say. Be grateful for the opportunity I've given you, and we'll both live to be rich, old men."
"You won't have any trouble from me."
He thought he'd guessed right choosing this soul. Lyndsey had handled Zovastina masterfully, never once compromising the antiagents. He'd also maintained security at the lab. Everything had played out perfectly, in no small part thanks to this man.
"I am curious about one thing," Lyndsey said.
He decided to indulge him.
"Why now? You've held the cure. Why not wait longer?"
"Zovastina's war plan makes the time right. We had a vehicle, through her, where the research could be completed without anyone knowing any better. I see no reason to wait any longer. I just have to stop Zovastina before she goes too far. And what of you, Grant? Now that you know, does all this bother you?"
"You held that secret twenty years. I only found out an hour ago. Not my problem."
He smiled. Good attitude. "There'll be a spate of publicity. You'll be a part of that. But I control everything you say, so watch your words. You should be seen far more than heard. Soon your name will be ranked with the greats." He swept his hands across an invisible marquee. "Grant Lyndsey, one of the slayers of HIV."
"Has a nice ring to it."
"We're going public within the next thirty days. In the meantime I'm going to want you to work with my patent lawyers. I plan to tell them tomorrow of our breakthrough. When the actual announcement is made, I want you at the podium. I also want samples-they'll make great photo ops. And slides of the bacteria. We'll have the PR people make pictures. It'll be quite a show."
"Do others know about this?"
He shook his head. "Not a soul, save for a woman back at the house who is, at this moment, experiencing the benefits. We need someone to show off and she's as good as any."
Lyndsey stepped to the other pool. Interesting that he'd not noticed what lay in the bottom of each, which was another reason he'd chosen this man. "I told you that this is an ancient place. See the letters at the bottom of the pools?"
Lyndsey found both.
"They mean life in old Greek. How they got there, I have no idea. I managed to learn from that old healer that Greeks once worshipped this area, so that might explain it. They called this mountain Klimax. Ladder, in English. Why? Probably had a lot to do with what the Asians named this place. Arima. I decided to use their name for the estate."
"I saw the sign at the gate when I drove in. Attico. What does it mean?"
"It's Italian for Arima. Means the same. Place at the top, like an attic."
