TWELVE
VIKTOR LAID THE PHONE BACK IN ITS CRADLE. RAFAEL HAD STOOD by the window and listened to the conversation.
"He wants us to meet in three hours. At a house north of town, on the coastal highway." He held up the elephant medallion. "They knew we were coming-and for some time-to have this made. It's quite good. The forger knew his craft."
"This is something we should report."
He disagreed. Minister Zovastina had sent him because he was her most trusted. Thirty men guarded her on a daily basis. Her Sacred Band. Modeled after ancient Greece 's fiercest fighting unit, which fought valiantly until Philip of Macedonia and his son, Alexander the Great, slaughtered them. He'd heard Zovastina speak on the subject. The Macedonians were so impressed with the Sacred Band's bravery that they erected a monument in their memory, which still stood in Greece. When Zovastina assumed power, she'd enthusiastically revived the concept. Viktor had been her first recruit, and he'd located the other twenty-nine, including Rafael, an Italian whom he'd found in Bulgaria, working for that government's security forces.
"Should we not call Samarkand?" Rafael asked again.
He stared at his partner. The younger man was a quick, energetic soul. Viktor had come to like him, which explained why he tolerated mistakes that others would never be allowed. Like jerking that man into the museum. But maybe that hadn't been a mistake after all?
"We can't call," he quietly said.
"If this becomes known, she'll kill us."
"Then we can't let it become known. We've done well so far."
And they had. Four thefts. All from private collectors who, luckily, kept their wares in flimsy safes or casually displayed. They'd masked each of their crimes with fires and covered their presence well.
Or, maybe not.
The man on the phone seemed to know their business.
"We're going to have to solve this ourselves," he said.
"You're afraid she'll blame me."
A knot clenched in his throat. "Actually, I'm afraid she'll blame us both."
"I'm troubled, Viktor. You carry me too much."
He threw his partner a self-deprecating expression. "We both messed this one up." He fingered the medallion. "These cursed things are nothing but trouble."
"Why does she want them?"
He shook his head. "She's not one to explain herself. But it's surely important."
"I overheard something."
He stared up into eyes alive with curiosity. "Where did you hear this something?"
"When I was detailed to her personal service, just before we left last week."
They all rotated as Zovastina's day-to-day guards. One rule was clear. Nothing heard or said mattered, only the Supreme Minister's safety. But this was different. He needed to know. "Tell me."
"She's planning."
He held up the medallion. "What does that have to do with these?"
"She said it did. To someone on the phone. What we're doing will prevent a problem." Rafael paused. "Her ambition is boundless."
"But she's done so much. What no one has ever been able to do. Life is good in central Asia. Finally."
"I saw it in her eyes, Viktor. None of that's enough. She wants more."
He concealed his own anxiety with a look of puzzlement.
Rafael said, "I was reading a biography of Alexander that she mentioned to me. She likes to recommend books. Especially on him. Do you know the story of Alexander's horse, Bucephalas?"
He'd heard Zovastina speak of the tale. Once, as a boy, Alexander's father acquired a handsome horse that could not be broken. Alexander chastised both his father and the royal trainers, saying he could tame the animal. Philip doubted the claim, but after Alexander promised to buy the horse from his own funds if he failed, the king allowed him the chance. Seeing that the horse seemed frightened by his shadow, Alexander turned him to the sun and, after some coaxing, managed to mount him.
He told Rafael what he knew.
"And do you know what Philip told Alexander after he broke the horse?"
He shook his head.
"He said, 'Look for a kingdom that matches your size, for Macedonia has not enough space for you.' That's her problem, Viktor. Her Federation is larger than Europe, but it's not big enough. She wants more."
"That's not for us to worry about."
"What we're doing somehow fits into her plan."
He said nothing in response, though he, too, was concerned.
Rafael seemed to sense his reluctance. "You told the man on the phone that we'd bring fifty thousand euros. We have no money."
He appreciated the change in subject. "We won't need any. We'll get the medallion without spending anything."
"We need to eliminate whoever is doing this."
Rafael was right. Supreme Minister Zovastina would not tolerate errors.
"I agree," he said. "We'll kill them all."
THIRTEEN
SAMARKAND
CENTRAL ASIAN FEDERATION
11:30 A.M.
THE MAN WHO ENTERED IRINA ZOVASTINA'S STUDY WAS SHORT, squat, with a flat face and a jawline that signaled stubbornness. He was third in command of the Consolidated Federation Air Force, but he was also the covert leader of a minor political party, whose voice had, of late, acquired an alarming volume. A Kazakh who secretly resisted all Slavic influences, he liked to speak about nomadic times, hundreds of years ago, long before the Russians changed everything.
Staring at the rebel she wondered how his bald cranium and barren eyes endeared him to anyone, yet reports described him as smart, articulate, and persuasive. He'd been brought to the palace two days ago after suddenly collapsing with a raging fever, blood gushing from his nose, coughing fits that had left him exhausted, and a pounding in his hips that he'd described as hammer blows. His doctor had diagnosed a viral infection with a possible pneumonia, but no conventional treatment had worked.
Today, though, he seemed fine.
In bare feet, he wore one of the palace's chestnut bathrobes.
"You're looking good, Enver. Much better."
"Why am I here?" he asked in an expressionless tone that carried no appreciation.
Earlier, he'd been questioning the staff, who, on her orders, had dropped hints of his treachery. Interestingly, the colonel had showed no fear. He was further displaying his defiance by avoiding Russian, speaking to her in Kazakh, so she decided to humor him and kept to the old language. "You were deathly ill. I had you brought here so my doctors could care for you."
"I remember nothing of yesterday."
She motioned for him to sit and poured tea from a silver service. "You were in a bad condition. I was concerned, so I decided to help."
He eyed her with clear suspicion.
She handed him a cup and saucer. "Green tea, with a hint of apple. I'm told you like it."
He did not accept the offering. "What is it you want, Minister?"
"You're a traitor to me and this Federation. That political party of yours has been inciting people to civil disobedience."
He showed no surprise. "You say constantly that we have the right to speak out."
"And you believe me?"
She tabled the cup and decided to stop playing hostess. "Three days ago you were exposed to a viral agent, one that kills within twenty-four to forty-eight hours. Death comes from an explosive fever, fluid in the lungs, and a weakening in the arterial walls that leads to massive internal bleeding. Your infection had not, as yet, progressed to that point. But, by now, it would have."
"And how was I cured?"
"I stopped it."
"You?"
"I wanted you to experience what I'm capable of inflicting."
He said nothing for a moment, apparently digesting reality.
"You're a colonel in our air force. A man who took an oath to defend this Federation with his life."
"And I would."
"Yet you apparently have no problem inciting treason."
"I'll ask again. What do you want?" His tone had lost all civility.
"Your loyalty."
He said nothing.
She grabbed a remote control from the table. A flat-screen monitor resting on the corner of the desk sprang to life with the image of five men milling among a crowd, examining stalls beneath bright awnings burgeoning with fresh produce.
Her guest rose to his feet.
"This surveillance video came from one of the cameras in the Navoi market. They're quite useful in maintaining order and fighting crime. But they also allow us to track enemies." She saw that he recognized the faces. "That's right, Enver. Your friends. Committed to opposing this Federation. I'm aware of your plans."
She well knew his party's philosophy. Before the communists dominated, when Kazakhs lived mainly in yurts, women had been an integral part of society, occupying over a third of the political positions. But between the Soviets and Islam, women were shoved aside. Independence in the 1990s brought not only an economic depression, it also allowed women back into the forefront, where they'd steadily reacquired political influence. The Federation cemented that resurrection.
"You don't really want a return to the old ways, Enver. Back to the time when we roamed the steppes? Women ran this society then. No. You just want political power. And if you can inflame the people with thoughts of some glorious past, you'll use it to your advantage. You're as bad as I am."
He spat at her feet. "That's what I think of you."
She shrugged. "Doesn't change a thing." She pointed at the screen. "Each of those men, before the sun sets, will be infected, just like you were. They'll never realize a thing until a runny nose, or a sore throat, or a headache signals they may be coming down with a cold. You recall those symptoms, don't you, Enver?"
"You're as evil as I ever believed."
"If I were evil, I would have let you die."
"Why didn't you?"
She pointed the remote and changed channels. A map appeared.
"This is what we've achieved. A unified Asian state that all of the leaders agreed to."
"You didn't ask the people."
"Really? It's been fifteen years since we achieved this reality and the economies of all the former nations have dramatically improved. We've built schools, houses, roads. Medical care is markedly better. Our infrastructure has been modernized. Electricity, water, sewage disposal-nothing like it once was with the Soviets-now works. The Russian rape of our land and resources has stopped. International business is invested here in the multibillions. Tourism is on the rise. Our gross national product has increased a thousand percent. The people are happy, Enver."
"Not all."
"There's no way to make everyone happy. All we can do is please a majority. That's what the West preaches all the time."
"How many others have you pressured like me?"
"Not all that many. Most see the benefit of what we're doing on their own. I share the wealth, and power, with my friends. And, let me say, if any one of you has a better idea, I'm willing to listen. But so far no one has offered anything better. The little bit of opposition we've faced, you included, simply want to put themselves in power. Nothing more."
"Easy for you to be generous, while your germs can whip us all into line."
"I could have allowed you to die and solved my problem. But, Enver, killing you is foolish. Hitler, Stalin, Roman emperors, Russian tsars, and just about every European monarch all made the same mistake. They eliminated the exact people who could sustain them when they really needed help."
"Perhaps they were right? Keeping your enemies alive can be dangerous."
She sensed a slight thawing in his bitterness so she asked, "Do you know about Alexander the Great?"
"Just another Western invader."
"And in a dozen years he conquered us, taking all of Persia and Asia Minor. More territory than the Roman Empire acquired after a thousand years of fighting. And how did he rule? Not by force. When he claimed a kingdom he always allowed the former ruler to keep power. By doing that he cultivated friends who sent men and supplies when he needed them, so more conquests could be made. Then, he shared the wealth. He was successful because he understood how to use power."
Hard to tell if she was making progress, but the Kazakh had made one valid point. Enemies did indeed surround her, and the assassination attempt from earlier still loomed fresh in her mind. She tried always to either eliminate or recruit the opposition, but new factions seemed to spring up daily. Alexander himself eventually fell victim to an unreasonable paranoia. She could not repeat that mistake.
"What do you say, Enver? Join us."
She watched as he mulled over her request. He may not have liked her, but reports noted that this warrior, an aviator trained by the Soviets who fought with them in many of their foolish struggles, hated something else far worse.
Time to see if that were true.
She pointed at the screen toward Pakistan, Afghanistan, and Iran. "These are our problem."
She saw he agreed.
"What do you plan to do?" he asked, with interest.
"End them."
FOURTEEN
COPENHAGEN
8:30 A.M.
MALONE STARED AT THE HOUSE. HE, THORVALDSEN, AND CASSIOPEIA had left his bookshop a half hour ago and driven north, following a seaside route. Ten minutes south of Thorvaldsen's palatial estate, they'd veered off the main highway and parked before a modest one-story dwelling nestled among a grove of gnarly beechwoods. Spring daffodils and hyacinths wrapped its walls, the brick and wood topped by a lopsided gabled roof. Gray-brown waters of the Øresund lapped a rocky beach fifty yards behind.
"As if I have to ask who owns this place."
"It's run-down," Thorvaldsen said. "It abuts my land. I bought it for a bargain, but the waterfront location is wonderful."
Malone agreed. Prime real estate. "And who's supposed to live here?"
Cassiopeia grinned. "The owner of the museum. Who else?"
He noticed that her mood was lightening. But his two friends were clearly on edge. He'd changed clothes before leaving town and retrieved his Magellan Billet-issue Beretta from beneath his bed. He'd been ordered twice by the local police to surrender it, but Thorvaldsen had used connections with the Danish prime minister to block both attempts. Over the past year, even though retired, he'd found a lot of uses for the weapon. Which was troubling. One reason he'd quit the government was to stop carrying a gun.
They stepped inside the house. Sunlight poured through windows clouded with salt film. The interior was decorated with a mishmash of old and new-a combination of styles that seemed pleasant by merely being itself. He noticed the condition. Lots of repairs were needed.
Cassiopeia searched the house.
Thorvaldsen sat on a dusty tweed-covered couch. "Everything in that museum last night was a copy. I removed the originals after I bought the place. None of it was particularly valuable, but I couldn't allow it to be destroyed."
"You went to a lot of trouble," Malone said.
Cassiopeia returned from her reconnoiter. "There's a lot at stake."
Like he needed to hear that. "While we wait for someone to come and try to kill us-the individual you talked to on the phone three hours ago-could you at least explain why we gave them that much prep time?"
"I'm well aware of what I've done," Thorvaldsen said.
"Why are these medallions so important?"
"Do you know much about Hephaestion?" Thorvaldsen asked.
He did. "He was Alexander's closest companion. Probably his lover. Died a few months before Alexander."
"The molecular manuscript," Cassiopeia said, "that was discovered in Samarkand actually fills in the historical record with some new information. We now know that Alexander was so guilt-ridden over Hephaestion's death that he ordered the execution of his personal physician, a man named Glaucias. Had him torn apart between two trees tied to the ground."
"And what did the doctor do to deserve that?"
"He failed to save Hephaestion," Thorvaldsen said. "Seems Alexander possessed a cure. Something that had, at least once before, arrested the same fever that killed Hephaestion. It's described in the manuscript simply as the draught. But there are also some interesting details."
Cassiopeia removed a folded page from her pocket.
"Read it for yourself."
So shameful of the king to execute poor Glaucias. The physician was not to blame. Hephaestion was told not to eat or drink, yet he did both. Had he refrained, the time needed to heal him may have been earned. True, Glaucias had none of the draught on hand, its container had been shattered days before by accident, but he was waiting for more to arrive from the east. Years earlier, during his pursuit of the Scythians, Alexander suffered a bad stomach. In return for a truce, the Scythians provided the draught, which they had long used for cures. Only Alexander, Hephaestion, and Glaucias knew, but Glaucias once administered the wondrous liquid to his assistant. The man's neck had swollen with lumps so bad he could hardly swallow, as if pebbles filled his throat, and fluid spewed forth with each exhale. Lesions had covered his body. No strength remained within any of his muscles. Each breath was a labor. Glaucias gave him the draught and, by the next day, the man recovered. Glaucias told his assistant that he'd used the cure on the king several times, once when he was near death, and always the king recovered. The assistant owed Glaucias his life, but there was nothing he could do to save him from Alexander's wrath. He watched from the Babylonian walls as the trees ripped his savior apart. When Alexander returned from the killing field he ordered the assistant to his presence and asked if he knew of the draught. Having seen Glaucias die so horribly, fear forced him to tell the truth. The king told him to speak of the liquid to no one. Ten days later Alexander lay on his deathbed, fever ravaging his body, his strength nearly gone, the same as Hephaestion. On the final day of his life, while his Companions and generals prayed for guidance, Alexander whispered that he wanted the remedy. The assistant mustered his courage and, remembering Glaucias, told Alexander no. A smile came to the king's lips. The assistant took pleasure in watching Alexander die, knowing that he could have saved him.
"The court historian," Cassiopeia said, "a man who also lost someone he loved when Alexander ordered Callisthenes executed four years previous, recorded that account. Callisthenes was Aristotle's nephew. He served as court historian until spring 327 BCE. That's when he got caught up in an assassination plot. By then, Alexander's paranoia had amplified to dangerous levels. So he ordered Callisthenes' death. Aristotle was said never to have forgiven Alexander."
Malone nodded. "Some say Aristotle sent the poison that supposedly killed Alexander."
Thorvaldsen scoffed at the comment. "The king wasn't poisoned. That manuscript proves it. Alexander died of an infection. Probably malaria. He'd been trudging through swamps a few weeks prior. But it's hard to say for sure. And this drink, the draught, had cured him before and it cured the assistant."
"Did you catch those symptoms?" Cassiopeia asked. "Fever, neck swelling, mucus, fatigue, lesions. That sounds viral. Yet this liquid totally cured the assistant."
He was not impressed. "You can't place much credence in a two-thousand-plus-year-old manuscript. You have no idea if it's authentic."
"It is," Cassiopeia said.
He waited for her to explain.
"My friend was an expert. The technique he used to find the writing is state of the art and doesn't lend itself to forgeries. We're talking about reading words at a molecular level."
"Cotton," Thorvaldsen said. "Alexander knew there'd be a battle for his body. He's known to have said, in the days before he died, that his prominent friends would engage in vast funerary games once he was gone. A curious comment, but one we're beginning to understand."
He'd caught something else and wanted to know from Cassiopeia, "You said your friend at the museum was an expert? Past tense?"
"He's dead."
And now he knew the source of her pain. "You were close?"
Cassiopeia did not answer.
"You could have told me," he said to her.
"No, I couldn't."
Her words stung.
"Suffice it to say," Thorvaldsen said, "that all this intrigue involves locating Alexander's body."
"Good luck. It's not been seen in fifteen hundred years."
"That's the catch," Cassiopeia coldly replied. "We might know where it is, and the man coming here to kill us doesn't."
