FIFTY-FIVE

VENICE

CASSIOPEIA'S ATTENTION WAS DRAWN FIRST ACROSS THE NAVE TO the north transept where somebody was shooting at Malone. Beyond the waist-high railing she'd seen the head and chest of one of the guards, but not Malone. Then she'd watched as Zovastina fired her weapon, the bullet careening off the marble floor inches from Thorvaldsen. The Dane had stood his ground, never moving.

Movement to her right drew her attention. A man appeared in the stairway arch, gun in hand. He spotted her and raised his weapon, but never gained the chance to fire.

She shot him in the chest.

He was thrown back, arms flailing. She finished the kill with one more well-placed shot. Across the nave, forty meters away, she saw the other guardsman advancing deeper into the museum's exhibits. She unshouldered the bow and found an arrow, but kept a position back from the railing so as not to give Zovastina a chance at her.

She was concerned. Just before the attacker appeared, Viktor had disappeared below into the lower transept. Where had he gone?

She mated the arrow's nock to the bowstring and gripped the bow's handle.

She retracted the string.

The guard winked in and out through the dim light of the opposite transept.

MALONE WAITED. HIS GUN WAS DRAWN, ALL HE NEEDED WAS FOR the guardsman to advance a few feet closer. He'd managed to retreat to the end cap of one of the exhibits, using the shadows for protection, his steps light on the wood flooring, three gunshots from out in the nave masking his movements. Impossible to say where they'd originated since the resounding echoes camouflaged any sense of direction. He really didn't want to shoot the guard.

Booksellers, generally, did not kill people.

But he doubted there was going to be much choice.

He drew a breath and made his move.

ZOVASTINA STARED AT HENRIK THORVALDSEN AS MORE GUNSHOTS erupted above. Her thirty minutes alone in the basilica had turned into a crowded melange.

Thorvaldsen motioned to the wooden box on the floor. "Not what you expected, was it?"

She decided to be honest. "Worth a try."

"Ptolemy's riddle could be a hoax. People have searched for Alexander the Great's remains for fifteen hundred years with no success."

"And does anyone actually believe St. Mark was in that box?"

He shrugged. "An awful lot of Venetians certainly do."

She needed to leave, so she called out, "Viktor."

"Is there a problem, Minister?" a new voice asked.

Michener.

The priest stepped into the lighted presbytery.

She pointed her gun at him. "You lied to me."

MALONE CREPT LEFT AS THE GUARDSMAN KEPT TO THE RAILING and moved right. He sidestepped a wooden lion attached to a carved ducal throne and crouched behind a waist-high exhibit of tapestries that separated him from his pursuer.

He scampered ahead, intent on doubling around before the man had a chance to react.

He found the end of the exhibit, turned, and prepared to move.

An arrow pierced the guardsman's chest, sucking the breath away. He saw a shocked look sweep over the man's face as he groped for the implanted shaft. Life left him as his body collapsed to the floor.

Malone's head whirled left.

Across the nave Cassiopeia stood, bow in hand, her face frozen, bearing no emotion. Behind her, high in the outer wall loomed a darkened rose window. Below the window, Viktor emerged from the shadows and moved toward Cassiopeia, a gun coming shoulder high.

ZOVASTINA WAS ANGRY. "YOU KNEW THERE WAS NOTHING IN THAT tomb," she said to Michener.

"How could I know that? It hasn't been opened in over a hundred and seventy years."

"You can tell your pope the Church will not be allowed within the Federation, concordat or no."

"I'll pass the message along."

She faced Thorvaldsen. "You never said. What's your interest in all this?"

"To stop you."

"You'll find that difficult."

"I don't know. You have to leave this basilica and the airport is a long boat ride away."

She'd come to realize that they'd chosen their trap with care. Or, more accurately, they'd allowed her to choose it. Venice. Surrounded by water. No cars. Buses. Trains. Lots of slow-moving boats. Leaving could well pose a problem. What was it? An hour's ride to the airport?

And the confident glare of the two staring at her from five meters away was no comfort.

VIKTOR APPROACHED THE WOMAN WITH THE BOW. RAFAEL'S killer. The woman who'd just speared another of his guardsmen in the opposite transept. She needed to die, but he realized that was foolish. He'd listened to Zovastina and knew that things were not going well. To leave, they'd need insurance. So he pressed the barrel of his gun into the nape of her neck.

The woman did not move.

"I should shoot you," he spit out.

"What sport would that be?"

"Enough to even the score."

"I'd say we're even. Ely, for your partner."

He fought a rising anger and forced his mind to think. Then an idea dawned. A way to bring the situation back under control. "Move to the railing. Slowly."

She strode three steps forward.

"Minister," he called out over the balustrade.

He glanced past his captive and saw Zovastina looking up, her gun still pointed at the two men.

"This one," he said to her, "will be our pass out of here. A hostage."

"Excellent idea, Viktor."

"She doesn't know what a mess you've made, does she?" the woman whispered to him.

"You'll die before uttering the first word."

"Not to worry. I won't tell her."

MALONE SAW CASSIOPEIA'S PREDICAMENT. HE SPRANG TO THE railing and aimed his gun across the nave.

"Toss it down," Viktor called out.

He ignored the command.

"I'd do as he says," Zovastina said from below. Her gun was still trained on Michener and Thorvaldsen. "Or I will shoot these two."

"Supreme Minister of the Central Asian Federation committing murder in Italy? I doubt it."

"True," Zovastina said. "But Viktor can easily kill the woman, which should not be a problem for me."

"Toss it," Cassiopeia said to him.

He realized that to comply was foolish. Just retreat into the shadows and remain a threat.

"Cotton," Thorvaldsen said from below, "do as Cassiopeia says."

He had to trust that both his friends knew what they were doing. Wrong? Probably. But he'd done stupid things before.

He allowed the pistol to drop over the railing.

"BRING HER DOWN," ZOVASTINA CALLED OUT TO VIKTOR. "YOU," she said to the other man who'd just tossed away his gun. "Come here."

He did not move from his perch.

"Please, Cotton," Thorvaldsen said. "Do as she says."

A hesitation and the man disappeared from the railing.

"You control him?" she asked.

"No one does."

Viktor and his female captive entered the presbytery. The other man, the one Thorvaldsen commanded, followed them a moment later.

"Who are you?" she asked him. "Thorvaldsen called you Cotton."

"Name's Malone."

"And you?" she said, staring at the woman with the archer's bow.

"A friend of Ely Lund."

What was happening? She desperately needed to know, so she thought fast and motioned at Viktor's female captive. "That one is coming with me. To ensure safe passage."

"Minister," Viktor said. "I think it would be better if she stays here, with me. I can hold her until you're away."

She shook her head and pointed at Thorvaldsen. "Take him with you. Somewhere safe. Once I'm in the air, I'll call and you can let him go. Any problems, kill him and make sure the body is never found."

"Minister," Michener said, "since I'm the cause of all this chaos, how about me as a hostage and let's leave this gentleman out of it."

"And how about taking me with you instead of her?" Malone asked. "Never been to the Central Asian Federation."

She appraised the American. Tall and confident. Probably an agent. But she wanted to know more of the woman's connection to Ely Lund. Anyone who knew Lund closely enough to risk her life to avenge him bore further investigation. But Michener. She could only hope Viktor was allowed the opportunity to kill the lying scum. "All right, priest, you go with Viktor. As for you, Mr. Malone, perhaps another time."

FIFTY-SIX

SAMARKAND

VINCENTI AWOKE.

He was reclined in the helicopter's comfortable leather seat. Flying east, away from the city.

The phone lying in his lap was vibrating.

He read the LCD screen. Grant Lyndsey. Chief scientist at the China lab. He stuffed a fob into his ear and pushed "Phone."

"We're done," his employee said to him. "Zovastina has all of the organisms and the lab is converted. Clean and complete."

With what Zovastina had planned, he had no intention of the West, or the Chinese government, raiding his facility and linking him to anything. Only eight scientists had worked on the project, Lyndsey their head. All vestiges of their work were now gone.

"Pay everyone and send them on their way. O'Conner will visit them and provide for their retirement." He heard the silence from the other end of the phone. "Not to worry, Grant. Gather the computer data and head to my house over the border. We'll have to wait and see what the Supreme Minister actually does with her arsenal before we act."

"I'll leave immediately."

That's what he wanted to hear. "I'll be seeing you before the day is out. We have work to do. Get moving."

He clicked off the phone and lay back in the seat.

He thought again about the old dwarf in the Pamir mountains. Back then Tajikistan had been primitive and hostile. Little medical research had ever been done there. Few strangers visited. That was why the Iraqis thought the region a promising place to investigate for unknown zoonoses.

Two pools high in the mountains.

One green, the other brown.

And the plant whose leaves he'd chewed.

He recalled the water. Warm and clear. But when he'd pointed his flashlight into their shallow depths, he recalled an even stranger sight.

Two carved letters. One in each pool.

Z and H.

Chiseled from blocks of stone, lying on the bottom.

He thought of the medallion Stephanie Nelle had made a point to show him. One of the several Irina Zovastina seemed intent on acquiring.

And the microletters supposedly on its face.

ZH .

Coincidence? He doubted it. He knew what the letters meant since he'd sought out scholars who told him that in Old Greek they represented the concept of life. He'd thought his idea of labeling any future cure for HIV with that ancient designation clever. Now he wasn't so sure. He felt like his world was collapsing and the anonymity that he'd once enjoyed was quickly evaporating. The Americans were after him. Zovastina was after him. The Venetian League itself might well be after him.

But he'd cast his die.

No going back.

MALONE'S GAZE ALTERNATED BETWEEN THORVALDSEN AND CASSIOPEIA. Neither of his friends showed the slightest concern with their predicament. Between him and Cassiopeia, they could take Zovastina and Viktor. He tried to voice that intent with his eyes, but no one seemed to be listening.

"Your pope doesn't scare me," Zovastina said to Michener.

"It's not our intent to scare anyone."

"You're a sanctimonious hypocrite."

Michener said nothing.

"Not much to say?" she asked.

"I'll pray for you, Minister."

She spit at his feet. "I don't need your prayers, priest." She motioned toward Cassiopeia. "Time to go. Leave the bow and arrows. You won't be needing them."

Cassiopeia dropped both to the floor.

"Here's her gun," Viktor said, and he handed over the weapon.

"Once we're away, I'll call. If you don't hear from me in three hours, kill the priest. And Viktor," she paused, "make sure he suffers."

Viktor and Michener left the presbytery and walked through the darkened nave.

"Shall we?" Zovastina said to Cassiopeia. "I assume you'll behave yourself?"

"Like I have a choice."

"The priest will appreciate it."

They left the presbytery.

Malone turned to Thorvaldsen. "And they're just going to leave, with no response from us?"

"It had to be done," Stephanie said, as she and another man stepped from the shadows of the south transept. She introduced the lean man as Edwin Davis, deputy national security adviser, the voice from the phone earlier. Everything about him was neat and restrained, from the pressed slacks and stiff cotton shirt, to his shiny, narrow calf-leather shoes. Malone ignored Davis and asked Stephanie, "Why did it have to be done?"

Thorvaldsen answered. "We weren't sure what was going to happen. We were just trying to make something happen."

"You wanted Cassiopeia to be taken?"

Thorvaldsen shook his head. "I didn't. But Cassiopeia apparently did. I could see it in her eyes, so I seized the moment and accommodated her. That's why I asked you to drop your weapon."

"Are you nuts?"

Thorvaldsen stepped closer. "Cotton, three years ago I introduced Ely and Cassiopeia."

"What does that have to do with anything?"

"When Ely was young, he foolishly experimented with drugs. He wasn't careful with needles and, sadly, contracted HIV. He managed the disease well, taking various cocktail combinations, but the odds were not in his favor. Most of those infected eventually contract AIDS and die. He was lucky."

He waited for more.

"Cassiopeia shares his illness."

Had he heard right?

"A blood transfusion, ten years ago. She takes the symptomatic drugs and manages her disease, as well."

He was shocked, but a lot of her comments now made sense. "How's that possible? She's so active. Strong."

"Take the drugs every day and you can be, provided the virus cooperates."

He stared at Stephanie. "You knew?"

"Edwin told me before we came out here. Henrik told him. He and Henrik have been waiting for us to arrive. That's why Michener took me aside."

"So what were me and Cassiopeia? Expendables? With deniability?" he asked Davis.

"Something like that. We had no idea what Zovastina would do."

"You sorry son of a bitch." He moved toward Davis.

"Cotton," Thorvaldsen said, "I approved it. Be mad at me."

He stopped and stared at his friend. "What gave you that right?"

"When you and Cassiopeia left Copenhagen, President Daniels called. He told me what happened to Stephanie in Amsterdam and asked what we knew. I told him. He suggested I could be useful here."

"Along with me? That why you lied to me about Stephanie being in trouble?"

Thorvaldsen cast a glance toward Davis. "Actually, I'm a bit perturbed about that, too. I only told you what they told me. It seems the president wanted all of us involved."

He looked at Davis. "I don't like the way you do business."

"Fair enough. But I have to do what I have to do."

"Cotton," Thorvaldsen said, "there was little time to think this through. I was improvising as it happened."

"You think?"

"But I didn't believe Zovastina would do anything foolish here in the basilica. She couldn't. And she'd be caught totally off guard. That's why I agreed to challenge her. Of course, Cassiopeia was another matter. She killed two people."

"And one more on Torcello." He cautioned himself to stay focused. "What is all this about?"

"One part," Stephanie said, "is to stop Zovastina. She's planning a dirty war and has the resources to make it a costly one."

"She contacted the Church and they tipped us off," Davis said. "That's why we're here."

"You could have told us all that," he said to Davis.

"No, Mr. Malone, we couldn't. I've read your service record. You were a superb agent. A long list of successful missions and commendations. You don't strike me as naive. You, of all people, should understand how the game is played."

"That's just it," he said. "I don't play anymore."

He paced about and allowed himself a moment to calm down. Then he approached the wooden box lying open on the floor. "Zovastina risked everything just to look at these bones?"

"That's the other part to all of this," Thorvaldsen said. "The more complicated portion. You read some of the manuscript pages Ely found about Alexander the Great and his draught. Ely came to believe, perhaps foolishly, that from the symptoms described, the draught might have some effect on viral pathogens."

"Like HIV?" he asked.

Thorvaldsen nodded. "We know there are substances found in nature-tree bark, leafy plants, roots-that can combat bacteria and viruses, maybe even some cancers. He was hoping this might be one of those."

His mind recalled the manuscript. Overcome by remorse and sensing that Ptolemy was sincere, Eumenes revealed the resting place, far away, in the mountains, where the Scythians taught Alexander about life. "The Scythians are the ones who showed Alexander the draught. Eumenes said Alexander was buried where the Scythians taught him about life."

Something occurred to him. He said to Stephanie, "You have one of the medallions, don't you?"

Stephanie handed him the coin. "From Amsterdam. We recovered it after Zovastina's men tried to take it. We're told it's authentic."

He held the decadrachm high in the light.

"Concealed within the warrior are tiny letters. ZH," Stephanie said. "Old Greek for life."

More of the History of Hieronymus of Cardia. Ptolemy then handed me a silver medallion that showed Alexander when he fought against elephants. He told me that, in honor of those battles, he'd minted the coins. He also told me to come back when I solved his riddle. But a month later Ptolemy lay dead.

Now he knew. "The coins and the riddle go together."

"No question," Thorvaldsen answered. "But how?"

He wasn't ready to explain. "None of you ever answered me. Why did you just let them leave here?"

"Cassiopeia clearly wanted to go," Thorvaldsen said. "Between her and me, we dangled enough information about Ely to intrigue Zovastina."

"Is that why you called her outside on the phone?"

Thorvaldsen nodded. "She needed information. I had no idea what she would do. You have to understand, Cotton, Cassiopeia wants to know what happened to Ely and the answers are in Asia."

That obsession bothered Malone. Why? He wasn't sure. But it clearly did. As did her pain. And her illness. Too much to keep track of. Too many emotions for a man who worked hard at ignoring them. "What is she going to do when she gets to the Federation?"

Thorvaldsen shrugged. "I have no idea. Zovastina knows that I'm wise to her overall plan. I made that clear. She knows Cassiopeia is associated with me. She'll use the opportunity we gave her to try and learn from Cassiopeia what she can-"

"Before she kills her."

"Cotton," Stephanie said, "that's a chance Cassiopeia freely accepted. No one told her to go."

More of his melancholy arose. "No. We just let her go. Is that priest involved?"

"He has a job to do," Davis said. "That's why he volunteered."

"But there's more," Thorvaldsen said. "What Ely found, Ptolemy's riddle, it's real. And we now have all the pieces to discover its solution."

He pointed to the box. "There's nothing there. It's a dead end."

Thorvaldsen shook his head. "Not true. Those bones lay beneath us, in the crypt, for centuries, before they were moved up here." Thorvaldsen motioned toward the open sarcophagus. "When they were first removed, in 1835, something else was found with them. Only a few know." Thorvaldsen pointed toward the darkened south transept. "It's in the treasury and has been for a long time."

"And you needed Zovastina gone before taking a look?"

"Something like that." The Dane held up a key. "Our ticket to see."

"You realize Cassiopeia may have bitten off more than she can ever chew."

Thorvaldsen nodded heavily. "Fully."

He had to think, so he gazed toward the south transept and asked, "Do you know what to do with whatever is in there?"

Thorvaldsen shook his head. "Not me. But we have someone who might."

He was puzzled.

"Henrik believes," Stephanie said, "and Edwin seems to agree-"

"It's Ely," Thorvaldsen said. "We think he's still alive."

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