The Venetian Betrayal (Cotton Malone #3)

The Venetian Betrayal (Cotton Malone #3) Page 21

PART FOUR

FIFTY-SEVEN

CENTRAL ASIAN FEDERATION

6:50 A.M.

VINCENTI STEPPED FROM THE HELICOPTER. THE TRIP FROM Samarkand had taken about an hour. Though there were new highways leading east all the way to the Fergana Valley, his estate lay farther south, in the old Tajikistan-and air travel remained the fastest and safest route.

He'd chosen his land with care, high in cloud-girdled mountains. No one had questioned the purchase, not even Zovastina. He'd explained only that he was tired of the flat, muddy, Venetian terrain, so he bought two hundred acres of forested valley and rocky Pamir highlands. This would be his world. Where he could not be seen nor heard, surrounded by servants, at a commanding height, amid scenery once wild but now shorn and shaven with touches of Italy, Byzantium, and China.

He'd christened the estate Attico, and noticed on the flight in that the main entrance now was crowned by an elaborate stone arch containing the label. He also noticed more scaffolding had been erected around the house, the exterior rapidly moving toward completion. Construction had been slow but constant, and he'd be glad when the walls stood totally finished.

He escaped the whirling blades and passed through a garden he'd taught to bloom upon a mountain slope so the estate would bristle with hints of the English countryside.

Peter O'Conner waited on the uneven stones of the rear terrace.

"Everything okay?" he asked his employee.

O'Conner nodded. "No problems here."

He lingered outside, catching his breath. Storm clouds wreathed the distant eastern peaks into China. Crows patrolled the valley. He'd carefully orientated his castle in the air to maximize the spectacular view. So different from Venice. No uncomfortable miasma. Only crystalline air. He'd been told that the Asian spring had been unusually warm and dry and he was grateful for the respite.

"What about Zovastina?" he asked.

"She's leaving Italy, as we speak, with another woman. Dark-skinned, attractive, provided the name Cassiopeia Vitt to Customs."

He waited, knowing O'Conner had been thorough.

"Vitt lives in southern France. Is presently financing the reconstruction of a medieval castle. A big project. Expensive. Her father owned several Spanish manufacturing concerns. Huge conglomerates. She inherited it all."

"What about her? The person."

"Muslim, but not devout. Highly educated. Engineering and history degrees. Unmarried. Thirty-eight years old. That's about all I could get on short notice. You want more?"

He shook his head. "Not now. Any clue what's she doing with Zovastina?"

"My people didn't know. Zovastina left the basilica with her and went straight to the airport."

"She on her way back here?"

O'Conner nodded. "Should arrive in another four to five hours."

He saw there was more.

"Our men who went after Nelle. One was taken down by a rooftop sniper. The other escaped. Seems Nelle was prepared for us."

He did not like the sound of that. But that problem would have to wait. He'd already leaped from the cliff. Too late to climb back now.

He entered the house.

A year ago he'd finished decorating, having spent millions on paintings, wall coverings, lacquered furniture, and objets d'art. But he'd insisted that comfort not be sacrificed for magnificence, so he'd included a theater, cozy parlors, private bedrooms, baths, and the garden. Unfortunately, he'd only been able to enjoy a precious few weeks here, staffing it with locals O'Conner personally vetted. Soon, though, Attico would become his personal refuge, a place of high living and plain thinking, and he'd provided for that eventuality by installing sophisticated alarms, state-of-the-art communications equipment, and an intricate network of concealed passages.

He passed through the ground-floor rooms, which flowed into one another in the French style, every corner of which seemed as cool and shadowy as the spring twilight. A fine atrium in the classical vein accommodated a winding marble staircase to the second floor.

He climbed.

Frescoes representing the march of the liberal sciences loomed overhead. This part of the house reminded him of Venice's best, though the towering mullion windows framed mountain landscapes instead of the Grand Canal. His destination was the closed door to his left, just beyond the top of the staircase, one of several spacious guest rooms.

He quietly entered.

Karyn Walde lay still on the bed.

O'Conner had brought her and the nurse from Samarkand in another helicopter. Her right arm was once again connected to an intravenous drip. He stepped close and gripped one of the syringes resting on a stainless-steel table. He injected the contents into one of the ports. A few seconds later the stimulant forced Walde's eyes open. In Samarkand, he'd sent her into unconsciousness. Now he needed her alert.

"Come around," he said. "Wake up."

She blinked and he saw her pupils focus.

Then she closed them again.

He grabbed a pitcher of ice water from the night stand and doused her face.

She sprang awake, spewing mist, shaking the water from her eyes.

"You son of a bitch," she blurted out, pushing herself up.

"I told you to wake up."

She was not restrained. No need. Her gaze raked her surroundings. "Where am I?"

"You like it? It's just as elegant as you're accustomed to."

She noticed the sunlight streaming in through the windows and the open terrace doors. "How long have I been out?"

"Quite a while. It's morning."

Disorientation reappeared as she comprehended reality. "What's going on?"

"I want to read you something. Will you indulge me?"

"Do I have a choice?"

Her wits had returned.

"Not really. But I think the time will be worth it."

I was suspicious of Clinical Trial W12-23 from the start. Initially, Vincenti assigned only himself and me to its supervision. That was strange since rarely does Vincenti personally involve himself with such things, especially on a trial with only twelve participants, which was another reason why I became suspicious. Most of the trials we conduct have upwards of a hundred to (on at least one occasion) a thousand or more participants. A sample of only twelve patients would not ordinarily reveal anything about the effectiveness of any substance, particularly given the all-important criterion of toxicity, the danger being that the conclusions could be simply random.

When I expressed these concerns to Vincenti, he explained that toxicity was not the goal of this trial. Which again seemed strange. I asked about the agent being tested and Vincenti said it was something he personally developed, curious to see if his laboratory results could be duplicated in humans. I was aware Vincenti worked on projects regarded as internally classified (meaning only certain people were allowed data access) but, in the past, I was always one of those granted access. On this trial, Vincenti made it clear that only he was to handle the testing substance, known as Zeta Eta.

Using specific parameters Vincenti provided, I secured a dozen volunteers from various health clinics throughout the country. Not an easy task since HIV is a subject Iraqis do not openly discuss and the disease is rare. Eventually, after money was offered, subjects were found. Three in the early stages of HIV infection came with white cell counts approaching one thousand and only a tiny percentage of virus. None of these people displayed any outward symptoms of AIDS. Five others had progressed from HIV to AIDS, their bloodstreams full of virus, white cell counts low, each already encountering a wide range of specific symptoms. Four more were well on their way to death, white cell counts below two hundred, a variety of secondary infections already clear, the end only a matter of time.

Once a day I traveled to the clinic in Baghdad and administered intravenous doses at levels specified by Vincenti. At the same time, I obtained blood and tissue samples. From the first injection all twelve showed marked improvement. White cell counts dramatically rose and, with a reemergence of their immune system, secondary infections dissipated as their bodies started to ward off the various diseases. Some, like the cancerous Kaposi outbreaks five of the twelve developed, were beyond a cure, but infections the immune system could effectively handle started to diminish by the beginning of the second day.

By the third day the immune systems in all twelve had reemerged. White cells regenerated. Counts rose. Appetites returned. Weight was gained. HIV viral load dropped to nearly zero. If the injections had continued there was little doubt they would have all been cured, at least of HIV and AIDS. But the injections were stopped. On the fourth day, after Vincenti became convinced the substance worked, he changed the injection solution to saline. All twelve patients quickly relapsed. Their T-cell counts bottomed and HIV regained control. What exactly the testing substance was remains a mystery. The few chemical tests I ran revealed only a slightly alkaline, water-based compound. More out of curiosity than anything else, I microscopically examined a sample and was shocked to discover living organisms in the solution.

He noted that Karyn Walde was listening closely. "This is a report from a man who once worked under me. He wanted to file it with my superiors. Of course, he never did. I paid to have him killed. In Iraq, during the nineteen-eighties, when Saddam ruled supreme, that was fairly easy to do."

"And why did you kill him?"

"He was nosy. Paying way too much attention to something that did not concern him."

"That isn't an answer. Why did he need to die?"

He held up a syringe filled with a clear liquid.

"More of your sleep drug?" she asked.

"No. It's actually your greatest desire. What you told me in Samarkand you wanted more than anything."

He paused.

"Life."

FIFTY-EIGHT

VENICE

2:55 A.M.

MALONE SHOOK HIS HEAD. "ELY LUND IS ALIVE?"

"We don't know," Edwin Davis said. "But we've suspected Zovastina was being schooled by somebody. Yesterday we learned that Lund was her initial source of information-Henrik told us about him-and the circumstances of his death are certainly suspect."

"Why does Cassiopeia believe he's dead?"

"Because she had to believe that," Thorvaldsen said. "There was no way to prove otherwise. But I suspect a part of her has doubted whether his death was real."

"Henrik thinks, and I have to agree with him," Stephanie said, "that Zovastina will try and use the link between Ely and Cassiopeia to her advantage. All of what happened here has to be a shock for her, and paranoia is one of her occupational hazards. Cassiopeia can play off that."

"This woman is planning a war. She's not going to worry about Cassiopeia. She needed her to get to the airport. After that, Cassiopeia is nothing but baggage. This is crazy."

"Cotton," Stephanie said. "There's more."

He waited.

"Naomi's dead."

He ran a hand through his hair. "I'm sick and tired of friends dying."

"I want Enrico Vincenti," she said.

So did he.

He started thinking like a field agent again, fighting hard the desire for quick revenge. "You said there's something in the treasury. Okay. Show me."

ZOVASTINA WATCHED THE WOMAN SITTING ACROSS FROM HER IN the jet's luxury cabin. A personality of courage, no doubt. And like the prisoner from the laboratory in China, this beauty knew fear, yet unlike that weak soul, she also knew how to control it.

They'd not spoken since leaving the basilica, and she'd used the time to gauge her hostage. She was still unsure if the woman's presence was planned or happenstance. Too much happened too fast.

And the bones.

She'd been certain there'd be something to find, sure enough to risk the journey. Everything had pointed to success. But over two thousand years had passed. Thorvaldsen may have been right. What realistically could remain?

"Why were you in the basilica?" she asked.

"Did you bring me along to chitchat?"

"I brought you to find out what you know."

This woman reminded her too much of Karyn. That damnable self-confidence, worn like a badge. And a peculiar expression of wariness, which strangely kept Zovastina both interested and off balance.

"Your clothes. Your hair. You look like you've been swimming."

"Your guardsman shoved me into the lagoon."

That was news. "My guardsman?"

"Viktor. He didn't tell you? I killed his partner in the museum on Torcello. I wanted to kill him, too."

"That could prove a challenge."

"I don't think so." The voice was cold, acid, and superior.

"You knew Ely Lund?"

Vitt said nothing.

"You think I killed him?"

"I know you did. He told you about Ptolemy's riddle. He taught you about Alexander and how the body in the Soma was never Alexander's. He connected that body to the theft of St. Mark by the Venetians and that's how you knew to go to Venice. You killed him to make sure he told no one else. Yet he did tell someone. Me."

"And you told Henrik Thorvaldsen."

"Among others."

That was a problem, and Zovastina wondered if there was any connection between this woman and the failed assassination attempt. And Vincenti? Henrik Thorvaldsen was certainly the kind of man who could be a member of the Venetian League. But since the membership roster was highly confidential she had no way of confirming his status. "Ely never mentioned you."

"He mentioned you."

This woman was indeed like Karyn. Same haunting allure and frank manner. Defiance attracted Zovastina. Something that took patience and determination to tame.

But it could be done.

"What if Ely isn't dead?"

FIFTY-NINE

VENICE

MALONE FOLLOWED THE OTHERS INTO THE BASILICA'S SOUTH transept, stopping at a dimly lit doorway surmounted by an elaborate Moorish-style arch. Thorvaldsen produced a key and opened the bronze doors.

Inside, a vaulted vestibule led into a sanctuary. To the left, wall niches held icons and reliquaries. To the right was the treasury, where more fragile and precious symbols of a vanished republic rested against the walls or lay gathered in showcases.

"Most of this came from Constantinople," Thorvaldsen said, "when Venice sacked the city in 1204. But restorations, fires, and robberies have taken their toll. When the Venetian republic fell, much of the collection was melted down for its gold, silver, and precious stones. Only two hundred and eighty-three items managed to survive."

Malone admired the shiny chalices, reliquaries, caskets, crosses, bowls, and icons, fashioned of rock, wood, crystal, glass, silver, or gold. He also noticed amphorae, ampullae, manuscript covers, and elaborate incense burners, each an ancient trophy from Egypt, Rome, or Byzantium.

"Quite a collection," he said.

"One of the finest on the planet," Thorvaldsen declared.

"What are we looking for?"

Stephanie pointed. "Michener said it was over here."

They approached a glass case that exhibited a sword, a bishop's crozier, a few hexagonal bowls, and several gilt relic boxes. Thorvaldsen used another of the keys and unlocked the case. He then hinged open one of the relic boxes. "They keep it in here. Out of sight."

Malone recognized the object lying inside. "A scarab."

During the mummification process, Egyptian embalmers routinely adorned the purified body with hundreds of amulets. Many were simply for decoration, others were positioned to strengthen dead limbs. The one he was staring at was named for the insect that adorned the top-Scarabæidæ-a dung beetle. He'd always thought the association odd, but ancient Egyptians had noticed how the bugs seemed to spring from the dung, so they identified the insect with Chepera, the creator of all things, father of the gods, who made himself out of the matter he produced.

"This one's a heart amulet," he said.

Stephanie nodded. "That's what Michener said."

He knew that all bodily organs were removed during mummification, save for the heart. A scarab was always laid atop the heart to symbolize everlasting life. This one was typical. Made of stone. Green. Probably carnelian. But one thing he noticed. "No gold. Usually they were either made of or decorated with it."

"Which is probably how it survived," Thorvaldsen said. "History notes that the Soma, in Alexandria, was raided by the later Ptolemies. All of the gold was stripped away, the golden sarcophagus melted down, everything of value taken. That chunk of rock would have meant nothing to them."

Malone reached down and lifted the amulet. Maybe four inches long by two inches wide. "It's larger than normal. These things are usually about half this size."

"You know a lot about them," Davis said.

Stephanie grinned. "The man reads. After all, he is a bookseller."

Malone smiled but continued to admire the amulet and noticed, in the beetle's wings, three carved hieroglyphs.

"What are they?" he asked.

"Michener said they mean life, stability, and protection," Thorvaldsen answered.

He turned the amulet over. The bottom was dominated by the image of a bird.

Thorvaldsen said, "This was found with the bones of St. Mark when they were removed from the crypt, in 1835, and brought up to the altar. St. Mark was martyred in Alexandria and mummified, so it was thought this amulet was simply part of that process. But since it has pagan overtones, the Church fathers decided not to include it with the remains. They recognized its historical value, though, and placed it here, in the treasury. When the Church learned of Zovastina's interest in St. Mark, the amulet took on a greater importance. But when Daniels told me about it, I recalled what Ptolemy said."

So did he.

Touch the innermost being of the golden illusion.

Pieces clicked into place. "The golden illusion was the body itself in Memphis, since it was wrapped in gold. The innermost being? The heart." He held up the amulet. "This."

"Which means," Davis said, "that the remains out there in the basilica are not St. Mark."

Malone nodded. "They're something else entirely. Something that has nothing to do with Christianity."

Thorvaldsen pointed to the bottom side. "That's the Egyptian hieroglyph for the phoenix, the symbol of rebirth."

More of the riddle flashed through his brain.

Divide the phoenix.

And he knew exactly what to do.

CASSIOPEIA REALIZED SHE WAS BEING PLAYED BY ZOVASTINA'S question. What if Ely isn't dead? So she controlled her emotions and calmly said, "But he is dead, and has been for months."

"You're sure?"

Cassiopeia had many times wondered-how could she not?-but she fought the pain of wishing and declared, "Ely's dead."

Zovastina reached for a phone and pushed one of the keys. A few seconds passed, then she said into the unit, "Viktor, I need you to tell someone about what happened the night Ely Lund died."

Zovastina offered her the phone.

Cassiopeia did not move. She recalled what he'd said on the boat. Which was nothing.

"Can you afford not to listen to what he has to say?" Zovastina asked, a nauseating look of satisfaction in her dark eyes.

This woman knew her weakness, and somehow that realization frightened Cassiopeia more than what Viktor might say. She wanted to know. The past few months had been torment. Yet...

"Shove that phone up your ass."

Zovastina hesitated, then smiled. Finally, she said into the unit, "Maybe later, Viktor. You can let the priest go now."

She clicked off.

The plane continued to climb into the clouds, heading east for Asia.

"Viktor was watching Ely's house. On my orders."

Cassiopeia didn't want to listen.

"He entered from the rear. Ely was bound to a chair and the assassin was preparing to shoot him. Viktor shot the assassin first, then brought Ely to me and burned the house with the killer inside."

"You can't expect me to believe that."

"There are people within my government who would like to see me gone. Unfortunately, treachery is part of our political way. They fear me and knew Ely was assisting me. So they ordered him killed, just as they'd ordered others, who were my allies, eliminated."

Cassiopeia remained skeptical.

"Ely is HIV positive."

That truth arrested Cassiopeia's attention. "How do you know?"

"He told me. I've been supplying him with his medications these past two months. Unlike you, he trusts me."

Cassiopeia knew that Ely would have never told anyone that he was infected. Only Henrik and Ely knew about her malady.

Now she was confused.

But she wondered.

Had that been the whole idea?

MALONE CARESSED THE SMOOTH PATINA OF THE HEART AMULET, his fingers tracing the outline of the bird that represented the Egyptian phoenix. "Ptolemy said to divide the phoenix."

He shook the artifact, listening.

Nothing moved inside.

Thorvaldsen seemed to understand what he was about to do. "That thing is over two thousand years old."

Malone could not care less. Cassiopeia was in trouble and the world may soon be experiencing a biological war. Ptolemy had penned a riddle that obviously led to where Alexander the Great had wanted to be entombed. The Greek warrior-turned-pharaoh apparently had been privy to good information. And if he said divide the phoenix, then Malone was damn well going to do it.

He pounded the amulet, bottom-side first, into the marble floor.

It recoiled and about a third of the scarab broke away, like a nut cracking. He settled the pieces on the floor and examined them.

Something spilled out from the sides.

The others knelt with him.

He pointed and said, "The inside was cleaved, ready to split, and packed with sand."

He lifted the larger chunk and emptied the granules.

Edwin Davis pointed. "Look."

Malone saw it, too. He gently brushed the sand aside and spotted a cylindrical object, maybe a half inch in diameter. Then he noticed that it wasn't a cylinder at all.

A strip of gold.

Coiled.

He carefully tipped the tiny bundle onto its side and spotted random letters etched into one side.

"Greek," he said.

Stephanie bent down closer. "And look how thin that foil is. Like leaf."

"What is it?" Davis asked.

Malone's mind starting clicking the final pieces into place. The next part of Ptolemy's riddle now became important. Life provides the measure of the grave. Be wary, for there is but one chance of success. He reached into his pocket and found the medallion Stephanie had shown him. "Concealed on this are microletters. ZH. And we know Ptolemy minted these medallions, when he created the riddle."

He noticed a tiny symbol-

�C on one side and instantly knew the connection. "That same symbol was on the manuscript you showed me. At the bottom, below the riddle." He saw the wording clearly in his mind. Life provides the measure of the true grave.

"How do the elephant medallions and that strip of gold connect to each other?" Davis asked.

"To know that," Malone said, "you have to know what that strip is."

He saw that Stephanie was reading him.

"And you do?" she asked.

He nodded. "I know exactly what this is."

VIKTOR CUT THE THROTTLE AND ALLOWED THE BOAT TO DRIFT back toward the quay at San Marco. He'd taken Michener from the basilica, straight to where he'd docked, thinking the safest place to wait for Zovastina's departure was on water. There he'd stayed, staring at the floodlit domes and pinnacles, the pink-and-white doge's palace, the campanile, and rows of antique buildings, solid and high, dotted with balconies and windows, all matted by the black yawn of night. He'd be glad when he was gone from Italy.

Nothing here had gone right.

"It's time you and I had a talk," Michener said.

He'd kept the priest in the boat's forward cabin, alone, while he waited for Zovastina's call, and Michener had sat casually and stayed silent.

"What could we have to talk about?"

"Perhaps the fact that you're an American spy."