The Venetian Betrayal (10 page)

"Worth fifty thousand euros?" Thorvaldsen asked.

Viktor nodded. "I'll have the money wired. You tell me where."

"Call tomorrow to the number from the medallion, as you did earlier, and we'll arrange a trade."

"Just drop it back in its case," Malone said.

Viktor walked to the table. "This is quite a game you two are playing."

"It's no game," Thorvaldsen said.

"Fifty thousand euros?"

"Like I said, you destroyed my museum."

Malone spotted the confidence in Viktor's careful eyes. The man had entered a situation not knowing his enemy, thinking himself smarter, and that was always dangerous.

Malone, though, had committed a worse mistake.

He'd volunteered, trusting only that his two friends knew what they were doing.

Chapter
EIGHTEEN

XINYANG PROVINCE, CHINA

:00 P
. M
.

ZOVASTINA STARED OUT OF THE HELICOPTER AS THEY LEFT FEDERATION airspace and flew into extreme western China. Once the area had been a tightly sealed back door to the Soviet Union, guarded by masses of troops. Now the borders were open. Unrestricted transportation and trade. China had been one of the first to formally recognize the Federation, and treaties between the two nations assured that travel and commerce flowed freely.

Xinyang province constituted sixteen percent of China. Mostly mountains and desert, loaded with natural resources. Wholly different from the rest of the country. Less communism. Heavy Islam. Once called East Turkestan, its identity was traceable far more to central Asia than the Middle Kingdom.

The Venetian League had been instrumental in formalizing friendly relations with the Chinese, another reason she'd chosen to join the group. The Great Western Economic Expansion began five years ago, when Beijing started pouring billions into infrastructure and redevelopment all across Xinyang. League members had received many of the contracts for petrochemicals, mining, machine works, road improvements, and construction. Its friends in the Chinese capital were many, as money spoke as loudly in the communist world as anywhere else, and she'd used those connections to her maximum political advantage.

The flight from Samarkand was a little over an hour in the high-speed chopper. She'd made the trek many times and, as always, stared below at the rough terrain, imagining the ancient caravans that once made their way east and west along its famed Silk Road. Jade, coral, linens, glass, gold, iron, garlic, tea--even dwarfs, nubile women, and horses so fierce they were said to have sweated blood--were all traded. Alexander the Great never made it this far east, but Marco Polo had definitely walked that earth.

Ahead, she spotted Kashgar.

The city sat on the edge of the Taklimakan Desert, a hundred and twenty kilometers east from the Federation border, within the shadows of the snowy Pamirs, some of the highest and most barren mountains in the world. A bejeweled oasis, China's western-most metropolis, it had existed, like Samarkand, for over two thousand years. Once a place of bustling open markets and crowded bazaars, now it was consumed by dust, wails, and the falsetto cries of muezzins summoning men to prayer in its four thousand mosques. Three hundred and fifty thousand people lived among its hotels, warehouses, businesses, and shrines. The town walls were long gone and a superhighway, another part of the great economic expansion, now encircled and directed green taxis in all directions.

The helicopter banked north where the landscape buckled. The desert was not far to the east. Taklimakan literally meant "go in and you won't come out." An apt description for a place with winds so hot they could, and did, kill entire caravans within minutes.

She spotted their destination.

A black-glass building in the center of a rock-strewn meadow, the beginnings of a forest a half kilometer behind. Nothing identified the two-story structure, which she knew was owned by Philogen Pharmaceutique, a Luxembourg corporation headquartered in Italy, its largest shareholder an American expatriate with the quite Italian name of Enrico Vincenti.

Early on, she'd made a point to learn Vincenti's personal history.

He was a virologist, hired by the Iraqis in the 1970s as part of a biological weapons program that the then new leader, Saddam Hussein, wanted to pursue. Hussein had viewed the Biological Toxin Weapons Convention of 1972, which banned germ warfare worldwide, as nothing more than an opportunity. Vincenti had worked with the Iraqis until just before the first Gulf War, when Hussein quickly disbanded the research. Peace brought UN inspectors, which forced a near permanent abandonment. So Vincenti moved on, starting a pharmaceutical company that expanded at a record pace during the 1990s. Now it was the largest in Europe, with an impressive array of patents. A huge multinational conglomerate. Quite an achievement for an unheralded mercenary scientist. Which had long made her wonder.

The chopper landed and she hustled inside the building.

The exterior glass walls were merely a facade. Like tables nestled together, another whole structure rose inside. A polished-slate walkway encircled the inner building and bushy indoor plants lined both sides of the walk. The inside stone walls were broken by three sets of double doors. She knew the unique arrangement was a way to quietly ensure security. No external hedgerows topped with strands of barbed wire. No outside guards. No cameras. Nothing to alert anyone that the building was anything special.

She crossed the outer perimeter and approached one of the entrances, her path blocked by a metal gate. A security guard stood behind a marble counter. The gate was controlled by a hand scanner, but she was not required to stop.

On the other side stood an impish man in his late fifties with thinning gray hair and a mousy face. Wire-framed glasses shielded expressionless eyes. He was dressed in a black-and-gold lab coat unbuttoned in the front, a security badge labeled "Grant Lyndsey" clipped to his lapel.

"Welcome, Minister," he said in English.

She answered his greeting with a look meant to signal annoyance. His e-mail had suggested urgency, and though she'd not liked anything about the summons, she'd canceled her afternoon activities and come.

They entered the inner building.

Beyond the main entrance the path forked. Lyndsey turned left and led her through a maze of windowless corridors. Everything was hospital clean and smelled of chlorine. All of the doors were equipped with electronic locks. At the one labeled "Chief Scientist," Lyndsey unclipped the ID on his lapel and slid the card through a slot.

Modern decor dominated the windowless office. Each time she visited the same thing struck her as odd. No family pictures. No diplomas on the wall. No mementos. As if this man possessed no life. Which was probably not far from the truth.

"I need to show you something," Lyndsey said.

He spoke to her as an equal, and that she despised. His tone always clear that he lived in China and was not subject to her.

He flicked on a monitor that, from a ceiling-mounted camera, displayed a middle-aged woman perched in a chair watching television. She knew the room was on the building's second floor, in the patient ward, as she'd seen images from there before.

"Last week," Lyndsey said, "I requisitioned a dozen from the prison. Like we've done before."

She'd been unaware that another clinical trial had been performed. "Why wasn't I told?"

"I didn't know I was required to tell you."

She heard what he'd not said. Vincenti's in charge. His lab, his people, his concoctions. She'd lied to Enver earlier. She'd not cured him. Vincenti had. A technician from this lab had administered the antiagent. Though she possessed the biological pathogens, Vincenti controlled the remedies. A check and balance born of mistrust, in place from the beginning to ensure that their bargaining positions remained equal.

Lyndsey pointed a remote control and the screen changed to other patient rooms, eight in all, each occupied by a man or woman. Unlike the first, these patients lay supine, connected to intravenous drips.

Not moving.

He slipped off his glasses. "I used only twelve, since they were readily available on short notice. I needed a quick study on the antiagent for the new virus. What I told you about a month ago. A nasty little thing."

"And where did you find it?"

"In a species of rodent east of here in Heilongjiang province. We'd heard tales of how people became sick after eating the things. Sure enough, there's a complex virus floating around in the rat blood. With a little tweaking, this bugger has punch. Death in less than one day." He pointed to the screen. "Here's the proof."

She'd actually asked for a more offensive agent. Something that worked even faster than the twenty-eight she already possessed.

"They're all on life support. They've been clinically dead for days. I need autopsies to verify the infectious parameters, but I wanted to show you before we sliced them up."

"And the antiagent?"

"One dosage and all twelve were on their way to good health. Total reversal in a matter of hours. Then I substituted a placebo to all of them, except the first woman. She's the control. As expected, the others lapsed quickly and died." He brought the image on the screen back to the first woman. "But she's virus free. Perfectly normal."

"Why was this trial needed?"

"You wanted a new virus. I needed to see if the adjustments worked." Lyndsey threw her a smile. "And, like I said, I had to verify the antiagent."

"When do I get the new virus?"

"You can take it today. That's why I called."

She never liked transporting the viruses, but only she knew this lab's location. Her deal was with Vincenti. A personal arrangement between them. No way she could trust anyone with the fruits of that bargain. And her helicopter would never be stopped by the Chinese.

"Get the virus ready," she said.

"All frozen and packed."

She pointed at the screen. "What about her?"

He shrugged. "She'll be reinfected. Dead by tomorrow."

Her nerves were still on edge. Trampling the would-be assassin had vented some of her frustration, but unanswered questions remained about the murder attempt. How had Vincenti known? Perhaps because he'd ordered it? Hard to say. But she'd been caught off guard. Vincenti had been a step ahead of her. And that she did not like.

Nor did she like Lindsey.

She pointed at the screen. "Have her ready to leave, too. Immediately."

"Is that wise?"

"That's my concern."

He grinned. "Some amusement?"

"Would you like to come along and see?"

"No, thanks. I like it here, on the Chinese side of the border."

She rose. "And if I were you, I'd stay here."

Chapter
NINETEEN

DENMARK

MALONE KEPT HIS GUN READY AS THORVALDSEN CONCLUDED HIS business with Viktor.

"We can make the exchange back here," Thorvaldsen said. "Tomorrow."

"You don't strike me as a man who requires money," Viktor said.

"Actually, I like as much as I can acquire."

Malone repressed a smile. His Danish friend actually gave away millions of euros to causes all around the world. He'd often wondered if he was one of those causes, since Thorvaldsen had made a point, two years ago, to travel to Atlanta and offer him a chance to change his life in Copenhagen. An opportunity he'd taken and never regretted.

"I'm curious," Viktor said. "The quality of the forgery was remarkable. Who's the craftsman?"

"A person of talent, who takes pride in his work."

"Pass on my compliments."

"Some of your euros will go that way." Thorvaldsen paused. "Now I have a question. Are you going after the last two medallions, here in Europe?"

"What do you think?"

"And the third one, in Samarkand?"

Viktor did not reply, but Thorvaldsen's message had surely been received. I know your business well.

Viktor started to leave. "I'll call tomorrow."

Thorvaldsen stayed seated as the man left the room. "Look forward to hearing from you."

The front door opened, then closed.

"Cotton," Thorvaldsen said, producing a paper bag from his pocket. "We have little time. Carefully, slide the case with the medallion into this."

He understood. "Fingerprints? That's why you gave him the coin."

"You saw how he touched nothing. But he had to hold the medallion so he could switch them."

Malone used the barrel of the gun to slide the plastic case into the bag, careful that it landed flat. He rolled the top closed, leaving an air pocket. He knew the drill. Unlike on television, paper, not plastic, was the best repository for fingerprint evidence. Far less chance of smearing.

Thorvaldsen stood. "Come, now." He watched as his friend shuffled across the room, head cocked forward. "We must hurry."

He noticed Thorvaldsen was moving toward the rear of the house. "Where are you going?"

"Out of here."