Malone glanced up from the screen. Outside, the rain had quickened. “Where did they take him?”

“It becomes more confusing,” Cassiopeia said. “Ely dated that manuscript to about forty years after Alexander died.” She reached over to the laptop and scrolled through the pages on the screen. “Read this. More from Hieronymus of Cardia.”

How wrong that the greatest of kings, Alexander of Macedonia, should lie forever in an unknown place. Though he sought a quiet respite, one which he arranged, such a silent fate does not seem fitting. Alexander was correct about his Companions. The generals fought among themselves, killing each other and all who posed a threat to their claims. Ptolemy may have been the most fortunate. He ruled Egypt for thirty-eight years. In the last year of his reign, he heard of my efforts in writing this account and summoned me to the palace from the library at Alexandria. He knew of my friendship with Eumenes and read with interest what I had so far written. He then confirmed that the body buried in Memphis was not that of Alexander. Ptolemy made clear that he’d known that ever since he’d attacked the funeral cortege. Years later he’d finally become curious and dispatched investigators. Eumenes was brought to Egypt and told Ptolemy that Alexander’s true remains were hidden in a place only he knew. By then the grave site in Memphis, where Alexander was said to lay, had become a shrine. “We both fought by his side and would have gladly died for him,” Ptolemy told Eumenes. “He should not lie forever in secret.” 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, then Eumenes died shortly thereafter. Ptolemy recalled that when asked to whom did he leave his kingdom, Alexander had answered “to the brightest.” So Ptolemy spoke these words to me:

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.

SAMARKAND

CENTRAL ASIAN FEDERATION

11:50 P.M.

ZOVASTINA LIGHTLY RAPPED ON A WHITE LACQUERED DOOR. A stately, well-groomed woman in her late fifties with dull gray-black hair answered. Like always, Zovastina did not wait to be invited inside.

“Is she awake?”

The woman nodded and Zovastina marched down the hall.

The house dominated a wooded lot on the eastern outskirts of the city, beyond the sprawl of low-slung buildings and colorful mosques, in an area where many of the newer estates had sprung, the hilly terrain once littered with Soviet-era guard towers. Federation prosperity had generated both a middle and an upper class, and those with means had begun to flaunt it. This house, built a decade ago, belonged to Zovastina, though she’d never actually lived here. Instead, she’d given it to her lover.

She surveyed the luxurious interior. An elaborately carved Louis XV console displayed an array of white porcelain figurines given to her by the French president. A coffered ceiling topped the adjacent living room, its floor covered by inlaid parquetry protected by a Ukrainian carpet. Another gift. A German mirror anchored one end of the long room and taffeta draperies adorned three towering windows.

Every time she stepped down the marbled hall, her mind wandered back six years, to one afternoon when she’d approached the same closed door. Inside the bedroom she’d found Karyn naked, a thin-chested man with curly hair and muscular arms atop her. She could still hear their moans, their ferocious exploration of each other surprisingly arousing. She’d stood for a long minute, watching, until they broke apart.

“Irina,” Karyn calmly said. “This is Michele.”

Karyn had climbed from the bed and brushed back her long wavy hair, exposing breasts Irina had many times enjoyed. Lean as a jackal, every inch of Karyn’s unblemished skin shimmered with the color of cinnamon. Thin lips curved contemptuously, tilted nose with delicate nostrils, cheeks smooth as porcelain. Zovastina had suspected her lover’s cheating, but it was an entirely different matter to witness the act firsthand.

“You’re lucky I don’t have you killed.”

Karyn seemed unconcerned. “Look at him. He cares how I feel, gives without question. You only take. It’s all you know how to do. Give orders and expect them to be obeyed.”

“I don’t recall any complaints from you.”

“Being your whore doesn’t come cheap. I’ve given up things more precious than money.”

Zovastina’s gaze involuntarily drifted to the naked Michele.

“You like him, don’t you?” Karyn said.

She did not answer. Instead, she commanded, “I want you out of here, by night fall.”

Karyn stepped close, the sweet smell of an expensive perfume leading the way. “You really want me to go?” Her hand drifted to Zovastina’s thigh. “Maybe you’d like to take off these clothes and join us.”

She backhanded her lover across the face. Not the first time, but the first time in anger. A trickle of blood oozed from Karyn’s busted lip and hatred stared back at her. “Gone. Before nightfall or, I promise, you’ll not see morning.”

Six years ago. A long time.

Or at least it seemed that way.

She turned the knob and entered.

The bedroom remained adorned with dainty French provincial furniture. A marble-and-gilt-bronze fireplace guarded by a pair of Egyptian porphyry lions decorated one wall. Seemingly out of place was the respirator beside the canopy bed, the oxygen bottle on the other side, and an intravenous bag suspended from a stainless-steel stand, transparent tubes snaking to one arm.

Karyn lay propped on pillows in the center of a queen-size bed, coral silk covers adjusted to her waist. Her flesh was the color of brown ash-her patina like waxed paper. Once-thick blond hair hung tangled, disheveled, thin as mist. Her eyes, which used to flash a vivid blue, now stared out of deep holes like creatures tucked away in caves. Angular cheeks were gone, replaced with a cadaverous gaunt that had transformed her pug nose into aquiline. A lace nightgown graced her emaciated frame as a flag hanging limp on a pole.

“What do you want tonight?” Karyn muttered, the voice brittle and strained. Tubing at her nostrils delivered oxygen with each breath. “Come to see if I’m dead?”

Irina crept close to the four-poster bed. The room’s smell intensified. A sickening mixture of disinfectant, disease, and decay.

“Nothing to say?” Karyn managed, the voice mostly air.

She stared at the woman. Uncharacteristically for her, not a lot of planning had gone into their relationship. Karyn had first been on her staff, then her personal secretary, and finally her concubine. Five years together. Five more apart, until last year when Karyn unexpectedly returned to Samarkand, ill.