PART THREE
FORTY
SAMARKAND
TUESDAY, APRIL 21
1:40 A.M.
VINCENTI CAREFULLY DESCENDED THE STAIRWAY FROM THE PRIVATE jet. The trip east from Venice to the Central Asian Federation had taken nearly six hours, but he’d made the journey many times and had learned to enjoy the jet’s luxury and rest during the long flight. Peter O’Conner followed him into a balmy night.
“I love Venice,” Vincenti said, “but I’ll enjoy when I finally live here. I won’t miss all that rain.”
A car waited on the tarmac and he headed straight for it, stretching his stiff legs, working his tired muscles. A driver emerged and opened the rear door. Vincenti climbed inside as O’Conner sat in the front passenger’s seat. A Plexiglass partition assured the rear compartment privacy.
Already sitting in the back was a black-haired, olive-skinned man with eyes that always, even in the face of adversity, seemed to find life comic. A heavy stubble coated a square jaw and thin neck, the youthful features, even at this late hour, quick and observant.
Kamil Karimovich Revin served as the Federation’s foreign minister. Barely forty, with few or no credentials, he was generally regarded as the Supreme Minister’s lapdog, doing exactly what she commanded. Several years ago, though, Vincenti had noticed something else.
“Welcome back,” Kamil said to him. “It’s been a few months.”
“Lots to do, my friend. The League consumes much of my time.”
“I’ve been dealing with your members. Many are beginning to select home sites.”
One of the arrangements made with Zovastina had been for League members to relocate to the Federation. A good move for both sides. Their new business utopia would free them all from burdensome taxation. But the influx of their capital into the economy, in the form of goods, services, and direct investment, would more than compensate the Federation for any taxes that could be imposed. Even better, an entire upper class would be instantly established, with no trickle-down effect that Western democracies loved to impose, where-quite unfairly, Vincenti had always thought-the few paid for the many.
League members had been encouraged to purchase tracts and many had, including himself, paying the government as most Federation land, thanks to the Soviets, lay in public hands. Vincenti had actually been part of the committee that negotiated this aspect of the League’s deal with Zovastina, and had been one of the first to buy, acquiring two hundred acres of valley and mountain in what was once eastern Tajikistan.
“How many have closed deals?” he asked.
“One hundred and ten so far. Lots of varied tastes in locations, but in and around Samarkand has been the most popular.”
“Near the source of power. That town and Tashkent will soon become world financial centers.”
The car left the air terminal and began the four-kilometer trek into town. Another improvement would be a new airport. Three League members had already drawn plans for a more modern facility.
“Why are you here?” Kamil asked. “Mr. O’Conner was not all that forthcoming when I spoke to him earlier.”
“We appreciate the information on Zovastina’s trip. Any idea why she’s in Venice?”
“She left no word, saying only she would return shortly.”
“So she’s in Venice doing who knows what.”
“And if she discovers you’re here plotting,” Kamil said, “we’re all dead. Remember, her little germs cannot be defended against.”
The foreign minister was one of a new breed of politicians that had risen with the Federation. And though Zovastina was the first to become Supreme Minister, she would not be the last.
“I can counter her bugs.”
A smile came to the Asian’s face. “Can you kill her and be done with it?”
He appreciated raw ambition. “That would be foolish.”
“What do you have in mind?”
“Something better.”
“Will the League stand with you?”
“The Council of Ten has authorized everything I’m doing.”
Kamil grinned. “Not everything, my friend. I know better. That attempt on her life. That was you. I could tell. And you bargained that assassin away. How else would she have been ready?” He paused. “I wonder. Will I be bargained away, too?”
“Do you want to succeed her?”
“I prefer to live.”
He glanced out the window at flat roofs, blue domes, and spindly minarets. Samarkand lay in a natural bowl, surrounded by mountains. Night camouflaged a hazy smog that perpetually blanketed the ancient earth. In the distance, factory lights cast a fuzzy halo. What once supplied the Soviet Union with manufactured goods now churned out Federation gross national product. The League had already invested billions for modernization. More was coming. So he needed to know, “How much do you want to be Supreme Minister?”
“It all depends. Can your League make that happen?”
“Her germs don’t scare me. They shouldn’t scare you, either.”
“Oh, my stout friend, I’ve seen too many enemies die suddenly. It’s amazing that no one has ever noticed. But her diseases work well. Just a cold or a flu that turns bad.”
Though Federation bureaucrats, including Zovastina, detested anything Soviet, they’d learned well from their corrupt predecessors. That was why Vincenti was always careful with his words but generous with promises. “Nothing can be gained without risk.”
Revin shrugged. “True. But sometimes the risks are too great.”
Vincenti gazed out at Samarkand. Such an old place, dating from the fifth century before Christ. The City of Shadows, Garden of the Soul, Jewel of Islam, Capital of the World. A Christian see before Islam and the Russians conquered. Thanks to the Soviets, Tashkent, two hundred kilometers to the northeast, had grown far larger and more prosperous. But Samarkand remained the region’s soul.
He stared across at Kamil Revin. “I’m personally about to take a dangerous step. My time as head of the Council of Ten ends soon. If we’re going to do this, we have to do it now. Time for you, as we say where I come from, to shit or get off the pot. You in or out?”
“I doubt I would live to see tomorrow if I said out. I’m in.”
“Glad we understand each other.”
“And what is it you’re about to do?” the foreign minister asked.
He gazed back out at the city. On one of the hundreds of mosques that dominated the landscape, in brilliantly illuminated Arabic calligraphy, letters at least a meter high proclaimed “God Is Immortal.” For all its elaborate history, Samarkand still cast a bland institutional solemnity, derived from a culture that had long ago lost all imagination. Zovastina seemed intent on changing that malady. Her vision was grand and clear. He had lied when he told Stephanie Nelle that history was not his strong point. In reality, it was his goal. But he hoped he wasn’t making a mistake breathing life into the past.
No matter. Too late to turn back now.
So he stared across at his coconspirator and answered the question honestly.
“Change the world.”