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.