The Dane nodded. “Information she needed. We’re lucky she didn’t kill him on Torcello. But, of course, I didn’t know any of this then.”

“More of that ‘plan as you go,’” Malone said, directing his comment to Davis.

“I’ll take the blame for that one. But it worked out.”

“And three men are dead.”

Davis said nothing.

He wanted to know, “And if Zovastina had not insisted on a hostage for safe passage to the airport?”

“Luckily, that didn’t happen.”

“You’re too damn reckless for me.” He was becoming irritated. “If you have Viktor on the inside, why don’t you know if Ely Lund’s alive?”

“That fact wasn’t important, until yesterday, when you three became involved. Zovastina had a teacher, we just didn’t know who. It makes sense it’s Lund. Once we learned that, we needed Viktor contacted.”

“Viktor said Ely Lund was alive. But probably not now,” Michener told them.

“Cassiopeia has no idea what she’s facing,” Malone said. “She’s in there blind.”

“She set all that up herself,” Stephanie said, “perhaps hoping that Ely might still be alive.”

He didn’t want to hear that. For a variety of reasons. None of which he needed to face at the moment.

“Cotton,” Thorvaldsen said, “you asked why all this matters. Beyond the obvious disaster of a biological war, what if this draught is some sort of natural cure? The ancients thought it so. Alexander thought it so. The chroniclers who wrote those manuscripts thought it so. What if something is there? I don’t know why, but Zovastina wants it. Ely wanted it. And Cassiopeia wants it.”

He remained skeptical. “We don’t know a damn thing.”

Stephanie motioned with the candle. “We know this riddle is real.”

She was right about that and, he had to admit, he was curious. That godforsaken curiosity which always seemed to keep him in trouble.

“And we know Naomi is dead,” she said.

He’d not forgotten.

He stared again at the scytale. Ladder. A location? If so, it was a designation that would have made more sense in Ptolemy’s time. He knew Alexander the Great had insisted that his empire be accurately mapped. Cartography was then an infant art, but he’d seen reproductions of those ancient charts. So he decided to see what was on the web. Twenty minutes of searching found nothing that indicated what -klimax, ladder-might be.

“There might be another source,” Thorvaldsen said. “Ely had a place in the Pamirs. A cabin. He’d go there to work and think. Cassiopeia told me about it. He kept his books and papers there. Quite an array on Alexander. She said there were lots of maps from his time.”

“That’s in the Federation,” Malone pointed out. “I doubt Zovastina is going to grant us a visa.”

“How near is the border?” Davis asked.

“Thirty miles.”

“We can enter through China. They’re cooperating with us on this.”

“And what is this?” Malone asked. “Why are we even involved? Don’t you have a CIA and a multitude of other intelligence agencies?”

“Actually, Mr. Malone, you involved yourself, as did Thorvaldsen and Stephanie. Zovastina, publicly, is the only ally we possess in that region, so politically we can’t be seen challenging her. Using official assets comes with the risk of exposure. Since we had Viktor on the inside, keeping us informed, we knew most of her moves. But this is escalating. I understand the dilemma with Cassiopeia-”

“Actually, you don’t. But that’s why I’m staying in. I’m going after her.”

“I’d prefer you go to the cabin and see what’s there.”

“That’s the great thing about being retired. I can do what I please.” He turned to Thorvaldsen. “You and Stephanie go to the cabin.”

“I agree,” his friend said. “See about her.”

Malone stared at Thorvaldsen. The Dane had aided Cassiopeia and cooperated with the president, involving them all. But his friend didn’t like the idea of Cassiopeia being there alone.

“You have a plan,” Thorvaldsen said. “Don’t you?”

“I think I do.”

SIXTY-THREE

4:30 A.M.

ZOVASTINA DRANK FROM A BOTTLED WATER AND ALLOWED HER passenger the continued luxury of her troubled thoughts. They’d flown in silence for the past hour, ever since she’d tantalized Cassiopeia Vitt with the possibility that Ely Lund might still be alive. Clearly, her captive was on a mission. Personal? Or professional? That remained to be seen.

“How do you and the Dane know my business?”

“A lot of people know your business.”

“If they know it so well, why hasn’t anyone stopped me?”

“Maybe we’re about to?”

She grinned. “An army of three? You, the old man, and Mr. Malone? By the way, is Malone a friend of yours?”

“United States Justice Department.”

She assumed what happened in Amsterdam had generated official interest, but the situation made little sense. How would the Americans have mobilized so quickly-and known she’d be in Venice? Michener? Maybe. United States Justice Department. The Americans. Another problem flashed through her mind. Vincenti.

“You have no idea,” Vitt said to her, “how much we do know.”

“I don’t need an idea. I have you.”

“I’m expendable.”

She doubted that declaration. “Ely taught me a great deal. More than I ever knew existed. He opened my eyes to the past. I suspect he opened yours, too.”

“It’s not going to work. You can’t use him to get to me.”

She needed to break this woman. Her whole plan had been based on moving in secret. Exposure would open her not only to failure but also to retaliation. Cassiopeia Vitt represented, for the moment, the quickest and easiest way to ascertain the full extent of her problem.

“I went to Venice to find answers,” she said. “Ely pointed me there. He believed the body in the basilica might lead to Alexander the Great’s true grave. He thought that location may hold the secret of an ancient cure. Something that might help even him.”

“That’s dreaming.”

“But it’s a dream he shared with you, wasn’t it?”

“Is he alive?”

Finally, a direct question. “You won’t believe me no matter how I answer.”

“Try me.”

“He didn’t die in that house fire.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“It’s all you’re going to get.”

The plane dipped as turbulence buffeted the wings and the engines continued their constant whine, driving them farther east. The cabin was empty save for them. Both of her guardsmen, who’d made the flight to Venice, were dead, their bodies now Michener’s and the Church’s problem. Only Viktor had kept faith and performed, as usual.

She and her captive were a lot alike. Both of them cared for people afflicted with HIV. Cassiopeia Vitt to the point that she’d risked her life, Zovastina to the point that she gambled on a questionable journey to Venice and placed herself in physical and political jeopardy. Foolishness? Perhaps.

But heroes, at times, had to be fools.