“You going to shoot me?” Viktor shook his head. “Cassiopeia Vitt killed my partner in Venice and tried to kill me.”

“At the time, she didn’t know you wore the white hat.”

“You sound like you think that’s a problem.”

“I haven’t decided whether you’re a problem or not.”

“That woman is the problem,” Viktor said. “I doubt she’s going to let either one of us help her.”

“Probably right, but she’s going to get it.” He decided to try a pat on the back. “I’m told you’ve been a good asset. So let’s help her.”

“I planned to. I just didn’t count on an assistant.”

He stuffed the gun back beneath his jacket. “Get me into the palace.”

Viktor seemed puzzled by the request. “Is that all?”

“Shouldn’t be a problem for the head of the Sacred Band. No one would question you.”

Viktor shook his head. “You people are insane. Do you all have a death wish? Bad enough she’s in there. Now you? I can’t be responsible for all this. And, by the way, it’s foolish for us to even be talking. Zovastina knows your face.”

Malone had already checked. The concourse was not equipped with cameras. Those were farther on, in the terminal. No one else was around, which was why he’d decided here was a good place for a chat. “Just get me into the palace. If you point me in the right direction, I can do the heavy lifting. That’ll give you cover. You don’t have to do anything, except watch my back. Washington wants to protect your identity at all costs. That’s why I’m here.”

Viktor shook his head in disbelief. “And who came up with this ridiculous plan?”

He grinned. “I did.”

SIXTY-SEVEN

VINCENTI LED LYNDSEY BEYOND THE HOUSE GROUNDS, ONTO A rocky trail that inclined up into the highlands. He’d ordered the ancient path smoothed, steps carved into the rock at places, and electricity wired, knowing that he’d be making the trek more than a few times. Both the path and the mountain were within the estate’s boundaries. Every time he returned to this place he thought of the old healer who’d clambered up the rock face, catlike, clinging to the path with bare toes and fingers. Vincenti had followed, climbing with anticipation, like a child after his parent up the stairs wondering what awaited in the attic.

And he’d not been disappointed.

Gray rock streaked with mottled veins of gleaming crystals surrounded them in what seemed like a natural cathedral. His legs ached from the exertion and the breath tore at his lungs. He dragged himself up another stretch of cliff and beads of sweat gathered on his brow.

Lyndsey, a thin and wiry man, seemed unaffected.

Vincenti gave a deep exhale of thankfulness as he stopped on the final ledge. “To the west, the Federation. The east, China. We’re standing at the crossroad.”

Lyndsey stared out at the vista. An afternoon sun spotlighted a distant stretch of towering scarps and pyramids. A herd of horses rushed in silence through the valley beyond the house.

Vincenti was enjoying sharing this. Telling Karyn Walde had ignited within him a need for recognition. He’d discovered something remarkable and managed to gain exclusive control of it, no small feat considering this whole region was once Soviet-dominated. But the Federation had changed all that, and through the Venetian League, he’d helped navigate those changes to his personal advantage.

“This way,” he said, motioning toward a crease in the rock. “Through there.”

Three decades ago the narrow slit had been easy to traverse, but he’d been a hundred and fifty pounds lighter. Now it was a tight squeeze.

The crevice opened a short way into a gray chamber beneath an irregular vault of sharp rock, walled in on all sides. Dim light leaked in from the entrance. He stepped to a switch box and powered on incandescent lighting that hung from the ceiling. Two pools dotted the rock floor, each about ten feet in diameter-one, a russet brown; the other, a sea foam green-both illuminated by cabled lights suspended in the water.

“Hot springs dot these mountains,” he said. “From ancient times until today, the locals believed they contained valuable medicinal properties. Here, they were right.”

“Why light them?”

He shrugged. “I needed to study the water and, as you can see, they’re stunning with the contrasting color.”

“This is where the archaea live?”

He pointed at the green-tinted pool. “That’s their home.”

Lyndsey bent down and stroked the surface. A host of ripples shivered across its transparent surface. None of the plants that had been there the first time Vincenti had been there dotted the pool. They’d apparently died out long ago. But they weren’t important.

“Just over a hundred degrees,” he said of the water. “But our modifications now allow them to live at room temperature.”

One of Lyndsey’s tasks had been to prepare an action plan-what the company would do once Zovastina acted-when massive amounts of antiagent would supposedly be needed, so Vincenti asked, “Are we ready to go?”

“Growing the small quantities we’ve been using on the zoonoses was easy. Full-scale production will be different.”

He’d thought as much, which was why he’d secured the loan from Arthur Benoit. Infrastructure would have to be built, people hired, distribution networks created, more research completed. All of which required massive amounts of capital.

“Our production facilities in France and Spain can be converted into acceptable manufacturing sites,” Lyndsey said. “Eventually, though, I’d recommend a separate facility, since we’ll need millions of liters. Luckily, the bacteria reproduce easily.”

Time to see if the man was truly interested. “Have you ever dreamed of going down in history?”

Lyndsey laughed. “Who doesn’t?”

“I mean seriously go down in history, as someone who made a tremendous scientific contribution. What if I could bestow that honor? You interested?”

“Like I said, who wouldn’t be?”

“Imagine schoolchildren, decades from now, looking up HIV and AIDS in an encyclopedia, and there’s your name as the man who helped conquer the scourge of the late twentieth century.” He recalled the first pleasure of that vision. Not all that dissimilar from Lyndsey’s current look of curiosity and amazement. “Would you like to be a part of that?”

No hesitation. “Of course.”

“I can give you that. But there’d be conditions. Needless to say, I can’t do this by myself. I need someone to personally oversee production, someone who understands the biology. Security is, of course, a great concern. Once our patents are filed, I’ll feel better, but somebody still has to manage this on a daily basis. You’re the logical choice, Grant. In return, you’ll receive some discovery credit and generous compensation. And by generous, I’m talking millions.”

Lyndsey opened his mouth to speak, but Vincenti silenced him with an upright finger.

“That’s the good part. Here’s the bad. If you become a problem, or you become greedy, I’ll have O’Conner plant a bullet in your head. Back at the house I told you about how we controlled our competition. Let me explain further.”

He told Lyndsey about a Danish microbiologist found in 1997, comatose in the street near his laboratory. Another, in California, who vanished, his abandoned rental car parked near a bridge, his body never located. A third in 2001 found on the side of an English country road, the apparent victim of a hit and run. A fourth murdered in a French farmhouse. Another died uniquely, his body discovered ten years ago trapped in the airlock to the walk-in refrigerator at his lab. Five died simultaneously in 1999 when their private plane crashed into the Black Sea.

“All worked for our competitors,” he said. “They were making progress. Too much. So, Grant, do as I say. Be grateful for the opportunity I’ve given you, and we’ll both live to be rich, old men.”