“Malone’s plan,” she said, “might work.”

But she agreed with Cotton. Random assets, like Viktor, were not reliable. She much preferred a seasoned agent, someone who cared about retirement.

“Malone cares for Cassiopeia,” Thorvaldsen said. “He won’t say it, but he does. I see it in his eyes.”

“I saw the pain on his face when you told him she’s sick.”

“That’s one reason why I thought she and Ely could relate to each other. Their mutual afflictions somehow became part of their attraction.”

They passed through two more sparse villages and kept driving west. Finally, just as Cassiopeia had told Thorvaldsen, the road forked, and they veered north. Ten kilometers later the landscape became more wooded. Ahead, beside a hard-packed drive that disappeared into the blackened woods, she spotted a sarissa plunged into the earth. Hanging from it was a small sign upon which was painted “Soma.”

“Ely named the place appropriately,” she said. “Like Alexander’s tomb in Egypt.”

She turned and the car bumped and swayed up the rough path. The lane climbed a quarter mile into the trees where it ended at a single-storied cabin, fashioned of rough-hewn timber planks. A covered porch shielded the front door.

“Looks like something from northern Denmark,” Thorvaldsen said. “Doesn’t surprise me. I’m sure it was a bit of home for him.”

She parked and they stepped out into the warm afternoon. The woods all around them loomed quiet. Through the trees, northward she believed, more mountains could be seen. An eagle soared overhead.

The cabin’s front door opened.

They both turned.

A man stepped out.

He was tall and handsome, with wavy blond hair. He wore jeans and a long-sleeved shirt with boots. Thorvaldsen stood rigid but his eyes instantly softened, the Dane’s thoughts easily read as to the man’s identity.

Ely Lund.

SEVENTY

SAMARKAND

11:40 A.M.

CASSIOPEIA SMELLED WET HAY AND HORSES AND KNEW SHE WAS being held near a stable. The room was some sort of guesthouse, the furnishings adequate but not elegant, probably for staff. Boarded shutters closed the windows from the world, the door was locked and, she assumed, guarded. On the walk from the palace she’d noticed armed men on rooftop perches. Fleeing from this prison could prove dicey.

The room was equipped with a phone that did not work, and a television fed by no signal. She sat on the bed and wondered what was next. She’d managed to get herself to Asia. Now what? She’d tried to bait Zovastina, playing off the woman’s obsessions. How successful she’d been was hard to tell. Something had bothered the Supreme Minister at the airport. Enough that Cassiopeia suddenly was not a priority. But at least she was still alive.

A key scraped the lock and the door swung open.

Viktor entered, followed by two armed men.

“Get up,” he said.

She sat still.

“You shouldn’t ignore me.”

He lunged forward and backhanded her across the face, propelling her off the bed and to the carpet. She recovered and sprang to her feet, ready for a fight. Both of the men standing behind Viktor leveled their guns.

“That was for Rafael,” her captor said.

Rage filled her eyes. But she knew this man was doing exactly what was expected of him. Thorvaldsen had said he was an ally, albeit a secret one. So she played along. “You’re tough when backed up by men with guns.”

Viktor chuckled. “I’m afraid of you? Is that what you’re saying?”

She dabbed her busted lower lip.

Viktor leaped onto her and twisted an arm behind her back. He wrenched her wrist toward her shoulders. He was strong, but she had trust that he knew what he was doing, so she surrendered. Cuffs clamped one wrist, then the other. Her ankles were likewise shackled while Viktor held her down, then rolled her onto her back.

“Bring her,” he ordered.

The two men grabbed her by the feet and shoulders, carrying her outside, down a graveled path to the stables. There, she was tossed, stomach first, across the back of a horse. Blood rushed to her head as she dangled, facing the ground. Viktor tied her secure with a coarse rope, then led the horse outside.

He and three other men walked with the animal in silence, across a grassy stretch about the size of two soccer fields. Goats dotted the field, feeding, and tall trees lined its perimeter. Leaving the open expanse, they entered a forest and threaded a path to a clearing encircled by more trees.

She was untied, slid from the horse’s back, and stood upright. It took a few moments for the blood to drain from her head. The scene flashed in and out, then clarity came and she saw two tall poplars had been bent to the ground and tied to a third tree. Ropes led from the top of each tree and lay on the ground. She was dragged toward them, her hands freed from the cuffs, her wrists tied to each rope.

Then the shackles were removed.

She stood, arms extended, and realized what would happen if the two trees were freed from their restraint.

Out of the woods, another horse approached. A tall, gangly steed atop which rode Irina Zovastina. The Supreme Minister was dressed in leather boots and a quilted leather jacket. She surveyed the scene, dismissed Viktor and the other men, then dismounted.

“Just you and me,” Zovastina said.

VIKTOR SPURRED THE HORSE AND RACED BACK TO THE STABLES. AS soon as he’d arrived at the palace, Zovastina had ordered him to prepare the trees. It was not the first time. Three years ago she’d similarly executed a man who’d plotted revolution. No way to convert him, so she’d tied him between the trunks, brought his coconspirators to watch, then slashed the bindings herself. His body had been ravaged as the trees righted themselves, part of him dangling from one, the rest from the other. Afterward, his compatriots had been easily converted.

The horse galloped into the corral.

MALONE WAITED IN THE TACK ROOM. VIKTOR HAD SMUGGLED him into the palace inside the trunk of a car. No one had questioned or searched the chief of the guard. Once the car was parked in the palace garage, he’d slipped out and Viktor had provided him with palace credentials. Only Zovastina would recognize him and, with Viktor as his escort, they’d easily walked to the stables, where Viktor said he could wait in safety.

He did not like anything about this situation. Both he and Cassiopeia were at the mercy of a man they knew nothing about, besides Edwin Davis’ assurance that Viktor had, so far, proven reliable. He could only hope that Davis would confuse Zovastina enough to buy them time. He still carried his gun and he’d sat patient for the past hour. No sounds came from outside the door.

The stables themselves were magnificent, befitting the supreme leader of a massive Federation. He’d counted forty bays when Viktor had first brought him inside. The tack room was equipped with a variety of quality saddles and expensive equipment. He was no expert rider, but knew how to handle a horse. The room’s one window opened to the stable’s rear, and offered no view.

Enough. Time to act.

He drew his gun and opened the door.

No one in sight.

He turned right and headed for the open barn doorway at the far end, passing stalls accommodating some impressive-looking steeds.

He spotted a rider, beyond the doors, racing straight for the stables. He shifted and hugged the wall, approaching the exit, gun ready. Hooves ground to a halt and he heard the coarse exhales of the horse, exhausted from the gallop.