She saw Malone work the firing controls and heard cannon shots from both sides of the fuselage. She gazed ahead into the cockpit, through the windshield, and spotted mountain haunches lurching from the clouds on both sides.
“They still back there?” Malone asked.
“Coming fast,” Viktor said. “And trying to fire.”
“Missiles we don’t need.”
“I agree. But firing those in here would be tricky for us and them.”
They emerged into clearer skies. The helicopter angled right and plummeted in altitude.
“Do we have to do that?” she asked, trying to keep her stomach under control.
“Afraid so,” Malone answered. “We need to use these valleys to avoid them. In and out, like a maze.”
She knew Malone had once flown fighter jets and still held a pilot’s license. “Some of us don’t like this kind of thing.”
“You’re welcome to toss your cookies anytime.”
“I wouldn’t give you the pleasure.” Thank goodness she hadn’t eaten since lunch yesterday on Torcello.
More sharp banks as they roared through the afternoon sky. The engine noise seemed deafening. She’d only flown on a few helicopters, never in a combat situation, the ride like a three dimensional roller coaster.
“Two more choppers within radar range,” Viktor said. “But they’re off to our north.”
“Where are we headed?” Malone asked.
The copter veered into another steep turn.
“South,” Viktor said.
MALONE STARED AT THE RADAR MONITOR. THE MOUNTAINS WERE both a shield and a problem that compounded tracking their pursuers. The targets steadily winked in and out. The American military relied more on satellites and AWACS planes to provide a clear picture. Luckily, the Central Asian Federation did not enjoy those high-tech amenities.
The radar screen cleared.
“Nothing behind us,” Malone said.
He had to admit, Viktor could fly. They were winding a path through the Pamirs, rotors dangerously close to steep gray precipices. He’d never learned to fly a helicopter, though he’d always wanted to, and he’d not been behind the controls of a supersonic fighter in ten years. He’d maintained his jet fighter proficiency for a few years after transferring to the Billet, but he’d let the certification slide. At the time he hadn’t minded. Now he wished he’d kept those skills current.
Viktor leveled the chopper off at six thousand feet and asked, “You hit anything?”
“Hard to say. I think we just forced them to keep their distance.”
“Where we’re headed is about a hundred and fifty kilometers south. I know Arima. I’ve been there before, but it’s been a while.”
“Mountains all the way?”
Viktor nodded. “And more valleys. I think I can stay beneath any radar. This area is not a security zone. The border with China has been open for years. Most of Zovastina’s resources are directed to the south, on the Afghan and Pakistani lines.”
Cassiopeia came up behind them. “That over?”
“Looks like it.”
“I’m going to take a roundabout way,” Viktor said, “to avoid any more encounters. It’ll take a little longer, but the farther east I go the safer we’ll be.”
“How long will that slow us up?” Cassiopeia asked.
“Maybe a half hour.”
Malone nodded and Cassiopeia did not offer any objections. Dodging bullets was one thing, but air-to-air missiles were another matter. Soviet offensive equipment, like their missiles, were top-notch. Viktor’s suggestion was a good one.
Malone settled into his seat and watched the naked rush of rounded spurs. In the distance, haze claimed a stadium of white-tipped peaks. A river cleaved purple veins through the foothills in a silty torrent. Both Alexander the Great and Marco Polo had walked that sooty earth-the whole place once a battleground. British dependencies to the south, Russian to the north, and the Chinese and Afghans to the east and west. For most of the twentieth century, Moscow and Peking fought for control, each testing the other, ultimately settling into an uneasy peace, only the Pamirs themselves emerging a victor.
Alexander the Great chose his last resting place wisely.
But he wondered.
Was he really down there?
Waiting?
SEVENTY-NINE
2:00 P.M.
ZOVASTINA FLEW FROM SAMARKAND TO VINCENTI’S ESTATE IN A direct path aboard the fastest helicopter her air force owned.
Vincenti’s house loomed below. Excessive, expensive, and, like its owner, expendable. Allowing capitalism to flourish within the Federation may not be a smart idea. Changes would be needed. The Venetian League would have to be reined in.
But first things first.
The chopper touched down.
After Edwin Davis left the palace, she’d ordered Kamil Revin to contact Vincenti and alert him of the visit. But the warning had been delayed long enough to allow her troops time to arrive. She’d been told that the house was now secure, so she’d ordered her men to leave in the choppers that had brought them, save for nine soldiers. The house staff had also been evacuated. She possessed no quarrel with locals who were only trying to earn a living-her dispute was with Vincenti.
She stepped from the helicopter and marched across manicured grounds to a stone terrace where she entered the mansion. Though Vincenti thought she was disinterested in the estate, she’d closely followed its construction. Fifty-three rooms. Eleven bedrooms. Sixteen baths. Its architect had willingly provided her a set of plans. She knew of the regal dining hall, elaborate parlors, gourmet kitchen, and wine cellar. Staring firsthand at the decor it was easy to see why it carried an eight-figure price tag.
In the main foyer two of her troops guarded the front entrance. Two more men flanked a marble stairway. Everything here reminded her of Venice. And she’d never liked to recall failure.
She caught the attention of one of the sentinels, who motioned right with his rifle. She paraded down a short hall and entered what appeared to be a library. Three more armed men occupied the room along with another man. Though they’d never met, she knew his name and background.
“Mr. O’Conner, you have a decision to make.”
The man stood from a leather settee and faced her.
“You’ve worked for Vincenti a long time. He depends on you. And, frankly, without you he may not have made it so far.”
She allowed her compliment to be absorbed as she inspected the opulent room. “Vincenti lives well. I’m curious, does he share the wealth with you?”
O’Conner said nothing.
“Let me tell you some things you may or may not know. Last year, Vincenti netted over forty million euros from his company. He owns stock worth over a billion euros. What does he pay you?”
No answer.
“One hundred fifty thousand euros.” She saw the look on his face as the truth sank in. “You see, Mr. O’Conner, I know quite a lot. One hundred fifty thousand euros for all that you do for him. You’ve intimidated, coerced, even killed. He makes tens of millions and you received one hundred and fifty thousand euros. He lives like this and you,” she hesitated, “simply live.”
“I’ve never complained,” O’Conner said.
She stopped behind Vincenti’s desk. “No. You haven’t. Which is admirable.”
“What do you want?”
“Where’s Vincenti?”
“Gone. Left before your men arrived.”
She grinned. “There it is. Another thing you do so well. Lie.”
He shrugged. “Believe what you will. Surely your men have searched the house.”
“They have and, you’re right, Vincenti is not to be found. But you and I both know why that’s so.”
She noticed the lovely alabaster carvings that dotted the desk. Chinese figurines. She never really cared for Oriental art. She lifted one of the figurines. A contorted fat man, half-dressed. “During the construction of this obscene monstrosity, Vincenti incorporated back passages, ostensibly for servants’ use, but you and I know what they’re really used for. He also had a large underground room hewn from the rock beneath us. That’s probably where he is right now.”