“How difficult it must be to live a lie.”
“You do it.”
Karyn shook her head. “No, Irina. I know what I am.” The words seemed to sap her strength and Karyn paused to suck a few deep breaths before saying, “Why don’t you just kill me?”
Some of Karyn’s old self seeped through the bitter tone. Killing this woman was not an option. Saving her…that was the goal. Fate denied Achilles a chance to save his Patroclus. Incompetence cost Alexander the Great his love when Hephaestion died. She would not fall victim to the same mistakes.
“Can you seriously believe that anyone deserves this?” Karyn yanked her nightgown open. Tiny pearl buttons exploded outward onto the sheets. “Look at my breasts, Irina.”
It hurt to look. Since Karyn had returned, Irina had studied AIDS and knew that the disease affected people differently. Some suffered internally. Blindness, colitis, life-threatening diarrhea, brain inflammation, tuberculosis, and worst of all, pneumonia. Others were emasculated externally, their skin covered with the effects of Kaposi’s sarcoma, or devastated by herpes simplex, or ravaged by emaciation, the epidermis inevitably drawn down to bone. Karyn seemed the much more common combination.
“Remember how beautiful I was? My lovely skin? You used to adore my body.”
She did recall. “Cover yourself up.”
“Can’t stand to see?”
She said nothing.
“You shit until your ass aches, Irina. You can’t sleep, and your stomach stays in knots. I wait every day to see what new infection will spawn inside me. This is hell.”
She’d tossed the woman in the helicopter to her death. She’d ordered the elimination of countless political opponents. She’d forged a Federation through a covert campaign of biological assassination that had claimed thousands. None of those deaths meant a thing. Karyn’s dying was different. That was why she’d allowed her to stay. Why she supplied the drugs needed to keep her alive. She’d lied to those students. Here was her weakness. Perhaps her only one.
Karyn smiled faintly. “Every time you come here I see it in your eyes. You care.” Karyn grabbed her arm. “You can help me, can’t you? Those germs you played with years ago. You had to learn something. I don’t want to die, Irina.”
She fought to keep an emotional distance. Achilles and Alexander both failed by not doing that. “I’ll pray to the gods for you.”
Karyn started to laugh. A guttural, throaty chuckle mixed with the rattle of spit. Which both surprised and hurt her.
Karyn kept laughing.
She fled the bedroom and hurried to the front door.
These visits were a mistake. No more. Not now. Too much was about to happen.
The last thing she heard before leaving was the sickening sound of Karyn choking on her own saliva.
Malone 3 - The Venetian Betrayal
TWENTY-SIX
VENICE
8:45 P.M.
VINCENTI PAID THE WATER TAXI, THEN HOISTED HIMSELF UP TO street level and marched into the San Silva, one of Venice’s premier hotels. No weekend specials or cut-rate promotions applied here, just forty-two luxurious suites overlooking the Grand Canalin what was once the home of a Doge. Its grand lobby reflected old-world decadence. Roman columns, veined-marble, museum-quality accessories—the spacious surroundings busy with people, activity, and noise.
Peter O’Conner waited patiently in a quiet alcove. O’Conner wasn’t ex-military or ex-government intelligence—just a man with a talent for gathering information coupled with a conscience that barely existed.
Philogen Pharmaceutique spent millions annually on an extensive array of in-house security to protect trade secrets and patents, but O’Conner reported directly to Vincenti—a set of personal eyes and ears providing the indispensable luxury of being able to implement whatever was needed to protect his interests.
And he was glad to have him.
Five years ago it was O’Conner who stopped a rebellion among a sizable block of Philogen stockholders over Vincenti’s decision to expand the company further into Asia . Three years ago, when an American pharmaceutical giant tried a hostile takeover, O’Conner terrorized enough shareholders to prevent any wholesale stock ditching. And, just recently, when Vincenti faced a challenge from his board of directors, O’Conner discovered the dirt used to blackmail enough votes that Vincenti managed not only to keep his job as CEO, but was also reelected chairman.
Vincenti settled into a tooled-leather armchair. A quick glance at the clock etched into the marble behind the concierge’s counter confirmed that he needed to be at the restaurant by nine fifteen . As soon as he was comfortable, O’Conner handed him some stapled sheets and said, “That’s what we have so far.”
He quickly scanned the transcripts of telephone calls and face-to-face discussions—all from listening devices monitoring Irina Zovastina. When finished, he asked, “She’s after these elephant medallions?”
“Our surveillance,” O’Conner said, “has been enough to know she has sent some of her personal guards after these medallions. The head guy himself, Viktor Tomas, is leading one team. Another team went to Amsterdam. They’ve been burning buildings all over Europeto mask those thefts.”
Vincenti knew all about Zovastina’s Sacred Band. More of her obsession with all things Greek. “Do they have the medallions?”
“At least four. They went after two yesterday, but I haven’t heard the results.”
He was puzzled. “We need to know what she’s doing.”
“I’m on it. I’ve managed to bribe a few of the palace staff. Unfortunately, electronic surveillance only works when she stays put. She’s constantly on the move. She flew to the China lab earlier.”