His mind flashed with the analytical thinking of the scientist he was for many years. Now, though, he was a global entrepreneur, a manipulator, much like Karyn Walde, about to perform the greatest manipulation of all.
“And do you know what’s even more amazing?” he asked. “Each replication of a cell by HIV is individual. So when the lymph nodes collapse, instead of one invader, there are billions of different invaders, an army of variant retrovirus strains, running unchecked through your blood. Your immune system reacts, like it’s supposed to, but it’s forced to generate new and different white cells to battle each strain. Which is impossible. And to make matters worse, all of the variant strains of the retrovirus can destroy any of the white cells. The odds are billions against one, the results all but inevitable—of which you are living proof.”
“Surely, you came for more than a science lesson.”
“I came to see if you wanted to live.”
“Unless you’re an angel or God himself, that’s impossible.”
“Now, you see, that’s the thing. HIV can’t kill anybody. But it does render you defenseless when another virus, bacteria, fungus, or parasite enters your bloodstream in search of a home. Not enough white blood cells to cleanse the stream. So the only question is which infection will be the cause of your death?”
“How about you screw off and leave me to die.”
Karyn Walde was indeed a bitter woman, but talking to her had stirred his dreams. He imagined himself addressing the press, reporters hanging on his every word, becoming, overnight, a worldwide recognized authority. He envisioned book deals, movie rights, television specials, speaking engagements, awards. Certainly the Albert Lasker Prize. The National Medal for Science. Perhaps even a Nobel Prize. Why not?
But all that hinged on the decision he was about to make.
He stared down at the shell of a human being. Only her eyes seemed alive.
He reached for the hypodermic protruding from the IV port.
“What is that?” she asked, noting the clear liquid the syringe contained.
He did not answer her.
“What are you doing?”
He gripped the plunger and emptied the contents into the IV stream.
She tried to lift herself, but the effort proved futile. She collapsed back to the bed, her pupils wild. He watched as her eyelids acquired weight, then her breathing slowed. She went limp. Her eyes closed.
And did not open.
Malone 3 - The Venetian Betrayal
FIFTY-TWO
VENICE
ZOVASTINA ROSE AND FACED THE INTRUDER. HE WAS SHORT, WITH a crooked spine, bushy hair and eyebrows, and spoke in a brittle voice of maturity. His crinkly features, gaunt cheeks, coarsened hair, and veined hands all belonged to age.
“Who are you?” she asked.
“Henrik Thorvaldsen.”
She knew the name. One of the wealthiest men in Europe . A Dane. But what was he doing here?
Viktor instantly reacted to the visitor, pointing his weapon. She reached over and restrained him, her eyes saying, Let’s see what he wants.
“I know of you.”
“And I of you. Risen from Soviet bureaucrat to a forger of nations. Quite an achievement.”
She wasn’t in the mood for compliments. “What are you doing here?”
The older man shuffled close to the wooden box. “Did you really think Alexander the Great was in there?”
This man knew her business.
“And you, adventurer, for my immortal voice, though far off, fills your ears, hear my words. Sail onto the capital founded by Alexander’s father, where sages stand guard. Touch the innermost being of the golden illusion. Divide the phoenix. Life provides the measure of the grave. Be wary, for there is but one chance of success.”
She fought to conceal her shock at Thorvaldsen’s recitation.
This man truly did know her business.
“Do you think you’re the only one who knows?” he asked. “How pompous are you?”
She grabbed Viktor’s gun and leveled the barrel at Thorvaldsen. “Enough to shoot you.”
MALONE WAS CONCERNED. HE AND CASSIOPEIA WERE FIFTY FEET up and three quarters of a football field away from where Thorvaldsen was challenging Irina Zovastina while Viktor watched. Michener had brought them into the basilica via the west atrium and led them to a steep stairway. At its top, the walls, arches, and domes reflected the architecture below, but instead of a stunning marble facade and glinting mosaics, the basilica’s upper-story museum and gift shop were encased only by brick walls.
“What the hell is he doing here?” Malone muttered. “He just called you outside.”
They were huddled behind a stone balustrade, beyond which was a panoramic view of the towering vaulted domes, each resting on massive marble pillars. Golden ceiling mosaics shimmered from incandescent lamps—the marble floor and unlit side chapels cast in varying shades of black and gray. The presbytery, at the far end, where Thorvaldsen stood, loomed like a bright stage in a dark theater.
“You’re not going to answer me?”
Cassiopeia stayed silent.
“You two are about to piss me off.”
“I told you to go home.”
“Henrik may have bit off more than he can chew.”
“She’s not going to shoot him. At least not until she knows why he’s here.”
“And why is he here?”
More silence.
They needed to shift position. “How about we move over there.” He pointed left to the north transept and another gallery that overlooked the presbytery. “This museum winds around that way. We’ll be closer and can hear.”
She motioned right. “I’ll go that way. There’s surely an opening to the upper south transept from here. That way we’ll be on either side.”
VIKTOR’S HEART RACED. FIRST THE WOMAN, NOW THE SUPPOSED museum owner. Surely the second man was also alive. And probably nearby. Yet he noticed Thorvaldsen paid him no mind.
Not a hint of recognition.
ZOVASTINA STARED DOWN THE GUN’S SIGHTS AT THORVALDSEN.
“I realize you’re a pagan,” the Dane calmly said. “But would you shoot me, here, on the altar of a Christian church?”
“How do you know Ptolemy’s riddle?”
“Ely told me.”