“You’re going to be the first person cured of AIDS—”
“Who gets to tell the tale.”
He nodded. “That’s right. We’re going to make history.”
She didn’t seem impressed. “If your cure is so simple, why couldn’t somebody just steal or copy it?”
“Only I know where this particular archaea can be found naturally. Believe me, there are many kinds, but only this one works.”
Her oily eyes narrowed. “We know why I want to do this. What about you?”
“Lots of questions from a dying woman.”
“You seem like a man who wants to provide answers.”
“Zovastina is an impediment to my plans.”
“Cure me, and I’ll help you eliminate that problem.”
He doubted her unconditional assurance, but keeping this woman alive made sense. Her anger could be channeled. He’d first thought assassinating Zovastina the answer, which was why he’d allowed the Florentine a free reign. But he’d changed his mind and ratted out his coconspirator. An assassination would only make her a martyr. Disgracing her—that was the better way. She had enemies. But they were all afraid. Maybe he could provide them with courage through the bitter soul staring up at him.
Neither the League nor he were interested in world conquest. Wars were expensive in a great many ways, the most critical of which was the depletion of wealth and national resources. The League wanted its new utopia just as it is, not as Zovastina envisioned it should be. For himself, he wanted billions in profits and to savor his status as the man who conquered HIV. Louis Pasteur, Linus Pauling, Jonas Salk, and, now, Enrico Vincenti.
So he emptied the contents of the hypodermic into the IV port.
“How long does it take?” she asked, her voice expectant, her tired face alive.
“In a few hours you’ll feel much better.”
MALONE SAT BEFORE THE COMPUTER AND FOUND GOOGLE. THERE, he located websites that dealt with Old Greek and eventually opened one that offered translations. He typed in the six letters— —and was surprised at both the pronunciation and the meaning.
“Klimax in Greek. Ladder in English,” he said.
He found another site that also offered a conversion. He typed in the same letters from the alphabet supplied and received the same response.
Stephanie still held the candle wrapped with gold leaf.
“Ptolemy,” Thorvaldsen said, “went to a lot of trouble to leave this. That word must have great relevance.”
“And what happens when we figure it out?” Malone asked. “What’s the big deal?”
“The big deal,” a new voice said, “is that Zovastina is planning to kill millions of people.”
They all turned and saw Michener standing in the doorway.
“I just left Viktor out in the lagoon. He was shocked that I knew about him.”
“I imagine he was,” Thorvaldsen said.
“Is Zovastina gone?” Malone asked.
Michener nodded. “I checked. Left the ground a little while ago.”
Malone wanted to know, “How does Cassiopeia know about Viktor?” Then it hit him. He faced Thorvaldsen. “The call. Out at the dock when we first got here. You told her then.”
The Dane nodded. “Information she needed. We’re lucky she didn’t kill him on Torcello. But, of course, I didn’t know any of this then.”
“More of that ‘plan as you go,’” Malone said, directing his comment to Davis.
“I’ll take the blame for that one. But it worked out.”
“And three men are dead.”
Davis said nothing.
He wanted to know, “And if Zovastina had not insisted on a hostage for safe passage to the airport?”
“Luckily, that didn’t happen.”
“You’re too damn reckless for me.” He was becoming irritated. “If you have Viktor on the inside, why don’t you know if Ely Lund’s alive?”
“That fact wasn’t important, until yesterday, when you three became involved. Zovastina had a teacher, we just didn’t know who. It makes sense it’s Lund. Once we learned that, we needed Viktor contacted.”
“Viktor said Ely Lund was alive. But probably not now,” Michener told them.
“Cassiopeia has no idea what she’s facing,” Malone said. “She’s in there blind.”
“She set all that up herself,” Stephanie said, “perhaps hoping that Ely might still be alive.”
He didn’t want to hear that. For a variety of reasons. None of which he needed to face at the moment.
“Cotton,” Thorvaldsen said, “you asked why all this matters. Beyond the obvious disaster of a biological war, what if this draught is some sort of natural cure? The ancients thought it so. Alexander thought it so. The chroniclers who wrote those manuscripts thought it so. What if something is there? I don’t know why, but Zovastina wants it. Ely wanted it. And Cassiopeia wants it.”
He remained skeptical. “We don’t know a damn thing.”
Stephanie motioned with the candle. “We know this riddle is real.”
She was right about that and, he had to admit, he was curious. That godforsaken curiosity which always seemed to keep him in trouble.
“And we know Naomi is dead,” she said.
He’d not forgotten.
He stared again at the scytale. Ladder. A location? If so, it was a designation that would have made more sense in Ptolemy’s time. He knew Alexander the Great had insisted that his empire be accurately mapped. Cartography was then an infant art, but he’d seen reproductions of those ancient charts. So he decided to see what was on the web. Twenty minutes of searching found nothing that indicated what —klimax, ladder—might be.
“There might be another source,” Thorvaldsen said. “Ely had a place in the Pamirs. A cabin. He’d go there to work and think. Cassiopeia told me about it. He kept his books and papers there. Quite an array on Alexander. She said there were lots of maps from his time.”
“That’s in the Federation,” Malone pointed out. “I doubt Zovastina is going to grant us a visa.”
“How near is the border?” Davis asked.
“Thirty miles.”