Steve Berry - The Venetian Betrayal

Modern decor dominated the windowless office. Each time she visited the same thing struck her as odd. No family pictures. No diplomas on the wall. No mementos. As if this man possessed no life. Which was probably not far from the truth.

“I need to show you something,” Lyndsey said.

He spoke to her as an equal, and that she despised. His tone always clear that he lived in China and was not subject to her.

He flicked on a monitor that, from a ceiling-mounted camera, displayed a middle-aged woman perched in a chair watching television. She knew the room was on the building’s second floor, in the patient ward, as she’d seen images from there before.

“Last week,” Lyndsey said, “I requisitioned a dozen from the prison. Like we’ve done before.”

She’d been unaware that another clinical trial had been performed. “Why wasn’t I told?”

“I didn’t know I was required to tell you.”

She heard what he’d not said. Vincenti’s in charge. His lab, his people, his concoctions. She’d lied to Enver earlier. She’d not cured him. Vincenti had. A technician from this lab had administered the antiagent. Though she possessed the biological pathogens, Vincenti controlled the remedies. A check and balance born of mistrust, in place from the beginning to ensure that their bargaining positions remained equal.

Lyndsey pointed a remote control and the screen changed to other patient rooms, eight in all, each occupied by a man or woman. Unlike the first, these patients lay supine, connected to intravenous drips.

Not moving.

He slipped off his glasses. “I used only twelve, since they were readily available on short notice. I needed a quick study on the antiagent for the new virus. What I told you about a month ago. A nasty little thing.”

“And where did you find it?”

“In a species of rodent east of here in Heilongjiang province. We’d heard tales of how people became sick after eating the things. Sure enough, there’s a complex virus floating around in the rat blood. With a little tweaking, this bugger has punch. Death in less than one day.” He pointed to the screen. “Here’s the proof.”

She’d actually asked for a more offensive agent. Something that worked even faster than the twenty-eight she already possessed.

“They’re all on life support. They’ve been clinically dead for days. I need autopsies to verify the infectious parameters, but I wanted to show you before we sliced them up.”

“And the antiagent?”

“One dosage and all twelve were on their way to good health. Total reversal in a matter of hours. Then I substituted a placebo to all of them, except the first woman. She’s the control. As expected, the others lapsed quickly and died.” He brought the image on the screen back to the first woman. “But she’s virus free. Perfectly normal.”

“Why was this trial needed?”

“You wanted a new virus. I needed to see if the adjustments worked.” Lyndsey threw her a smile. “And, like I said, I had to verify the antiagent.”

“When do I get the new virus?”

“You can take it today. That’s why I called.”

She never liked transporting the viruses, but only she knew this lab’s location. Her deal was with Vincenti. A personal arrangement between them. No way she could trust anyone with the fruits of that bargain. And her helicopter would never be stopped by the Chinese.

“Get the virus ready,” she said.

“All frozen and packed.”

She pointed at the screen. “What about her?”

He shrugged. “She’ll be reinfected. Dead by tomorrow.”

Her nerves were still on edge. Trampling the would-be assassin had vented some of her frustration, but unanswered questions remained about the murder attempt. How had Vincenti known? Perhaps because he’d ordered it? Hard to say. But she’d been caught off guard. Vincenti had been a step ahead of her. And that she did not like.

Nor did she like Lindsey.

She pointed at the screen. “Have her ready to leave, too. Immediately.”

“Is that wise?”

“That’s my concern.”

He grinned. “Some amusement?”

“Would you like to come along and see?”

“No, thanks. I like it here, on the Chinese side of the border.”

She rose. “And if I were you, I’d stay here.”

DENMARK

MALONE KEPT HIS GUN READY AS THORVALDSEN CONCLUDED HIS business with Viktor.

“We can make the exchange back here,” Thorvaldsen said. “Tomorrow.”

“You don’t strike me as a man who requires money,” Viktor said.

“Actually, I like as much as I can acquire.”

Malone repressed a smile. His Danish friend actually gave away millions of euros to causes all around the world. He’d often wondered if he was one of those causes, since Thorvaldsen had made a point, two years ago, to travel to Atlanta and offer him a chance to change his life in Copenhagen. An opportunity he’d taken and never regretted.

“I’m curious,” Viktor said. “The quality of the forgery was remarkable. Who’s the craftsman?”

“A person of talent, who takes pride in his work.”

“Pass on my compliments.”

“Some of your euros will go that way.” Thorvaldsen paused. “Now I have a question. Are you going after the last two medallions, here in Europe?”

“What do you think?”

“And the third one, in Samarkand?”

Viktor did not reply, but Thorvaldsen’s message had surely been received. I know your business well.

Viktor started to leave. “I’ll call tomorrow.”

Thorvaldsen stayed seated as the man left the room. “Look forward to hearing from you.”

The front door opened, then closed.

“Cotton,” Thorvaldsen said, producing a paper bag from his pocket. “We have little time. Carefully, slide the case with the medallion into this.”

He understood. “Fingerprints? That’s why you gave him the coin.”

“You saw how he touched nothing. But he had to hold the medallion so he could switch them.”

Malone used the barrel of the gun to slide the plastic case into the bag, careful that it landed flat. He rolled the top closed, leaving an air pocket. He knew the drill. Unlike on television, paper, not plastic, was the best repository for fingerprint evidence. Far less chance of smearing.

Thorvaldsen stood. “Come, now.” He watched as his friend shuffled across the room, head cocked forward. “We must hurry.”

He noticed Thorvaldsen was moving toward the rear of the house. “Where are you going?”

“Out of here.”

He hustled after his friend and they left through a kitchen door that opened onto a railed deck, facing the sea. Fifty yards away, a dock jutted from the rocky shoreline where a motorboat waited. The morning sky had turned overcast. Gunmetal gray clouds now hung low. A brisk northern wind cascaded across the sound, swirling the frothy brown water.

“We’re leaving?” he asked, as Thorvaldsen stepped from the deck.

The Dane continued to move with surprising speed for a man with a crooked spine.

“Where’s Cassiopeia?” Malone asked.

“In trouble,” Thorvaldsen said. “But that’s our only saving grace.”

CASSIOPEIA WATCHED AS THE MAN FROM INSIDE THE HOUSE climbed into his rental car and sped back down the tree-lined lane that led to the highway. She switched on a handheld LCD monitor, linked by radio with two video cameras she’d installed the previous week-one at the highway entrance, the other mounted high in a tree fifty meters from the house.

On the tiny screen the car stopped.

Tire Slasher scampered from the woods. The driver opened his door and stepped out. Both men hustled a few meters back down the lane toward the house.