FIFTY-SEVEN
CENTRAL ASIAN FEDERATION
6:50 A.M.
VINCENTI STEPPED FROM THE HELICOPTER. THE TRIP FROM Samarkand had taken about an hour. Though there were new highways leading east all the way to the Fergana Valley, his estate lay farther south, in the old Tajikistan-and air travel remained the fastest and safest route.
He’d chosen his land with care, high in cloud-girdled mountains. No one had questioned the purchase, not even Zovastina. He’d explained only that he was tired of the flat, muddy, Venetian terrain, so he bought two hundred acres of forested valley and rocky Pamir highlands. This would be his world. Where he could not be seen nor heard, surrounded by servants, at a commanding height, amid scenery once wild but now shorn and shaven with touches of Italy, Byzantium, and China.
He’d christened the estate Attico, and noticed on the flight in that the main entrance now was crowned by an elaborate stone arch containing the label. He also noticed more scaffolding had been erected around the house, the exterior rapidly moving toward completion. Construction had been slow but constant, and he’d be glad when the walls stood totally finished.
He escaped the whirling blades and passed through a garden he’d taught to bloom upon a mountain slope so the estate would bristle with hints of the English countryside.
Peter O’Conner waited on the uneven stones of the rear terrace.
“Everything okay?” he asked his employee.
O’Conner nodded. “No problems here.”
He lingered outside, catching his breath. Storm clouds wreathed the distant eastern peaks into China. Crows patrolled the valley. He’d carefully orientated his castle in the air to maximize the spectacular view. So different from Venice. No uncomfortable miasma. Only crystalline air. He’d been told that the Asian spring had been unusually warm and dry and he was grateful for the respite.
“What about Zovastina?” he asked.
“She’s leaving Italy, as we speak, with another woman. Dark-skinned, attractive, provided the name Cassiopeia Vitt to Customs.”
He waited, knowing O’Conner had been thorough.
“Vitt lives in southern France. Is presently financing the reconstruction of a medieval castle. A big project. Expensive. Her father owned several Spanish manufacturing concerns. Huge conglomerates. She inherited it all.”
“What about her? The person.”
“Muslim, but not devout. Highly educated. Engineering and history degrees. Unmarried. Thirty-eight years old. That’s about all I could get on short notice. You want more?”
He shook his head. “Not now. Any clue what’s she doing with Zovastina?”
“My people didn’t know. Zovastina left the basilica with her and went straight to the airport.”
“She on her way back here?”
O’Conner nodded. “Should arrive in another four to five hours.”
He saw there was more.
“Our men who went after Nelle. One was taken down by a rooftop sniper. The other escaped. Seems Nelle was prepared for us.”
He did not like the sound of that. But that problem would have to wait. He’d already leaped from the cliff. Too late to climb back now.
He entered the house.
A year ago he’d finished decorating, having spent millions on paintings, wall coverings, lacquered furniture, and objets d’art. But he’d insisted that comfort not be sacrificed for magnificence, so he’d included a theater, cozy parlors, private bedrooms, baths, and the garden. Unfortunately, he’d only been able to enjoy a precious few weeks here, staffing it with locals O’Conner personally vetted. Soon, though, Attico would become his personal refuge, a place of high living and plain thinking, and he’d provided for that eventuality by installing sophisticated alarms, state-of-the-art communications equipment, and an intricate network of concealed passages.
He passed through the ground-floor rooms, which flowed into one another in the French style, every corner of which seemed as cool and shadowy as the spring twilight. A fine atrium in the classical vein accommodated a winding marble staircase to the second floor.
He climbed.
Frescoes representing the march of the liberal sciences loomed overhead. This part of the house reminded him of Venice’s best, though the towering mullion windows framed mountain landscapes instead of the Grand Canal. His destination was the closed door to his left, just beyond the top of the staircase, one of several spacious guest rooms.
He quietly entered.
Karyn Walde lay still on the bed.
O’Conner had brought her and the nurse from Samarkand in another helicopter. Her right arm was once again connected to an intravenous drip. He stepped close and gripped one of the syringes resting on a stainless-steel table. He injected the contents into one of the ports. A few seconds later the stimulant forced Walde’s eyes open. In Samarkand, he’d sent her into unconsciousness. Now he needed her alert.
“Come around,” he said. “Wake up.”
She blinked and he saw her pupils focus.
Then she closed them again.
He grabbed a pitcher of ice water from the night stand and doused her face.
She sprang awake, spewing mist, shaking the water from her eyes.
“You son of a bitch,” she blurted out, pushing herself up.
“I told you to wake up.”
She was not restrained. No need. Her gaze raked her surroundings. “Where am I?”
“You like it? It’s just as elegant as you’re accustomed to.”
She noticed the sunlight streaming in through the windows and the open terrace doors. “How long have I been out?”
“Quite a while. It’s morning.”
Disorientation reappeared as she comprehended reality. “What’s going on?”
“I want to read you something. Will you indulge me?”
“Do I have a choice?”
Her wits had returned.
“Not really. But I think the time will be worth it.”
