“Here’s a memo to file. Never, ever, no matter what anyone says, fly in one of those things.”
She grinned. They were driving through the Pamirs, in Federation territory, the border crossing nothing more than a welcome sign. They’d climbed in elevation, passing through a succession of barren rounded spurs and equally barren valleys. She knew that
“I’ve read about this area,” she said. “But I’ve never been to this part of the world before. Pretty incredible.”
“Ely loved the Pamirs. He spoke of them religiously. And I can see why.”
“Did you know him well?”
“Oh, yes. I knew his parents. He and my son were close. He practically lived at Christiangade when he and Cai were boys.”
Thorvaldsen appeared weary in the passenger seat, and not because of the flight. She knew better. “Cotton will look after Cassiopeia.”
“I doubt if Zovastina has Ely.” Thorvaldsen seemed suddenly resigned. “Viktor’s right. He’s probably dead.”
The road flattened as they motored through one of the mountain passes and into another valley. The air outside was surprisingly warm, the lower elevations devoid of snow. Without question, the Central Asian Federation was blessed with natural wonder, but she’d read the CIA fact sheets. The Federation had targeted the entire area for economic development. Electricity, telephone, water, and sewer services were being extended, along with an upgrade of roads. This highway seemed a prime example-the asphalt appeared new.
The candle with the gold leaf still wrapped around it lay within a stainless-steel container on the rear seat. A modern-day scytale displaying a single Old Greek word.. Where did it lead? They had no idea, but maybe something in Ely Lund’s mountain retreat would help explain its significance. They’d also come armed. Two 9mms and spare magazines. Courtesy of the U.S. military and allowed by the Chinese.
“Malone’s plan,” she said, “might work.”
But she agreed with Cotton. Random assets, like Viktor, were not reliable. She much preferred a seasoned agent, someone who cared about retirement.
“Malone cares for Cassiopeia,” Thorvaldsen said. “He won’t say it, but he does. I see it in his eyes.”
“I saw the pain on his face when you told him she’s sick.”
“That’s one reason why I thought she and Ely could relate to each other. Their mutual afflictions somehow became part of their attraction.”
They passed through two more sparse villages and kept driving west. Finally, just as Cassiopeia had told Thorvaldsen, the road forked, and they veered north. Ten kilometers later the landscape became more wooded. Ahead, beside a hard-packed drive that disappeared into the blackened woods, she spotted a sarissa plunged into the earth. Hanging from it was a small sign upon which was painted “Soma.”
“Ely named the place appropriately,” she said. “Like Alexander’s tomb in Egypt.”
She turned and the car bumped and swayed up the rough path. The lane climbed a quarter mile into the trees where it ended at a single-storied cabin, fashioned of rough-hewn timber planks. A covered porch shielded the front door.
“Looks like something from northern Denmark,” Thorvaldsen said. “Doesn’t surprise me. I’m sure it was a bit of home for him.”
She parked and they stepped out into the warm afternoon. The woods all around them loomed quiet. Through the trees, northward she believed, more mountains could be seen. An eagle soared overhead.
The cabin’s front door opened.
They both turned.
A man stepped out.
He was tall and handsome, with wavy blond hair. He wore jeans and a long-sleeved shirt with boots. Thorvaldsen stood rigid but his eyes instantly softened, the Dane’s thoughts easily read as to the man’s identity.
Ely Lund.
SEVENTY
SAMARKAND
11:40 A.M.
CASSIOPEIA SMELLED WET HAY AND HORSES AND KNEW SHE WAS being held near a stable. The room was some sort of guesthouse, the furnishings adequate but not elegant, probably for staff. Boarded shutters closed the windows from the world, the door was locked and, she assumed, guarded. On the walk from the palace she’d noticed armed men on rooftop perches. Fleeing from this prison could prove dicey.
The room was equipped with a phone that did not work, and a television fed by no signal. She sat on the bed and wondered what was next. She’d managed to get herself to Asia. Now what? She’d tried to bait Zovastina, playing off the woman’s obsessions. How successful she’d been was hard to tell. Something had bothered the Supreme Minister at the airport. Enough that Cassiopeia suddenly was not a priority. But at least she was still alive.
A key scraped the lock and the door swung open.
Viktor entered, followed by two armed men.
“Get up,” he said.
She sat still.
“You shouldn’t ignore me.”
He lunged forward and backhanded her across the face, propelling her off the bed and to the carpet. She recovered and sprang to her feet, ready for a fight. Both of the men standing behind Viktor leveled their guns.
“That was for Rafael,” her captor said.
Rage filled her eyes. But she knew this man was doing exactly what was expected of him. Thorvaldsen had said he was an ally, albeit a secret one. So she played along. “You’re tough when backed up by men with guns.”
Viktor chuckled. “I’m afraid of you? Is that what you’re saying?”
She dabbed her busted lower lip.
Viktor leaped onto her and twisted an arm behind her back. He wrenched her wrist toward her shoulders. He was strong, but she had trust that he knew what he was doing, so she surrendered. Cuffs clamped one wrist, then the other. Her ankles were likewise shackled while Viktor held her down, then rolled her onto her back.
“Bring her,” he ordered.
The two men grabbed her by the feet and shoulders, carrying her outside, down a graveled path to the stables. There, she was tossed, stomach first, across the back of a horse. Blood rushed to her head as she dangled, facing the ground. Viktor tied her secure with a coarse rope, then led the horse outside.
He and three other men walked with the animal in silence, across a grassy stretch about the size of two soccer fields. Goats dotted the field, feeding, and tall trees lined its perimeter. Leaving the open expanse, they entered a forest and threaded a path to a clearing encircled by more trees.
She was untied, slid from the horse’s back, and stood upright. It took a few moments for the blood to drain from her head. The scene flashed in and out, then clarity came and she saw two tall poplars had been bent to the ground and tied to a third tree. Ropes led from the top of each tree and lay on the ground. She was dragged toward them, her hands freed from the cuffs, her wrists tied to each rope.
Then the shackles were removed.
She stood, arms extended, and realized what would happen if the two trees were freed from their
