seek."
"And killing prisoners will bring this peace?"
This woman cared not about destiny. Zovastina's entire life had seemed destined. So far, she'd forged a new political order--just as Alexander had done. Another lesson from Sergej spoke loudly. Remember, Irina, what Arrian said of Alexander. He was always the rival of his own self. Only in the past few years had she come to understand that malady. She stared at the woman who'd ruined her life over a few thousand rubles.
"Ever heard of Menander?"
"Why don't you tell me?"
"He was a Greek playwright from the fourth century BCE. He wrote comedies."
"I prefer tragedies."
She was tiring of this defeatism. Not everyone could be changed. Unlike Colonel Enver, who'd earlier seen the possibilities she'd offered and willingly become a convert. Men like him would be useful in the years ahead, but this pitiful soul represented nothing but failure.
"Menander wrote something I've always found to be true. If you want to live your whole life free from pain, you must either be a god or a corpse."
She reached across and unsnapped the woman's harness. The guardsman, sitting beside the prisoner, wrenched open the cabin door. The woman seemed momentarily stunned by the bitter air and the engine roar that rushed inside.
"I'm a god," Zovastina said. "You're a corpse."
The guard ripped off the woman's headset, who apparently realized what was about to happen and started to resist.
But he shoved her out the door.
Zovastina watched as the body tumbled through the crystalline air, vanishing into the peaks below.
The guard slammed the cabin door shut and the helicopter kept flying west back to Samarkand.
For the first time since this morning, she felt satisfied.
Everything was now in place.
PART TWO
Chapter TWENTY-ONE
AMSTERDAM, NETHERLANDS
7:
0 P . M .
STEPHANIE NELLE SCRAMBLED OUT OF THE CAB AND QUICKLY jerked up the hood of her overcoat. An April rain poured down and water puddled between the rough cobbles, furiously streaming toward the city canals. The source, a nasty storm that had blown in earlier off the North Sea, now lay hidden behind indigo clouds, but a steady drizzle remained visible within the penumbra of streetlamps.
She pushed through the rain, stuffing bare hands into coat pockets. She crossed an arched pedestrian bridge, entered the Rembrandtplein, and noticed that the torrid evening had not dampened the crowds at the peep shows, pickup clubs, gay bars, and striptease outlets.
Farther into the bowels of the red-light district, she passed brothels, their plate-glass windows littered with girls promising fulfillment with leather and lace. In one, an Asian woman, dressed in tight bondage gear, sat on a padded seat and flipped through the pages of a magazine.
Stephanie had been told that night was not the most threatening time for a visit to the renowned district. The morning desperation of passing junkies and the early-afternoon edginess of pimps waiting for the evening's business were usually more intense. But she'd been warned that the northern end, near the Nieuwmarkt, in an area just beyond the crowds, constantly exuded a quiet sense of menace. So she was on guard as she breached the invisible line and entered. Her eyes shot back and forth, like a prowling cat's, her course set straight for the cafe at the far end of the street.
The Jan Heuval occupied the ground floor of a three-story warehouse. A brown cafe, one of hundreds that dotted the Rembrandtplein. She shoved open the front door and immediately noticed the aroma of burning cannabis along with the absence of any "No Drugs Please" sign.
The cafe was jammed, its warm air saturated with a hallucinogenic fog scented like singed rope. The aroma of fried fish and roasted chestnuts mixed with the intoxicating waft and her eyes burned. She pushed back the hood and shook rain onto the foyer's already damp tiles.
Then she spotted Klaus Dyhr. Mid-thirties, blond-haired, pale, weathered face--exactly as he'd
"And killing prisoners will bring this peace?"
This woman cared not about destiny. Zovastina's entire life had seemed destined. So far, she'd forged a new political order--just as Alexander had done. Another lesson from Sergej spoke loudly. Remember, Irina, what Arrian said of Alexander. He was always the rival of his own self. Only in the past few years had she come to understand that malady. She stared at the woman who'd ruined her life over a few thousand rubles.
"Ever heard of Menander?"
"Why don't you tell me?"
"He was a Greek playwright from the fourth century BCE. He wrote comedies."
"I prefer tragedies."
She was tiring of this defeatism. Not everyone could be changed. Unlike Colonel Enver, who'd earlier seen the possibilities she'd offered and willingly become a convert. Men like him would be useful in the years ahead, but this pitiful soul represented nothing but failure.
"Menander wrote something I've always found to be true. If you want to live your whole life free from pain, you must either be a god or a corpse."
She reached across and unsnapped the woman's harness. The guardsman, sitting beside the prisoner, wrenched open the cabin door. The woman seemed momentarily stunned by the bitter air and the engine roar that rushed inside.
"I'm a god," Zovastina said. "You're a corpse."
The guard ripped off the woman's headset, who apparently realized what was about to happen and started to resist.
But he shoved her out the door.
Zovastina watched as the body tumbled through the crystalline air, vanishing into the peaks below.
The guard slammed the cabin door shut and the helicopter kept flying west back to Samarkand.
For the first time since this morning, she felt satisfied.
Everything was now in place.
PART TWO
Chapter TWENTY-ONE
AMSTERDAM, NETHERLANDS
7:
0 P . M .
STEPHANIE NELLE SCRAMBLED OUT OF THE CAB AND QUICKLY jerked up the hood of her overcoat. An April rain poured down and water puddled between the rough cobbles, furiously streaming toward the city canals. The source, a nasty storm that had blown in earlier off the North Sea, now lay hidden behind indigo clouds, but a steady drizzle remained visible within the penumbra of streetlamps.
She pushed through the rain, stuffing bare hands into coat pockets. She crossed an arched pedestrian bridge, entered the Rembrandtplein, and noticed that the torrid evening had not dampened the crowds at the peep shows, pickup clubs, gay bars, and striptease outlets.
Farther into the bowels of the red-light district, she passed brothels, their plate-glass windows littered with girls promising fulfillment with leather and lace. In one, an Asian woman, dressed in tight bondage gear, sat on a padded seat and flipped through the pages of a magazine.
Stephanie had been told that night was not the most threatening time for a visit to the renowned district. The morning desperation of passing junkies and the early-afternoon edginess of pimps waiting for the evening's business were usually more intense. But she'd been warned that the northern end, near the Nieuwmarkt, in an area just beyond the crowds, constantly exuded a quiet sense of menace. So she was on guard as she breached the invisible line and entered. Her eyes shot back and forth, like a prowling cat's, her course set straight for the cafe at the far end of the street.
The Jan Heuval occupied the ground floor of a three-story warehouse. A brown cafe, one of hundreds that dotted the Rembrandtplein. She shoved open the front door and immediately noticed the aroma of burning cannabis along with the absence of any "No Drugs Please" sign.
The cafe was jammed, its warm air saturated with a hallucinogenic fog scented like singed rope. The aroma of fried fish and roasted chestnuts mixed with the intoxicating waft and her eyes burned. She pushed back the hood and shook rain onto the foyer's already damp tiles.
Then she spotted Klaus Dyhr. Mid-thirties, blond-haired, pale, weathered face--exactly as he'd
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