TWENTY-NINE

SAMARKAND

2:50 A.M

ZOVASTINA SMILED AT THE PAPAL NUNCIO. HE WAS A HANDSOME man with gray-streaked, auburn hair and a pair of keenly inquisitive eyes. An American. Monsignor Colin Michener. Part of the new Vatican orchestrated by the first African pope in centuries. Twice before, this emissary had come and inquired if the Federation would allow a Catholic presence, but she'd rebuked both attempts. Though Islam was the nation's dominant religion, the nomadic people who'd long populated central Asia had always placed their law ahead of even the Islamic sharia. A geographical isolation bred a social independence, even from God, so she doubted Catholics would even be welcomed. But still, she needed something from this envoy and the time had come to bargain.

"You're not a night person?" she asked, noticing the tired look Michener tried only minimally to conceal.

"Isn't this time traditionally reserved for sleeping?"

"It wouldn't be to either of our advantages to be seen meeting in the middle of the day. Your Church is not all that popular here."

"Something we'd like to change."

She shrugged. "You'd be asking the people to abandon things they've held precious for centuries. Not even the Muslims, with all their discipline and moral precepts, have been able to do that. You'll find the organizational and political uses of religion appeal far more here than spiritual benefits."

"The Holy Father doesn't want to change the Federation. He only asks that the Church be allowed the freedom to pursue those who want to practice our faith."

She grinned. "Have you visited any of our holy sites?"

He shook his head.

"I encourage you to. You'll notice quite a few interesting things. Men will kiss, rub, and circumambulate venerated objects. Women crawl under holy stones to boost their fertility. And don't overlook the wishing trees and the Mongol poles with horsehair tassels set over graves. Amulets and charms are quite popular. The people place their faith in things that have nothing to do with your Christian God."

"There's a growing number of Catholics, Baptists, Lutherans, even a few Buddhists among those people. Apparently there are some who want to worship differently. Are they not entitled to the same privilege?"

Another reason she'd finally decided to entertain this messenger was the Islamic Renaissance Party. Though outlawed years ago, it quietly thrived, especially in the Fergana Valley of the old Uzbekistan. She'd covertly infected the main troublemakers and thought she'd killed off its leaders, but the party refused to be extinguished. Allowing greater religious competition, especially from an organization such as the Roman Catholics, would force the Islamics to focus their rage on an enemy even more threatening than she. So she said, "I've decided to grant the Church access to the Federation."

"I'm glad to hear that."

"With conditions."

The priest's pleasant face lost its brightness.

"It's not that bad," she said. "Actually, I have only one simple request. Tomorrow evening, in Venice, within the basilica, the tomb of St. Mark will be opened."

A perplexed look invaded the emissary's eyes.

"Surely you're familiar with the story of St. Mark and how he came to be buried in Venice?"

Michener nodded. "I have a friend who works in the basilica. He and I have discussed it."

She knew the tale. Mark, one of Christ's twelve disciples, ordained by Peter as bishop of Alexandria, was martyred by the city's pagans in 67 CE. When they tried to burn his body, a storm doused the flames and allowed Christians time to snatch it back. Mark was mummified, then entombed secretly until the fourth century. After the Christian takeover of Alexandria, an elaborate sepulcher was built, which became so holy that Alexandria 's newly appointed patriarchs were each invested upon Mark's tomb. The shrine managed to survive the arrival of Islam and the seventh-century Persian and Arab invasions.

But in 828 a group of Venetian merchants stole the body.

Venice wanted a symbolic statement of both its political and theological independence. Rome possessed Peter, Venice would have Mark. At the same time, the Alexandrian clergy were extremely concerned about the city's sacred relics. Islamic rule had become more and more antagonistic. Shrines and churches were being dismantled. So, with the aid of the tomb's guardians, the body of St. Mark was whisked away.

Zovastina loved the details.

The nearby corpse of St. Claudian was substituted to hide the theft. The aroma of the embalming fluids was so strong that, to discourage authorities from examining the departing ship's cargo, layers of cabbage leaves and pork were wrapped over the corpse. Which worked-Muslim inspectors fled in horror at the presence of pig. The body was then sheathed in canvas and hoisted to a yardarm. Supposedly, on the sail back to Italy, a visit from the ghost of St. Mark saved the ship from foundering during a storm.

"On January 31, 828, Mark was presented to the doge in Venice," she said. "The doge housed the holy remains in the palace, but they eventually disappeared, reemerging in 1094 when the newly finished Basilica di San Marco was formally dedicated. The remains were then placed in a crypt below the church, but were moved upstairs in the nineteenth century, beneath the high altar, where they are today. Lots of missing gaps in the history of that body, wouldn't you say?"

"That's the way of relics."

"Four hundred years in Alexandria, then again for nearly three hundred years in Venice, St. Mark's body was not to be found."

The nuncio shrugged. "It's faith, Minister."

" Alexandria always resented that theft," she said. "Especially the way Venice has, for centuries, venerated the act, as if the thieves were on a holy mission. Come now, we both know the whole thing was political. The Venetians stole from around the world. Scavengers on a grand scale, taking whatever they could acquire, using it all to their advantage. St. Mark was, perhaps, their most productive theft. The whole city, to this day, revolves around him."

"So why are they opening the tomb?"

"Bishops and nobles of the Coptic and Ethiopian churches want St. Mark returned. In 1968 your Pope Paul VI gave the patriarch of Alexandria a few relics to placate them. But those came from the Vatican, not Venice, and didn't work. They want the body back, and have long discussed it with Rome."

"I served as papal secretary to Clement XV. I'm aware of those discussions."

She'd long suspected this man was more than a nuncio. The new pope apparently chose his envoys with care. "Then you're aware the Church would never surrender that body. But the patriarch in Venice, with Rome 's approval, has agreed to a compromise-part of your African pope's reconciliation with the world. Some of the relic, from the tomb, will be returned. That way, both sides are satisfied. But this is a delicate matter, especially for Venetians. Their saint disturbed." She shook her head. "That's why the tomb will be opened tomorrow night, in secret. Part of the remains will be removed, then the sepulcher closed. No one the wiser until an announcement of the gift is made in a few days."

"You have excellent information."

"It's a subject in which I have an interest. The body in that tomb is not St. Mark's."

"Then who is it?"

"Let's just say that the body of Alexander the Great disappeared from Alexandria in the fourth century, at nearly the exact time the body of St. Mark reappeared. Mark was enshrined in his own version of Alexander's Soma, which was venerated, just as Alexander's had been for six hundred years prior. My scholars have studied a variety of ancient texts, some the world has never seen-"

"And you think the body in the Venetian basilica is actually that of Alexander the Great?"

"I'm not saying anything, only that DNA analysis can now determine race. Mark was born in Libya to Arab parents. Alexander was Greek. There would be noticeable chromosomal differences. I'm also told there are dentine isotope studies, tomography, and carbon dating that could tell us a lot. Alexander died in 323 BCE. Mark in the first century after Christ. Again, there would be scientific differences in the remains."

"Do you plan to defile the corpse?"

"No more than you plan to. Tell me, what will they cut away?"

The American considered her statement. She'd sensed, early on, that he'd returned to Samarkand with far more authority than before. Time to see if that were true. "All I want is a few minutes alone with the open sarcophagus. If I remove anything, it will not be noticed. In return, the Church may move freely through the Federation and see how many Christians take to its message. But the construction of any buildings would have to be government approved. That's as much for your protection as ours. There'd be violence if church construction wasn't handled carefully."

"Do you plan to travel to Venice yourself?"

She nodded. "I'd like a low-profile visit, arranged by your Holy Father. I'm told the Church has many connections in the Italian government."

"You realize that, at best, Minister, anything you find there would be like the Shroud of Turin or Marian visions. A matter of faith."

But she knew that there could well be something conclusive. What had Ptolemy written in his riddle? Touch the innermost being of the golden illusion.

"Just a few minutes alone. That's all I ask."

The papal nuncio sat silent.

She waited.

"I'll instruct the patriarch in Venice to grant you the time."

She was right. He'd not returned empty-handed. "Lots of authority for a mere nuncio."

"Thirty minutes. Beginning at one A.M., Wednesday. We'll inform the Italian authorities that you're coming to attend a private function, at the invitation of the Church."

She nodded.

"I'll arrange for you to enter the cathedral through the Porta dei Fiori in the west atrium. At that hour, few people will be in the main square. Will you be alone?"

She was tired of this officious priest. "If it matters, maybe we should forget about this."

She saw that Michener caught her irritation.

"Minister, bring whoever you want. The Holy Father simply wants to make you happy."

THIRTY

HAMBURG, GERMANY

1:15 A.M.

VIKTOR SAT IN THE HOTEL BAR. RAFAEL WAS UPSTAIRS, ASLEEP. They'd driven south from Copenhagen, through Denmark, into northern Germany. Hamburg was the prearranged rendezvous point with the two members of the Sacred Band sent to Amsterdam to retrieve the sixth medallion. They should arrive sometime during the night. He and Rafael had handled the other thefts, but a deadline was looming, so Zovastina had ordered a second team into the field.

He nursed a beer and enjoyed the quiet. Few patrons occupied the dimly lit booths.

Zovastina thrived on tension. She liked to keep people on edge. Compliments were few, criticisms common. The palace staff. The Sacred Band. Her ministers. No one wanted to disappoint her. But he'd heard the talk behind her back. Interesting that a woman so attuned to power could become so oblivious to its resentment. Shallow loyalty was a dangerous illusion. Rafael was right, something was about to happen. As head of the Sacred Band he'd many times accompanied Zovastina to the laboratory in the mountains, east of Samarkand-this one on her side of the Chinese border, staffed with her people, where she kept her germs. He'd seen the test subjects, requisitioned from jails, and the horrible deaths. He'd also stood outside conference rooms while she plotted with her generals. The Federation possessed an impressive army, a reasonable air force, and a limited short-range missile capability. Most provided, and funded, by the West for defensive purposes since Iran, China, and Afghanistan all bordered the Federation.

He'd not told Rafael, but he knew what she was planning. He'd heard her speak of the chaos in Afghanistan, where the Taliban still clung to fleeting power. Of Iran, whose radical president constantly rattled sabers. And Pakistan, a place that exported violence with blinded eyes.

Those nations were her initial goal.

And millions would die.

A vibration in his pocket startled him.

He located the cell phone, glanced at the display, and answered, his stomach clenching into a familiar knot.

"Viktor," Zovastina said. "I'm glad I found you. There's a problem."

He listened as she told him about an incident in Amsterdam, where two Sacred Band members had been killed while trying to obtain a medallion. "The Americans have made official inquires. They want to know why my people were shooting at Secret Service agents. Which is a good question."

He wanted to say it was probably because they were terrified of disappointing her, so their better judgment had been overridden by recklessness. But he knew better and only noted, "I would have preferred to handle the matter there myself."

"All right, Viktor. Tonight, I'm conceding this one. You were opposed to the second team and I overruled you."

He knew better than to acknowledge that concession. Incredible enough she'd offered it. "But you, Minister, want to know why the Americans just happened to be there?"

"That did occur to me."

"It could be that we've been exposed."

"I doubt they care what we do. I'm more concerned with our Venetian League friends. Especially the fat one."

"Still, the Americans were there," he said.

"Could have been chance."

"What do they say?"

"Their representatives refused to give any details."

"Minister," he said in a hushed tone, "have we finally learned what we're actually after?"

"I've been working on that. It's been slow, but I now know that the key to deciphering Ptolemy's riddle is finding the body that once occupied the Soma in Alexandria. I'm convinced the remains of St. Mark, in the Basilica di San Marco in Venice, are what we're after."

He'd not heard this before.

"That's why I'm going to Venice. Tomorrow night."

Even more shocking. "Is that wise?"

"It's necessary. I'll want you with me, at the basilica. You'll need to acquire the other medallion and be at the church by one A.M."

He knew the proper response. "Yes, Minister."

"And you never said, Viktor. Do we have the one from Denmark?"

"We do."

"We'll have to do without the one in Holland."

He noticed she wasn't angry. Odd considering the failure.

"Viktor, I ordered that the Venetian medallion be last for a reason."

And now he knew why. The basilica. And the body of St. Mark. But he was still concerned about the Americans. Luckily, he'd contained the Denmark situation. All three of the problems who'd tried to best him were dead and Zovastina need never know.

"I've planned this for some time," she was saying. "There are supplies waiting for you in Venice, so don't drive, fly. Here's their location." She provided a warehouse address and an access code for an electronic lock. "What happened in Amsterdam is unimportant. What occurs in Venice...that's vital. I want that last medallion."

THIRTY-ONE

THE HAGUE

1:10 A.M.

STEPHANIE LISTENED WITH GREAT INTEREST AS EDWIN DAVIS AND President Daniels explained what was happening.

"What do you know about zoonosis?" Davis asked her.

"A disease that can be transmitted from animals to humans."

"It's even more specific," Daniels said. "A disease that normally exists harmlessly in animals but can infect humans with devastating results. Anthrax, bubonic plague, ebola, rabies, bird flu, even common ringworm are some of the best-known examples."

"I didn't realize biology was your strong point."

Daniels laughed. "I don't know crap about science. But I know a lot of people who do. Tell her, Edwin."

"There are about fifteen hundred known zoonotic pathogens. Half sit quietly in animals, living off the host, never infecting. But when transmitted to another animal, one for which the pathogen doesn't harbor any paternal instincts, they go wild. That's exactly how bubonic plague began. Rats carried the disease, fleas fed on the rats, then the fleas transmitted the disease to humans, where it ran rampant-"

"Until," Daniels said, "we developed an immunity to the damn thing. Unfortunately, in the fourteenth century, that took a few decades and, in the meantime, a third of Europe died."

"The 1918 Spanish flu pandemic was a zoonosis, wasn't it?" she asked.

Davis nodded. "Jumped from birds to humans, then mutated so it could pass from human to human. And did it ever. Twenty percent of the world actually suffered from the disease. Around five percent of the entire world's population died. Twenty-five million people in the first six months. To put that in perspective, AIDS killed twenty-five million in its first twenty-five years."

"And those 1918 numbers are shaky," Daniels noted. " China and the rest of Asia suffered horribly with no accurate fatality count. Some historians believe that as many as a hundred million may have died worldwide."

"A zoonotic pathogen is the perfect biological weapon," Davis said. "All you have to do is find one, whether it be a virus, bacteria, a protozoa, or a parasite. Isolate it, then it can infect at will. If you're clever, two versions could be created. One that only moves from animal to human, so you'd have to directly infect the victim. Another, mutated, that moves from human to human. The first could be used for limited strikes at specific targets, a minimal danger of the thing passing beyond the person infected. The other would be a weapon of mass destruction. Infect a few and the dying never stops."

She realized what Edwin Davis said was all too real.

"Stopping these things is possible," Daniels said. "But it takes time to isolate, study, and develop countermeasures. Luckily, most of the known zoonoses have antiagents, a few even have vaccines that prevent wholesale infection. But those take time to develop, and a lot of people would be killed in the meantime."

Stephanie wondered where this was headed. "Why is all this important?"

Davis reached for a file on the glass-topped table, beside Daniels' bare feet. "Nine years ago a pair of endangered geese was stolen from a private zoo in Belgium. At about the same time, some endangered rodents and a species of rare snails were taken from zoos in Australia and Spain. Usually, this kind of thing is not that significant. But we started checking and found that it's happened at least forty times around the world. The break came last year. In South Africa. The thieves were caught. We covered their arrest with phony deaths. The men cooperated, considering a South African prison is not a good place to spend a few years. That's when we learned Irina Zovastina was behind the thefts."

"Who ran that investigation?" she asked.

"Painter Crowe at Sigma," Daniels said. "Lots of science here. That's their specialty. But now it's passed into your realm."

She didn't like the sound of that. "Sure Painter can't keep it?"

Daniels smiled. "After tonight? No, Stephanie. This one's all yours. Payback for me saving your hide with the Dutch."

The president still held the elephant medallion, so she asked, "What does that coin have to do with anything?"

"Zovastina has been collecting these," Daniels said. "Here's the real problem. We know she's amassed a pretty hefty inventory of zoonoses. Twenty or so at last count. And by the way, she's been clever, she has multiple versions. Like Edwin said, one for limited strikes, the other for human-to-human transmission. She operates a biological lab near her capital in Samarkand. But, interestingly, Enrico Vincenti has another bio lab just across the border, in China. One Zovastina likes to visit."

"Which was why you wanted fieldwork on Vincenti?"

Davis nodded. "Pays to know the enemy."

"The CIA has been cultivating leaks inside the Federation," Daniels said, shaking his head. "Hard going. And a mess. But we've made a little progress."

Yet she detected something. "You have a source?"

"If you want to call it that," the president said. "I have my doubts. Zovastina is a problem on many levels."

She understood his dilemma. In a region of the world where America possessed few friends, Zovastina had openly proclaimed herself one. She'd been helpful several times with minor intelligence that had thwarted terrorist activity in Afghanistan and Iraq. Out of necessity, the United States had provided her with money, military support, and sophisticated equipment, which was risky.

"Ever hear the one about the man driving down the highway who saw a snake lying in the middle of the road?"

She grinned. Another of Daniels' famed stories.

"The guy stopped and saw that the snake was hurt. So he took the thing home and nursed it back to health. When the snake recovered, he opened the front door to let it go. But as the rattler crawled out, the damn thing bit him on the leg. Just before the venom drove him to unconsciousness, he called out to the snake, 'I took you in, fed you, doctored your wounds, and you repaid that by biting me?' The snake stopped and said, 'All true. But when you did that you knew I was a snake.'"

She caught the message.

"Zovastina," the president said, "is up to something and it involves Enrico Vincenti. I don't like biological warfare. The world outlawed it over thirty years ago. And this form is the worst kind. She's planning something awful, and that Venetian League, of which she and Vincenti are members, is right there helping her. Thankfully, she's not acted. But we have reason to believe she may soon start. The damn fools surrounding her, in what they loosely call nations, are oblivious to what's happening. Too busy worrying about Israel and us. She's using that stupidity to her advantage. She thinks I'm stupid, too. It's time she knew that we're on to her."

"We would have preferred to stay in the shadows a bit longer," Davis said. "But two Secret Service agents killing her guardsmen has surely sounded an alarm."

"What do you want me to do?"

Daniels yawed and she smothered one of her own. The president waved his hand. "Go ahead. Hell, it's the middle of the night. Don't mind me. Yawn away. You can sleep on the plane."

"Where am I going?"

" Venice. If Mohammed won't come to the mountain, then by God we'll bring the mountain to him."

THIRTY-TWO

VENICE

8:50 A.M.

VINCENTI ENTERED THE MAIN SALON OF HIS PALAZZO AND READIED himself. Usually, he did not bother with these types of presentations. After all, Philogen Pharmaceutique employed an extensive marketing and sales department with hundreds of employees. This, however, was something special, something that demanded only his presence, so he'd arranged for a private presentation at his home.

He noticed that the outside advertising agency, headquartered in Milan, seemed to have taken no chances. Four representatives, three females and a male, one a senior vice president, had been dispatched to brief him.

"Damaris Corrigan," the vice president said in English, introducing herself and her three associates. She was an attractive woman, in her early fifties, dressed in a dark blue, chalk-striped suit.

Off to the side, coffee steamed from a silver urn. He walked over and poured himself a cup.

"We couldn't help but wonder," Corrigan said, "is something about to happen?"

He unbuttoned his suit jacket and settled into an upholstered chair. "What do you mean?"

"When we were retained six months ago, you wanted suggestions on marketing a possible HIV cure. We wondered then if Philogen was on the brink of something. Now, with you wanting to see what we have, we thought maybe there'd been a breakthrough."

He silently congratulated himself. "I think you voiced the operative word. Possible. Certainly, it's our hope to be first with a cure-we're spending millions on research-but if a breakthrough were to happen, and you never know when that's going to occur, I don't want to be caught waiting months for an effective marketing scheme." He paused. "No. Nothing to this point, but a little preparedness is good."

His guest acknowledged the explanation with a nod, then she paraded to a waiting easel. He shot a glance at one of the women sitting next to him. A shapely brunette, not more than thirty or thirty-five, in a tight-fitting wool skirt. He wondered if she was an account executive or just decoration.

"I've done some fascinating reading over the past few weeks," Corrigan said. "HIV seems to have a split personality, depending on what part of the globe you're studying."

"There's truth to that observation," he said. "Here, and in places like North America, the disease is reasonably containable. No longer a leading cause of death. People simply live with it. Symptomatic drugs have reduced the mortality rate by more than half. But in Africa and Asia it's an entirely different story. Worldwide, last year, three million died of HIV."

"And that's what we did first," she said. "Identified our projected market."

She folded back the blank top sheet on the pad affixed to the easel, revealing a chart.

"These figures represent the latest incidents of worldwide HIV infections."

REGIONS-NUMBER

North America-1,011,000

Western Europe-988,000

Australia-Pacifica-22,000

Latin America-1,599,000

Sub-Saharan Africa-20,778,000

Caribbean-536,000

Eastern Europe-2,000

Southeast Mediterranean-893,000

Northeast Asia-6,000

Southeast Asia-11,277,000

Total-37,112,000

"What's the data source?" Vincenti asked.

"World Health Organization. And this represents the total current market available for any cure." Corrigan flipped to the next page. "This chart fine-tunes the available market. As you can see, the data shows roughly a quarter of worldwide HIV infections have already resulted in a manifestation of acquired immune deficiency syndrome. Nine million HIV-infected individuals now have full-blown AIDS."

REGIONS-NUMBER

North America-555,000

Western Europe-320,500

Australia-Pacifica-14,000

Latin America-573,500

Sub-Saharan Africa-6,300,000

Caribbean-160,500

Eastern Europe-10,800

Southeast Mediterranean-15,000

Northeast Asia-17,600

Southeast Asia-1,340,000

Total-9,306,900

Corrigan flipped to the next chart. "This shows the projections for five years from now. Again, this data came from the World Health Organization."

REGIONS-ESTIMATE

North America-8,150,000

Western Europe-2,331,000

Australia-Pacifica-45,000

Latin America-8,554,000

Sub-Saharan Africa-33,609,000

Caribbean-6,962,000

Eastern Europe-20,000

Southeast Mediterranean-3,532,000

Northeast Asia-486,000

Southeast Asia-45,059,000

Total-108,748,000

"Amazing. We could soon have one hundred ten million people infected, worldwide, with HIV. Current statistics indicate that fifty percent of these individuals will eventually develop AIDS. Forty percent of that fifty percent will be dead within two years. Of course, the vast majority of these will be in Africa and Asia." Corrigan shook her head. "Quite a market, wouldn't you say?"

Vincenti digested the figures. Using a mean of seventy million HIV cases, even at a conservative five thousand euros per year for treatment, any cure would initially generate three hundred and fifty billion euros. True, once the initial infected population was cured, the market would dwindle. So what? The money would be made. More than anyone could ever spend in a lifetime. Later, there'd surely be new infections and more sales, not the billions the initial campaign would generate, but a continuous windfall nonetheless.

"Our next analysis involved a look at the competition. From what we've been able to learn from the WHO, roughly sixteen drugs are now being used globally for the symptomatic treatment of AIDS. There are roughly a dozen players in this game. The sales from your own drugs were just over a billion euros last year."

Philogen owned patents for six medicines that, when used in conjunction with others, had proven effective in arresting the virus. Though it took, on average, about fifty pills a day, the so-called cocktail therapy was all that really worked. Not a cure, the deluge of medication simply confused the virus, and it was only a matter of time before nature outsmarted the microbiologists. Already, drug-resistant HIV strains had emerged in Asia and China.

"We took a look at the combination treatments," Corrigan said. "A three-drug regimen costs on average about twenty thousand euros a year. But that form of treatment is basically a Western luxury. It's nonexistent in Africa and Asia. Philogen donates, at reduced costs, medications to a few of the affected governments, but to treat those patients similarly would cost billions of euros a year, money no African government has to spend."

His own marketing people had already told him the same thing. Treatment was not really an option for the ravaged third world. Stopping the spread of HIV was the only cost-effective method to attack the crisis. Condoms were the initial instrument of choice, and one of Philogen's subsidiaries couldn't make the things fast enough. Sales had risen in the thousands of percent over the course of the last two decades. And so had profits. But, of late, the use of condoms had steadily dropped. People were becoming complacent.

Corrigan was saying, "According to its own propaganda, one of your competitors, Kellwood-Lafarge, spent more than a hundred million euros on AIDS-cure research last year alone. You spent about a third of that."

He threw the woman a smirk. "Competing with Kellwood-Lafarge is akin to fishing for whales with a rod and reel. It's the largest drug conglomerate on the planet. Hard to match somebody euro for euro when the other guy has over a hundred billion in year gross revenues."

He sipped his coffee as Corrigan flipped to a clean chart.

"Getting away from all that, let's take a look at product ideas. A name of course, for any cure, is critical. Currently, of the sixteen symptomatic drugs on the market, designations vary. Things like Bactrim, Diflucan, Intron, Pentam, Videx, Crixivan, Hivid, Retrovir. Because of the worldwide use any cure will enjoy, we thought a simpler, more universal designation, like AZT utilized, might be better from a marketing standpoint. From what we were told, Philogen now has eight possible cures under development." Corrigan flipped to the next chart, which showed packaging concepts. "We have no way of knowing if any cure will be solid or liquid, taken orally or by injection, so we created variations, keeping the colors in your black-and-gold motif."

He studied the proposals.

She pointed to the easel. "We left a blank for the name, to be inserted in gold letters. We're still working on that. The important thing about this scheme is that even if the name doesn't translate in a particular language, the package will be distinctive enough to provide immediate recognition."

He was pleased, but thought it best to suppress a smile. "I have a possible name. Something I've beaten around in my head."

Corrigan seemed interested.

He stood, walked to the easel, opened a marker, and wrote ZH.

He noticed a puzzled look on everyone's face. "Zeta. Eta. Old Greek. It meant 'life.'"

Corrigan nodded. "Appropriate."

He agreed.