AMSTERDAM, NETHERLANDS
7:30 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 café at the far end of the street.
The Jan Heuval occupied the ground floor of a three-story warehouse. A brown café, 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 café 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 been described.
Not for the first time, she reminded herself why she was here. Returning a favor. Cassiopeia Vitt had asked her to contact Dyhr. And since she owed her friend at least one favor, she could hardly refuse the request. Before making contact she’d run a check and learned that Dyhr was Dutch born, German educated, and practiced chemistry for a local plastics manufacturer. His obsession was coin collecting-he supposedly possessed an impressive array-and one in particular had drawn the interest of her Muslim friend.
The Dutchman stood alone near a chest-high table, nursing a brown beer and munching fried fish. A rolled cigarette burned in an ashtray and the thick green fog curling upward was not from tobacco.
“I’m Stephanie Nelle,” she said in English. “The woman who called.”
“You said you were interested in buying.”
She caught the curt tone that said, “Tell me what you want, pay me, and I’ll be on my way.” She also noticed his glassy eyes, which almost couldn’t be helped. Even she was starting to feel a buzz. “Like I said on the phone, I want the elephant medallion.”
He gulped a swallow of beer. “Why? It’s of no consequence. I have many other coins worth much more. Good prices.”
“I’m sure you do. But I want the medallion. You said it was for sale.”
“I said it depends on what you want to pay.”
“Can I see it?”
Klaus reached into his pocket. She accepted the offering and studied the oblong medallion through a plastic sleeve. A warrior on one side, a mounted war elephant challenging a horseman on the other. About the size of a fifty-cent piece, the images nearly eroded away.
“You know nothing of what that is, do you?” Klaus asked.
She decided to be honest. “I’m doing this for someone else.”
“I want six thousand euros.”
Cassiopeia had told her to pay whatever. Price was irrelevant. But staring at the sheaved piece, she wondered why something so nondescript would be so important.
“There are only eight known,” he said. “Six thousand euros is a bargain.”
“Only eight? Why sell it?”
He fingered the burning butt, sucked a deep drag, held it, then slowly whistled out thick smoke. “I need the money.” His oily eyes returned their gaze downward, staring toward his beer.
“Things that bad?” she asked.
“You sound like you care.”
Two men flanked Klaus. One was fair, the other tanned. Their faces and features were a conflicting mixture of Arab and Asian. Rain continued to pour outside, but the men’s coats were dry. Fair grabbed Klaus’s arm and a knife blade was pressed flat to the man’s stomach. Tan wrapped an arm around her in a seemingly friendly embrace and brought the tip of another knife close to her ribs, pressing the blade into her coat.
“The medallion,” Fair said, motioning with his head. “On the table.”
She decided not to argue and calmly did as he asked.
“We’ll be leaving now,” Tan said, pocketing the coin. His breath stank of beer. “Stay here.”
She had no intention of challenging them. She knew to respect weapons pointed at her.
The men wove their way to the front door and left the café.
“They took my coin,” Klaus said, his voice rising. “I’m going after them.”
She couldn’t decide if it was foolishness or the drugs talking. “How about you let me handle it.”
He appraised her with a suspicious gaze.
“I assure you,” she said. “I came prepared.”
COPENHAGEN
7:45 P.M.
MALONE FINISHED HIS DINNER. HE WAS SITTING INSIDE THE CAFÉ Norden, a two-story restaurant that faced into the heart of Højbro Plads. The evening had turned nasty with a brisk April shower dousing the nearly empty city square. He sat high and dry by an open window, on the upper floor, and enjoyed the rain.
“I appreciate you helping out today,” Thorvaldsen said from across the table.
“Almost getting blown up? Twice? What are friends for?”
He finished the last of his tomato bisque soup. The café offered some of the best he’d ever eaten. He was full of questions, but realized answers, as always with Thorvaldsen, would be apportioned sparingly. “Back at that house, you and Cassiopeia talked about Alexander the Great’s body. That you know where it is. How’s that possible?”
“We’ve managed to learn a lot on the subject.”
“Cassiopeia’s friend at the museum in Samarkand?”
“More than a friend, Cotton.”
He’d surmised as much. “Who was he?”
“Ely Lund. He grew up here, in Copenhagen. He and my son, Cai, were friends.”
Malone caught the sadness when Thorvaldsen mentioned his dead son. His stomach also flip-flopped at the thought of that day two years ago, in Mexico City, when the young man was murdered. Malone had been there, on a Magellan Billet assignment, and brought down the shooters, but a bullet had found him, too. Losing a son. He couldn’t imagine Gary, his own fifteen-year-old, dying.
“Whereas Cai wanted to serve in government, Ely loved history. He earned a doctorate and became an expert on Greek antiquity, working in several European museums before ending up in Samarkand. The cultural museum there has a superb collection, and the Central Asian Federation offered encouragements to science and art.”
“How did Cassiopeia meet him?”
“I introduced them. Three years ago. Thought it would be good for them both.”
He sipped his drink. “What happened?”
“He died. A little less than two months ago. She took it hard.”
“She love him?”
Thorvaldsen shrugged. “Hard to say with her. Rarely do her emotions surface.”
But they had earlier. Her sadness watching the museum burn. The distant stare out over the canal. Her refusal to meet his gaze. Nothing voiced. Only felt.
When they’d docked the motorboat at Christiangade, Malone had wanted answers, but Thorvaldsen had promised that over dinner all would be explained. So he’d been driven back to Copenhagen, slept a little, then worked in the bookstore the remainder of the day. A couple of times he drifted into the history section and found a few volumes on Alexander and Greece. But mainly he wondered what Thorvaldsen had meant by Cassiopeia needs your help.
Now he was beginning to understand.
Out the open window, across the square, he spotted Cassiopeia leaving his bookshop, dashing through the rain, something wrapped in a plastic bag tucked beneath one arm. Thirty minutes ago he’d given her the key to the store so she could use his computer and phone.
“Finding Alexander’s body,” Thorvaldsen said, “centers on Ely and the manuscript pages he uncovered. Ely initially asked Cassiopeia to locate the elephant medallions. But when we started to track them down, we discovered someone else was already looking.”
“How did Ely connect the medallions to the manuscript?”
“He examined the one in Samarkand and found the microletters. ZH. They have a connection to the manuscript. After Ely died, Cassiopeia wanted to know what was happening.”
“So she came to you for help?”
Thorvaldsen nodded. “I couldn’t refuse.”
He smiled. How many friends would buy an entire museum and duplicate everything inside just so it could burn to the ground?
Cassiopeia disappeared below the windowsill. He heard the café’s main door below open and close, then footsteps climbing the metal stairway to the second floor.
“You’ve stayed wet a lot today,” Malone said, as she reached the top.
Her hair was pulled into a ponytail, her jeans and pullover shirt splotched with rain. “Hard for a girl to look good.”
“Not really.”
She threw him a look. “A charmer tonight.”
“I have my moments.”
She removed his laptop from the plastic bag and said to Thorvaldsen, “I downloaded everything.”
“If I’d known you were going to bring it over in the rain,” Malone said, “I’d have insisted on a security deposit.”
“You need to see this.”
“I told him about Ely,” Thorvaldsen said.
The dining room was dim and deserted. Malone ate here three or four times a week, always at the same table, near the same hour. He enjoyed the solitude.
Cassiopeia faced him.
“I’m sorry,” he said, and meant it.
“I appreciate that.”
“I appreciate you saving my ass.”
“You would have found a way out. I just sped things up.”
He recalled his predicament and wasn’t so sure about her conclusion.
He wanted to ask more about Ely Lund, curious as to how he’d managed to crack her emotional vault. Like his own, there were a multitude of locks and alarms. But he kept silent-as always when feelings were unavoidable.
Cassiopeia switched on the laptop and brought several scanned images onto the screen. Words. Ghostly gray, fuzzy in places, and all in Greek.
“About a week after Alexander the Great died, in 323 BCE,” Cassiopeia said, “Egyptian embalmers arrived in Babylon. Though it was summer, hot as hell, they found his corpse uncorrupted, its complexion still lifelike. That was taken as a sign from the gods of Alexander’s greatness.”
He’d read about that earlier. “Some sign. He was probably still alive, in a terminal coma.”
“That’s the modern consensus. But that medical state was unknown then. So they went about their task and mummified the body.”
He shook his head. “Amazing. The greatest conqueror of his time, killed by embalmers.”
Cassiopeia smiled in agreement. “Mummification usually took seventy days, the idea being to dry the body beyond further decay. But with Alexander, they used a different method. He was immersed in white honey.”
He knew about honey, a substance that did not rot. Time would crystallize, but never destroy, its basic composition, which could easily be reconstituted with heat.
“The honey,” she said, “would have preserved Alexander, inside and out, better than mummification. The body was eventually wrapped in gold cartonnage, then placed into a golden sarcophagus, dressed in robes and a crown, surrounded by more honey. That’s where it stayed, in Babylon, for a year, while a gem-encrusted carriage was built. Then a funeral cortege set off from Babylon.”
“Which is when the funerary games began,” he said.
Cassiopeia nodded. “In a manner of speaking. Perdiccas, one of Alexander’s generals, called an emergency meeting of the Companions the day after Alexander died. Roxane, Alexander’s Asian wife, was six months pregnant. Perdiccas wanted to wait for the birth then decide what to do. If the child was a boy, he would be the rightful heir. But others balked. They weren’t going to have a part-barbarian monarch. They wanted Alexander’s half brother, Philip, as their king, though the man was, by all accounts, mentally ill.”
Malone recalled the details of what he’d read earlier. Fighting actually broke out around Alexander’s deathbed. Perdiccas then called an assembly of Macedonians and, to keep order, placed Alexander’s corpse in their midst. The assembly voted to abandon the planned Arabia campaign and approved a division of the empire. Governorships were doled out to the Companions. Rebellion quickly erupted as the generals fought among themselves. In late summer, Roxane gave birth to a boy, christened Alexander IV. To keep the peace, a joint arrangement was conceived whereby the child and Philip, the half brother, were deemed king, though the Companions governed their respective portions of the empire, unconcerned with either.
“What was it,” Malone asked, “six years later when the half brother was murdered by Olympias, Alexander’s mother? She’d hated that child from birth, since Philip of Macedonia had divorced her to marry the mother. Then, a few years later, Roxane and Alexander IV were both poisoned. None of them ever ruled anything.”
“Eventually, Alexander’s sister was murdered, too,” Thorvaldsen said. “His entire bloodline eradicated. Not a single legitimate heir survived. And the greatest empire in the world crumbled away.”
“So what does all that have to do with elephant medallions? And what possible relevance could that have today?”
“Ely believed a great deal,” she said.
He saw there was more. “And what do you believe?”
She sat silent, as if unsure, but not wanting to voice her reservations.
“It’s all right,” he said. “You tell me when you’re ready.”
Then something else occurred to him and he said to Thorvaldsen, “What about the last two medallions here in Europe? I heard you ask Viktor about them. He’s probably headed after those next.”
“We’re ahead of him there.”
“Someone’s already got them?”
Thorvaldsen glanced at his watch. “At least one, I hope, by now.”
AMSTERDAM
STEPHANIE STEPPED FROM THE CAFÉ BACK INTO THE RAIN. AS SHE yanked the hood over her head she found her earpiece and spoke into the mike hidden beneath her jacket.
“Two men just left here. They have what I want.”
“Fifty meters ahead, heading for the bridge,” came a reply.
“Stop them.”
She hustled into the night.
She’d brought two Secret Service agents, requisitioned from President Danny Daniels’ overseas detail. A month ago the president had requested that she accompany him to the annual European economic summit. National leaders had gathered forty miles south of Amsterdam. Tonight Daniels was attending a formal dinner, secure within The Hague, so she’d managed to corral two helpers. Just insurance, she’d told them, promising dinner afterward wherever they’d like.
“They’re armed,” one of the agents said in her ear.
“Knives in the café,” she said.
“Guns out here.”
Her spine stiffened. This was turning nasty. “Where are they?”
“At the pedestrian bridge.”
She heard shots and removed a Magellan Billet-issue Beretta from beneath her jacket.
More shots.
She rounded a corner.
People were scattering. Tan and Fair were huddled on a bridge behind a chest-high iron railing, shooting at the two Secret Servicemen, one on either side of the canal.
Glass shattered, as a bullet found one of the brothels.
A woman screamed.
More frightened people rushed by Stephanie. She lowered her gun, concealing it by her side. “Let’s contain this,” she said into the mike.
“Tell it to them,” one of the agents answered.
Last week, when she’d agreed to do Cassiopeia the favor, she’d not seen the harm, but yesterday something had told her to come prepared, especially when she remembered that Cassiopeia had said she and Henrik Thorvaldsen appreciated the gesture. Anything Thorvaldsen was involved with signaled trouble.
More shots from the bridge.
“You’re not getting out of here,” she yelled out.
Fair whirled and aimed a gun her way.
She dove into a sunken alcove. A bullet pinged off the bricks a few feet away. She hugged the stairs and eased herself back up. Rain gushed down each runner and soaked her clothes.
She fired two shots.
Now the two men lay in the center of a triangle. No way out.
Tan shifted position, trying to lessen his exposure, but one of the agents shot him in the chest. He staggered until another round sent him teetering onto the bridge railing, his frame folding over the side and splashing into the canal.
Wonderful. Now there were bodies.
Fair scampered to the railing and tried to look over. He seemed as if he wanted to jump, but more shots kept him pinned. Fair straightened, then ran forward, charging the far side of the bridge, shooting indiscriminately. The Secret Service agent ahead of him returned fire, while the one on her side rushed forward and brought the man down, from behind, with three shots.
Sirens could be heard.
She sprang from her position and trotted onto the bridge. Fair lay on the cobbles, rain ushering away the blood that poured from his body. She waved with her arms for the agents to come.
Both men raced over.
Tan floated facedown in the canal.
Red and blue lights appeared fifty yards away, speeding toward the bridge. Three police cars.
She pointed at one of the agents. “I need you in the water getting a medallion from that man’s pocket. It’s in a plastic sleeve and has an elephant on it. Once you get it, swim out of here and don’t get caught.”
The man holstered his gun and leaped over the railing. She liked that about the Secret Service. No questions, just action.
The police cars skidded to a stop.
She shook rain from her face and glanced at the other agent. “Get out of here and get me some diplomatic help.”
“Where will you be?”
Her mind flashed back to last summer. Roskilde. She and Malone.
“Under arrest.”
COPENHAGEN
CASSIOPEIA SIPPED A GLASS OF WINE AND WATCHED AS MALONE digested what she and Thorvaldsen were telling him.
“Cotton,” she said, “let me explain about the connection that sparked our interest. We told you some earlier, about X-ray fluorescence. A researcher at the cultural museum in Samarkand pioneered the technique, but Ely came up with the idea of examining medieval Byzantine texts. That’s where he found the writing at a molecular level.”
“The reused parchment is called a palimpsest,” Thorvaldsen said. “Quite ingenious, actually. After monks scraped away the original ink and wrote on the cleaned pages, they would cut and turn the sheets sideways, fashioning them into what we would recognize today as books.”
“Of course,” she said, “much of the original parchment is lost by this mangling, because rarely were original parchments kept together. Ely, though, found several that had been kept relatively intact. In one he discovered some lost theorems of Archimedes. Remarkable, given that almost none of Archimedes’ writings exist today.” She stared at him. “In another he found the formula for Greek fire.”
“And who did he tell?” Malone asked.
“Irina Zovastina,” Thorvaldsen said. “Supreme Minister of the Central Asian Federation. Zovastina asked that the discoveries be kept secret. At least for a short while. Since she paid the bills, it was hard to refuse. She also encouraged him to analyze more of the museum’s manuscripts.”
“Ely,” she said, “understood the need for secrecy. The techniques were new and they needed to be sure what they were finding was authentic. He didn’t see the harm in waiting. He actually wanted to examine as many manuscripts as he could before going public.”
“But he told you,” Malone said.
“He was excited, and wanted to share. He knew I wouldn’t say anything.”
“Four months ago,” Thorvaldsen said, “Ely stumbled onto something extraordinary in one of the palimpsests. The History of Hieronymus of Cardia. Hieronymus was a friend and countryman to Eumenes, one of Alexander the Great’s generals. Eumenes also acted as Alexander’s personal secretary. Only fragments of Hieronymus’ works have survived, but they’re known to be quite reliable. Ely discovered a full account, from Alexander’s time, told by an observer with credibility.” Thorvaldsen paused. “It’s quite a tale, Cotton. You read some of it earlier, about Alexander’s death and the draught.”
Cassiopeia knew Malone was intrigued. At times, he reminded her of Ely. Both men used humor to mock reality, dodge an issue, twist an argument, or, most irritatingly, escape involvement. But where Malone exuded a physical confidence, a command of his surroundings, Ely dominated through thoughtful intelligence and gentle emotion. What a contrast she and he had been. She the dark-skinned, dark-haired, Spanish Muslim. He the pale, Protestant Scandinavian. But she’d loved being around him.
A first for her, in a long while.
“Cotton,” she said, “about a year after Alexander died, in the winter of 321 BCE, his funeral cortege finally set out from Babylon. Perdiccas had, by then, decided to bury Alexander in Macedonia. This was contrary to Alexander’s deathbed wish to be entombed in Egypt. Ptolemy, another of the generals, had claimed Egypt as his portion of the empire and was already there acting as governor. Perdiccas was acting as regent for the infant, Alexander IV. Under the Macedonian constitution, the new ruler was required to properly bury his predecessor-”
“And,” Malone said, “if Perdiccas allowed Alexander to be buried by Ptolemy, in Egypt, that might give Ptolemy a greater claim to the throne.”
She nodded. “Also, there was a prophecy common at the time that if kings stopped being buried in Macedonian earth, the royal bloodline would end. As it turned out, Alexander the Great was not buried in Macedonia and the royal bloodline did end.”
“I read about what happened,” Malone said. “Ptolemy highjacked the funeral cortege in what is now northern Syria and brought the body to Egypt. Perdiccas tried twice to invade across the Nile. Eventually, his officers rebelled and stabbed him to death.”
“Then Ptolemy did something unexpected,” Thorvaldsen said. “He refused the regency offered to him by the army. He could have been king of the entire empire, but he said no and turned his full attention to Egypt. Strange, wouldn’t you say?”
“Maybe he didn’t want to be king. From what I’ve read, there was so much treachery and cynicism going around that nobody survived long. Murder was simply part of the political process.”
“But maybe Ptolemy knew something no one else did.” She saw that Malone was waiting for her to explain. “That the body in Egypt was not Alexander’s.”
He grinned. “I read about those stories. Supposedly, after highjacking the cortege, Ptolemy fashioned a likeness of Alexander and substituted it for the real corpse, then allowed Perdiccas, and others, a chance to seize it. But those are tales. No proof exists to substantiate them.”
She shook her head. “I’m talking about something entirely different. The manuscript Ely discovered tells us exactly what happened. The body sent west for burial in 321 BCE was not Alexander. A switch was made in Babylon, during the previous year. Alexander himself was laid to rest in a place only a handful knew about. And they kept their secret well. For twenty-three hundred years, no one has known.”
Two days had passed since Alexander executed Glaucias. What was left of the physician’s body remained outside Babylon ’s walls, on the ground and in the trees, the animals still picking flesh from the bones. The king’s fury continued unrestrained. He was short-tempered, suspicious, and unhappy. Eumenes was called into the king’s presence and Alexander told his secretary that he would soon die. The statement shocked Eumenes, as he could not imagine a world without Alexander. The king said that the gods were impatient and his time among the living was about to end. Eumenes listened, but placed little credence in the prediction. Alexander had long believed that he was not the son of Philip, but instead the mortal descendant of Zeus. A fantastic claim for sure, but after all his great conquests many had come to agree with him. Alexander spoke of Roxane and the child she carried in her womb. If it be a boy he would have a solid claim to the throne, but Alexander recognized the resentment Greeks would have toward a half-foreign ruler. He told Eumenes that his Companions would battle among themselves for his empire and he did not want to be a part of their struggle. “Let them claim their own destiny,” he said. His was made. So he told Eumenes that he wanted to be buried with Hephaestion. Like Achilles, who wished that his ashes be mixed with those of his lover, Alexander wanted the same. “I shall make sure your ashes and his are joined,” Eumenes said. But Alexander shook his head. “No. Bury us together.” Since just days earlier Eumenes had witnessed Hephaestion’s grand funeral pyre, he asked how that would be possible. Alexander told him that the body burned in Babylon was not Hephaestion’s. He’d ordered Hephaestion embalmed last fall so that he could be transported to a place where he could forever lie in peace. Alexander wanted the same for himself. “Mummify me,” he commanded, “then take me where I, too, can lie in clean air.” He forced Eumenes to pledge that he would fulfill this wish, in secret, involving only two others, whom the king named.
Malone glanced up from the screen. Outside, the rain had quickened. “Where did they take him?”
“It becomes more confusing,” Cassiopeia said. “Ely dated that manuscript to about forty years after Alexander died.” She reached over to the laptop and scrolled through the pages on the screen. “Read this. More from Hieronymus of Cardia.”
How wrong that the greatest of kings, Alexander of Macedonia, should lie forever in an unknown place. Though he sought a quiet respite, one which he arranged, such a silent fate does not seem fitting. Alexander was correct about his Companions. The generals fought among themselves, killing each other and all who posed a threat to their claims. Ptolemy may have been the most fortunate. He ruled Egypt for thirty-eight years. In the last year of his reign, he heard of my efforts in writing this account and summoned me to the palace from the library at Alexandria. He knew of my friendship with Eumenes and read with interest what I had so far written. He then confirmed that the body buried in Memphis was not that of Alexander. Ptolemy made clear that he’d known that ever since he’d attacked the funeral cortege. Years later he’d finally become curious and dispatched investigators. Eumenes was brought to Egypt and told Ptolemy that Alexander’s true remains were hidden in a place only he knew. By then the grave site in Memphis, where Alexander was said to lay, had become a shrine. “We both fought by his side and would have gladly died for him,” Ptolemy told Eumenes. “He should not lie forever in secret.” Overcome by remorse and sensing that Ptolemy was sincere, Eumenes revealed the resting place, far away, in the mountains, where the Scythians taught Alexander about life, then Eumenes died shortly thereafter. Ptolemy recalled that when asked to whom did he leave his kingdom, Alexander had answered “to the brightest.” So Ptolemy spoke these words to me:
Ptolemy then handed me a silver medallion that showed Alexander when he fought against elephants. He told me that, in honor of those battles, he’d minted the coins. He also told me to come back when I solved his riddle. But a month later Ptolemy lay dead.
SAMARKAND
CENTRAL ASIAN FEDERATION
11:50 P.M.
ZOVASTINA LIGHTLY RAPPED ON A WHITE LACQUERED DOOR. A stately, well-groomed woman in her late fifties with dull gray-black hair answered. Like always, Zovastina did not wait to be invited inside.
“Is she awake?”
The woman nodded and Zovastina marched down the hall.
The house dominated a wooded lot on the eastern outskirts of the city, beyond the sprawl of low-slung buildings and colorful mosques, in an area where many of the newer estates had sprung, the hilly terrain once littered with Soviet-era guard towers. Federation prosperity had generated both a middle and an upper class, and those with means had begun to flaunt it. This house, built a decade ago, belonged to Zovastina, though she’d never actually lived here. Instead, she’d given it to her lover.
She surveyed the luxurious interior. An elaborately carved Louis XV console displayed an array of white porcelain figurines given to her by the French president. A coffered ceiling topped the adjacent living room, its floor covered by inlaid parquetry protected by a Ukrainian carpet. Another gift. A German mirror anchored one end of the long room and taffeta draperies adorned three towering windows.
Every time she stepped down the marbled hall, her mind wandered back six years, to one afternoon when she’d approached the same closed door. Inside the bedroom she’d found Karyn naked, a thin-chested man with curly hair and muscular arms atop her. She could still hear their moans, their ferocious exploration of each other surprisingly arousing. She’d stood for a long minute, watching, until they broke apart.
“Irina,” Karyn calmly said. “This is Michele.”
Karyn had climbed from the bed and brushed back her long wavy hair, exposing breasts Irina had many times enjoyed. Lean as a jackal, every inch of Karyn’s unblemished skin shimmered with the color of cinnamon. Thin lips curved contemptuously, tilted nose with delicate nostrils, cheeks smooth as porcelain. Zovastina had suspected her lover’s cheating, but it was an entirely different matter to witness the act firsthand.
“You’re lucky I don’t have you killed.”
Karyn seemed unconcerned. “Look at him. He cares how I feel, gives without question. You only take. It’s all you know how to do. Give orders and expect them to be obeyed.”
“I don’t recall any complaints from you.”
“Being your whore doesn’t come cheap. I’ve given up things more precious than money.”
Zovastina’s gaze involuntarily drifted to the naked Michele.
“You like him, don’t you?” Karyn said.
She did not answer. Instead, she commanded, “I want you out of here, by night fall.”
Karyn stepped close, the sweet smell of an expensive perfume leading the way. “You really want me to go?” Her hand drifted to Zovastina’s thigh. “Maybe you’d like to take off these clothes and join us.”
She backhanded her lover across the face. Not the first time, but the first time in anger. A trickle of blood oozed from Karyn’s busted lip and hatred stared back at her. “Gone. Before nightfall or, I promise, you’ll not see morning.”
Six years ago. A long time.
Or at least it seemed that way.
She turned the knob and entered.
The bedroom remained adorned with dainty French provincial furniture. A marble-and-gilt-bronze fireplace guarded by a pair of Egyptian porphyry lions decorated one wall. Seemingly out of place was the respirator beside the canopy bed, the oxygen bottle on the other side, and an intravenous bag suspended from a stainless-steel stand, transparent tubes snaking to one arm.
Karyn lay propped on pillows in the center of a queen-size bed, coral silk covers adjusted to her waist. Her flesh was the color of brown ash-her patina like waxed paper. Once-thick blond hair hung tangled, disheveled, thin as mist. Her eyes, which used to flash a vivid blue, now stared out of deep holes like creatures tucked away in caves. Angular cheeks were gone, replaced with a cadaverous gaunt that had transformed her pug nose into aquiline. A lace nightgown graced her emaciated frame as a flag hanging limp on a pole.
“What do you want tonight?” Karyn muttered, the voice brittle and strained. Tubing at her nostrils delivered oxygen with each breath. “Come to see if I’m dead?”
Irina crept close to the four-poster bed. The room’s smell intensified. A sickening mixture of disinfectant, disease, and decay.
“Nothing to say?” Karyn managed, the voice mostly air.
She stared at the woman. Uncharacteristically for her, not a lot of planning had gone into their relationship. Karyn had first been on her staff, then her personal secretary, and finally her concubine. Five years together. Five more apart, until last year when Karyn unexpectedly returned to Samarkand, ill.
“I actually came to see how you were.”
“No, Irina. You came to see when I would die.”
She wanted to say that was the last thing she wanted, but thoughts of Michele and Karyn’s betrayal kept her from any emotional concessions. Instead, she asked, “Was it worth it?”
Zovastina knew that years of unprotected sex, drifting from man to man and woman to woman, taking risks, had finally caught up with Karyn. Along the way, one of them had passed along HIV. Alone, frightened, and broke, last year Karyn had swallowed her pride and returned to the only place she’d thought might provide some comfort.
“Is that why you keep coming?” Karyn asked. “To see me proven wrong?”
“You were wrong.”
“Your bitterness will consume you.”
“This from a person who has literally been consumed by hers.”
“Careful, Irina, you have no idea when I was infected. Maybe I’ll share this misery.”
“I’ve been tested.”
“And what doctor was foolish enough to do that?” A cough racked Karyn’s words. “Is he still alive to tell what he knows?”
“You haven’t answered my question. Was it worth it?”
A smile creased the withdrawn face. “You can’t order me anymore.”
“You came back. You wanted help. I’m helping.”
“I’m a prisoner.”
“You can leave whenever you want.” She paused. “Why can’t you share the truth?”
“And what is the truth, Irina? That you’re a lesbian. Your dear husband knew. He had to. You never speak of him.”
“He’s dead.”
“A convenient car crash. How many times have you played that sympathy card with your people?”
This woman knew far too much of her business, which both attracted and repelled her. Their sense of intimacy, of sharing, had been part of their bond. Here was where, at one time, she could truly be herself. “He knew what was involved when he agreed to marry me. But he was ambitious, like you. He wanted the trappings. And I come with those trappings.”
“How difficult it must be to live a lie.”
“You do it.”
Karyn shook her head. “No, Irina. I know what I am.” The words seemed to sap her strength and Karyn paused to suck a few deep breaths before saying, “Why don’t you just kill me?”
Some of Karyn’s old self seeped through the bitter tone. Killing this woman was not an option. Saving her…that was the goal. Fate denied Achilles a chance to save his Patroclus. Incompetence cost Alexander the Great his love when Hephaestion died. She would not fall victim to the same mistakes.
“Can you seriously believe that anyone deserves this?” Karyn yanked her nightgown open. Tiny pearl buttons exploded outward onto the sheets. “Look at my breasts, Irina.”
It hurt to look. Since Karyn had returned, Irina had studied AIDS and knew that the disease affected people differently. Some suffered internally. Blindness, colitis, life-threatening diarrhea, brain inflammation, tuberculosis, and worst of all, pneumonia. Others were emasculated externally, their skin covered with the effects of Kaposi’s sarcoma, or devastated by herpes simplex, or ravaged by emaciation, the epidermis inevitably drawn down to bone. Karyn seemed the much more common combination.
“Remember how beautiful I was? My lovely skin? You used to adore my body.”
She did recall. “Cover yourself up.”
“Can’t stand to see?”
She said nothing.
“You shit until your ass aches, Irina. You can’t sleep, and your stomach stays in knots. I wait every day to see what new infection will spawn inside me. This is hell.”
She’d tossed the woman in the helicopter to her death. She’d ordered the elimination of countless political opponents. She’d forged a Federation through a covert campaign of biological assassination that had claimed thousands. None of those deaths meant a thing. Karyn’s dying was different. That was why she’d allowed her to stay. Why she supplied the drugs needed to keep her alive. She’d lied to those students. Here was her weakness. Perhaps her only one.
Karyn smiled faintly. “Every time you come here I see it in your eyes. You care.” Karyn grabbed her arm. “You can help me, can’t you? Those germs you played with years ago. You had to learn something. I don’t want to die, Irina.”
She fought to keep an emotional distance. Achilles and Alexander both failed by not doing that. “I’ll pray to the gods for you.”
Karyn started to laugh. A guttural, throaty chuckle mixed with the rattle of spit. Which both surprised and hurt her.
Karyn kept laughing.
She fled the bedroom and hurried to the front door.
These visits were a mistake. No more. Not now. Too much was about to happen.
The last thing she heard before leaving was the sickening sound of Karyn choking on her own saliva.
VENICE
8:45 P.M.
VINCENTI PAID THE WATER TAXI, THEN HOISTED HIMSELF UP TO street level and marched into the San Silva, one of Venice ’s premier hotels. No weekend specials or cut-rate promotions applied here, just forty-two luxurious suites overlooking the Grand Canal in what was once the home of a Doge. Its grand lobby reflected old-world decadence. Roman columns, veined-marble, museum-quality accessories-the spacious surroundings busy with people, activity, and noise.
Peter O’Conner waited patiently in a quiet alcove. O’Conner wasn’t ex-military or ex-government intelligence-just a man with a talent for gathering information coupled with a conscience that barely existed.
Philogen Pharmaceutique spent millions annually on an extensive array of in-house security to protect trade secrets and patents, but O’Conner reported directly to Vincenti-a set of personal eyes and ears providing the indispensable luxury of being able to implement whatever was needed to protect his interests.
And he was glad to have him.
Five years ago it was O’Conner who stopped a rebellion among a sizable block of Philogen stockholders over Vincenti’s decision to expand the company further into Asia. Three years ago, when an American pharmaceutical giant tried a hostile takeover, O’Conner terrorized enough shareholders to prevent any wholesale stock ditching. And, just recently, when Vincenti faced a challenge from his board of directors, O’Conner discovered the dirt used to blackmail enough votes that Vincenti managed not only to keep his job as CEO, but was also reelected chairman.
Vincenti settled into a tooled-leather armchair. A quick glance at the clock etched into the marble behind the concierge’s counter confirmed that he needed to be at the restaurant by nine fifteen. As soon as he was comfortable, O’Conner handed him some stapled sheets and said, “That’s what we have so far.”
He quickly scanned the transcripts of telephone calls and face-to-face discussions-all from listening devices monitoring Irina Zovastina. When finished, he asked, “She’s after these elephant medallions?”
“Our surveillance,” O’Conner said, “has been enough to know she has sent some of her personal guards after these medallions. The head guy himself, Viktor Tomas, is leading one team. Another team went to Amsterdam. They’ve been burning buildings all over Europe to mask those thefts.”
Vincenti knew all about Zovastina’s Sacred Band. More of her obsession with all things Greek. “Do they have the medallions?”
“At least four. They went after two yesterday, but I haven’t heard the results.”
He was puzzled. “We need to know what she’s doing.”
“I’m on it. I’ve managed to bribe a few of the palace staff. Unfortunately, electronic surveillance only works when she stays put. She’s constantly on the move. She flew to the China lab earlier.”
He’d already been told of the visit by his chief scientist, Grant Lyndsey.
“You should have seen her with that assassination attempt,” O’Conner said. “Rode straight toward the gunman, daring him to shoot. We watched on a long-range camera. Of course, she had a sharpshooter on the palace ready to take the guy down. But still, to ride straight for him. You sure there’s not a set of nuts between her legs?”
He chuckled. “I’m not going to look.”
“That woman’s crazy.”
Which was why Vincenti had changed his mind with the Florentine. The Council of Ten had collectively ordered some preliminary investigative work on the possibility that Zovastina might have to be eliminated, and the Florentine had been contracted to perform that reconnaissance. Vincenti had initially decided to make use of the Florentine in a full-scale rush to judgment, since to accomplish what he privately planned Zovastina had to go. So he’d promised the Florentine a huge profit if he could have her killed.
Then a better idea blossomed.
If he revealed the planned assassination, that might quell any fears Zovastina harbored about the League’s trustworthiness. Which would buy him time to prepare something better-something he’d actually been conceiving over the past few weeks. More subtle. Less residuals.
“She also visited the house again,” O’Conner told him. “A little while ago. Slipped out of the palace, alone, in a car. Tree-mounted cameras caught the visit. She stayed a half hour.”
“Do we know her former lover’s current condition?”
“Holding her own. We listened to their conversation with a parabolic monitor from a nearby house. A strange pair. Love/hate thing going on.”
He’d found it interesting that a woman who’d managed to govern with unfettered ruthlessness harbored such an obsession. She’d been married for a few years, the man a midlevel diplomat in the former Kazakhstan ’s foreign service. Surely a marriage for appearance’s sake. A way to mask her questionable sexuality. Yet the reports he’d amassed noted an amicable husband/wife relationship. He died suddenly in a car crash seventeen years ago, just after she became Kazakhstan ’s president, and a couple of years before she managed to forge the Federation. Karyn Walde came along a few years later and remained Zovastina’s only long-lasting interpersonal relationship, which ended badly. Yet a year ago, when the woman reappeared, Zovastina had immediately taken her in and arranged, through Vincenti, for needed HIV medications.
“Should we act?” he asked.
O’Conner nodded. “Wait any longer and it might be too late.”
“Arrange it. I’ll be in the Federation by week’s end.”
“Could get messy.”
“Whatever. Just no fingerprints. Nothing that links anything to me.”
AMSTERDAM
9:20 P.M.
STEPHANIE HAD EXPERIENCED THE INSIDE OF A DANISH JAIL LAST summer when she and Malone were arrested. Now she’d visited a Dutch cell. Not much different. Wisely, she’d kept her mouth shut as the police rushed onto the bridge and spotted the dead man. Both Secret Service agents had managed to escape, and she hoped the one in the water had retrieved the medallion. Her suspicions, though, were now confirmed. Cassiopeia and Thorvaldsen were into something, and it wasn’t ancient coin collecting.
The door to the holding cell opened and a thin man in his early sixties, with a long, sharp face and bushy silver hair, entered. Edwin Davis. Deputy national security adviser to the president. The man who replaced the late Larry Daley. And what a change. Davis had been brought over from State, a career man, possessed of two doctorates-one in American history, the other international relations-along with superb organizational skills and an innate diplomatic ability. He employed a courteous, folksy way, similar to that of President Daniels himself, that people tended to underestimate. Three secretaries of state had used him to whip their ailing departments into line. Now he worked at the White House, helping the administration finish out the last three years of its second term.
“I was having dinner with the president. In The Hague. What a place, by the way. Enjoying the evening. Food was superb, and I usually don’t care for gourmet. They brought me a note that told me where you were and I said to myself, there has to be a logical explanation why Stephanie Nelle would be in Dutch custody, found with a gun beside a dead man in the rain.”
She opened her mouth to speak and he held up a halting hand.
“It gets better.”
She sat quietly in her wet clothes.
“As I was deciding how I could actually leave you here, since I was reasonably sure I did not want to know why you came to Amsterdam, the president himself took me aside and told me to get over here. Seems two Secret Service agents were also involved, but they weren’t in custody. One of them was soaking wet from swimming in a canal to retrieve this.”
She caught what he tossed her and saw again the medallion with elephants, snug in its plastic sleeve.
“The president intervened with the Dutch. You’re free to go.”
She stood. “Before we leave I need to know about those dead men.”
“Since I already knew you’d say that, I found out that they both carried Central Asian Federation passports. We checked. Part of Supreme Minister Irina Zovastina’s personal security force.”
She caught something in his eye. Davis was much easier to read than Daley had been. “That doesn’t shock you.”
“Few things do anymore.” His voice had lowered to a whisper. “We have a problem, Stephanie, and now, fortunately or unfortunately, depending on your point of view, you’re part of it.”
She followed Davis into the hotel suite. President Danny Daniels sat sprawled on a sofa, wrapped in a bathrobe, his bare feet propped on a gilded glass-topped table. He was a tall stretch of a man with piles of blond hair, a booming voice, and a disarming manner. Though she’d worked for him for five years, she’d only come to really know him last fall with the treachery surrounding the lost library of Alexandria. He’d then both fired and rehired her. Daniels held a drink of something in one hand and a remote control in the other.
“There’s not a damn thing on this TV to watch that isn’t subtitled or in a language I don’t understand. And I can’t bear that BBC News or CNN International any longer. They show the same stories over and over.” Daniels blackened the screen and tossed the remote aside. He sipped from his drink, then said to her, “I hear you’ve had another career-ending night.”
She caught the twinkle in his eye. “Seems to be my path to success.”
He motioned and she sat. Davis stood off to the side.
“I’ve got some more bad news,” Daniels said. “Your agent in Venice is missing. She’s not been heard from in twelve hours. Neighbors in the building where she was stationed reported a disturbance early this morning. Four men. A door kicked in. Of course, no one now officially saw anything. Typical Italians.” He raised one arm in a flurry. “For God’s sake don’t involve me.” The president paused, his face darkened. “Nothing about this sounds good.”
Stephanie had loaned Naomi Johns to the White House, which needed some field reconnaissance on a person-of-interest-Enrico Vincenti, an international financier with ties to an organization called the Venetian League. She knew the group. Another of the countless cartels from around the world. Naomi worked for Stephanie for many years, and had been the agent who’d investigated Larry Daley. She’d left the Billet last year, only to return, and Stephanie had been glad. Naomi was good. The recon job should have been low risk. Just record meets and greets. Stephanie had even told her to take a couple of days off in Italy when she finished.
Now she might be dead.
“When I loaned her out, your people said this was simply information gathering.”
No one answered and her gaze shifted between the two men.
Daniels pointed. “Where’s the medallion?”
She handed it to him.
“You want to tell me about this?”
She felt grimy. What she wanted was a shower and sleep, but she realized that wasn’t going to happen. She resented being interrogated, but he was the president of the United States and had saved her hide, so she explained about Cassiopeia, Thorvaldsen, and the favor. The president listened with an unusual attentiveness, then said, “Tell her, Edwin.”
“How much do you know about Supreme Minister Zovastina?”
“Enough to know that she’s no friend of ours.”
Her tired mind retrieved Zovastina’s pertinent history. Born to a working-class family in northern Kazakhstan, her father died fighting the Nazis for Stalin, then an earthquake, just after the war, killed her mother and the rest of her immediate relatives. She grew up in an orphanage, until one of her mother’s distant cousins took her in. She eventually became an economist, trained at the Leningrad Institute, then joined the Communist Party in her twenties and worked her way to head of the local Committee of the Representatives of the Workers. She then snagged a spot on the Central Committee of Kazakhstan and quickly rose to the Supreme Soviet. She first promoted land and other economic reforms, then became a critic of Moscow. After independence from Russia, she was one of six Party members who ran for president of Kazakhstan. When the two front-runners failed to receive a majority, under the national constitution both were disqualified from the second round of voting, which she won.
“I learned a long time ago,” Daniels said, “that if you have to tell someone you’re their friend, the relationship’s got big problems. This woman thinks we’re a bunch of idiots. Friends like her we don’t need.”
“But you still have to kiss her ass.”
Daniels enjoyed more of his drink. “Unfortunately.”
“The Central Asian Federation is not something to take lightly,” Davis made clear. “Land of hardy people and long memories. Twenty-eight million men and women available for military conscription. Twenty-two million of those fit and ready for service. About one and a half million new conscripts available each year. That’s quite a fighting force. Currently, the Federation spends one point two billion dollars a year on defense, but that doesn’t count what we pour in there, which is twice that.
“And the real crap,” Daniels continued, “is that the people love her. The standard of living has improved a thousandfold. Before her, sixty-four percent lived in poverty. Now it’s less than fifteen percent. That’s as good as we do. She’s investing everywhere. Hydroelectric power, cotton, gold-she’s loaded with surpluses. That Federation is perched in a superb geoeconomic position. Russia, China, India. Smack between them all. Smart lady, too. She’s sitting on some of the world’s largest oil and natural gas reserves, which the Russians once totally controlled. They’re still pissed about independence, so she made a deal and sells them oil and gas at below-market prices, which keeps Moscow off her tail.”
She was impressed with Daniels’ command of the region.
“Then,” the president said, “a few years ago she entered into a long-term lease with Russia on the Baykonur Cosmodrome. The Russian spaceport sits in the middle of the old Kazakhstan. Six thousand square miles, which Russia now has exclusive use of until 2050. In return, of course, she got some debt cancellation. After that, she stroked the Chinese by settling a centuries-old border dispute. Not bad for an economist who grew up in an orphanage.”
“Do we have problems with Zovastina?” she asked. Again neither man answered her question, so she switched gears. “What does Enrico Vincenti have to do with this?”
“Zovastina and Vincenti are connected,” Daniels said, “through the Venetian League. Both are members. Four hundred and some people. Lots of money, time, and ambition, but the League isn’t interested in changing the world-only being left alone. They hate government, restrictive laws, tariffs, taxes, me, anything that keeps them in line. They have their hands in lots of countries-”
She saw that Daniels had read her thoughts.
The president shook his head. “Not here. Not like last time. We’ve checked. Nothing. The Central Asian Federation is their main concern.”
Davis said, “All of the stans were heavy with foreign debt from their Soviet domination and tries at independence. Zovastina has managed to renegotiate those obligations with the various government creditors and a large chunk of that debt has been forgiven. But an influx of new capital would help. Nothing quells progress more than long-term debt.” He paused. “There’s three point six billion dollars on deposit in a variety of banks across the globe, traced to Venetian League members.”
“An ante in a huge poker game,” Daniels said.
She realized the significance, since presidents were not prone to sound an alert based on flimsy suspicion. “Which is about to play out?”
Daniels nodded. “So far, corporations organized under Central Asian Federation law have acquired, or taken over, nearly eighty companies around the world. Pharmaceuticals, information technology, automobile and truck manufacturing, and telecommunications are just a few of the areas. Get this, they even acquired the world’s largest producer of tea bags. Goldman Sachs predicts that, if this continues, the Federation could well become the third or fourth largest economy in the world, behind us, China, and India.”
“It’s alarming,” Davis noted. “Particularly since it’s happening with little or no fanfare. Usually, corporations like to play up their acquisitions. Not here. Everything is being kept close.”
Daniels motioned with one arm. “Zovastina needs a consistent capital flow to keep the wheels of her government turning. We have taxes, she has the League. The Federation is rich in cotton, gold, uranium, silver, copper, lead, zinc-”
“And opium,” she finished.
“Zovastina,” Davis said, “has even helped with that. The Federation is now third, worldwide, for opiates seizure. She’s shut down that region for trafficking, which makes the Europeans love her. Can’t speak ill about her at all across the Atlantic. Of course, she peddles cheap oil and gas to a lot of them, too.”
“You realize,” she said, “that Naomi is probably dead because of all this.” The thought turned her stomach. Losing an agent was the worst thing she could imagine. Luckily, it rarely happened. But when it did, she always had to fight a disturbing mixture of anger and patience.
“We realize that,” Davis said. “And it won’t go unpunished.”
“She and Cotton Malone were close. They worked together at the Billet many times. A good team. He’ll be upset to hear.”
“Which is another reason why you’re here,” the president said. “A few hours ago Cotton was involved in a fire at a Greco-Roman museum in Copenhagen. Henrik Thorvaldsen owned the place and Cassiopeia Vitt helped him escape the blaze.”
“You seem up on things.”
“Part of my job description, though I’m coming to dislike this part more and more.” Daniels gestured with the medallion. “One of these was in that museum.”
She recalled what Klaus Dyhr had said. Only eight.
Davis pointed a long finger at the coin. “It’s called an elephant medallion.”
“Important?” she asked.
“Apparently so,” Daniels said. “But we need your help to learn more.”
COPENHAGEN
MONDAY, APRIL 20
12:40 A.M.
MALONE GRABBED A BLANKET AND HEADED FOR THE SOFA IN THE other room. After the fire last fall, during rebuilding he’d eliminated several of the apartment walls and rearranged others, adjusting the layout so that the fourth floor of his bookshop was now a more practical living space.
“I like the furniture,” Cassiopeia said. “Fits you.”
He’d opted away from Danish simplicity and ordered everything from London. A sofa, some chairs, tables, and lamps. Lots of wood and leather, warm and comfortable. He’d noticed that little ever changed in the decor unless another book found its way up from the ground floor or another picture of Gary arrived by e-mail and was added to the growing collection. He’d suggested Cassiopeia sleep here, in town, as opposed to driving back to Christiangade with Thorvaldsen, and she’d not argued. During dinner, he’d listened to their various explanations, mindful that Cassiopeia possessed a judgment-affecting personal stake in whatever was happening.
Which wasn’t good.
He’d recently been there himself, when Gary had been threatened.
She sat on the edge of his bed. Lamps long on charm but short on strength illuminated mustard-colored walls. “Henrik says I may need your help.”
“You don’t agree?”
“I’m not sure you do.”
“Did you love Ely?”
He was surprised at himself for asking and she did not immediately answer.
“Hard to say.”
Not an answer. “He must have been pretty special.”
“Ely was extraordinary. Smart. Alive. Funny. When he discovered those lost texts, you should have seen him. You would have thought he just found a new continent.”
“How long did you see each other?”
“Off and on for three years.”
Her eyes drifted again, like while the museum burned. They were so alike. Both of them masked feelings. But everyone had a limit. He was still dealing with the realization that Gary was not his natural son-the product of an affair his ex-wife had long ago. A picture of the boy rested on one of the nightstands and his gaze shot toward it. He’d determined that genes didn’t matter. The boy was still his son, and he and his ex-wife had made their peace. Cassiopeia, though, seemed to be wrestling with her demon. Bluntness seemed in order. “What are you trying to do?”
Her neck tensed and hands stiffened. “Live my life.”
“Is this about Ely or you?”
“Why does it matter?”
Partly, she was right. It shouldn’t matter either way. This was her fight. Not his. But he was drawn to this woman, even though she obviously cared for someone else. So he flushed emotion from his brain and asked, “What did Viktor’s fingerprints reveal? Nobody mentioned a word about that at dinner.”
“He works for Supreme Minister Irina Zovastina. Head of her personal guard.”
“Was anyone going to tell me?”
She shrugged. “Eventually. If you’d wanted to know.”
He quelled his anger, realizing she was taunting him. “You think the Central Asian Federation is directly involved?”
“The elephant medallion in the Samarkand museum has not been touched.”
Good point.
“Ely found the first tangible evidence of Alexander the Great’s lost tomb in centuries. I know he passed that on to Zovastina, because he told me about her reaction. She’s obsessed with Greek history and Alexander. The museum in Samarkand is well funded because of her interest in the Hellenistic Age. When Ely discovered Ptolemy’s riddle about Alexander’s tomb, Zovastina was fascinated.” Cassiopeia hesitated. “He died less than a week after telling her.”
“You think he was murdered?”
“His house burned to the ground. Not much left of it or him.”
The dots connected. Greek fire. “And what of the manuscripts he uncovered?”
“We had some inquiries made by academicians. No one at the museum knew anything.”
“And now more buildings are burning and medallions are being stolen.”
“Something like that.”
“What are we going to do?”
“I haven’t decided if I need your help.”
“You do.”
She appraised him with suspicion. “How much do you know about the historical record regarding Alexander’s grave?”
“He was first entombed by Ptolemy at Memphis, in southern Egypt, about a year after he died. Then Ptolemy’s son moved the body north to Alexandria.”
“That’s right. Sometime between 283 BCE, when Ptolemy I died, and 274. A mausoleum was built in a new quarter of the city, at a crossroad of two main avenues that flanked the royal palace. It eventually came to be called the Soma-Greek for body. The grandest tomb in the grandest city of the time.”
“Ptolemy was smart,” he said. “He waited until all of Alexander’s heirs were dead then proclaimed himself pharaoh. His heirs were smart, too. They reshaped Egypt into a Greek kingdom. While the other Companions mismanaged or lost their portions of the empire, the Ptolemys kept theirs for three hundred years. That Soma was used to great political advantage.”
She nodded. “An amazing story, actually. Alexander’s tomb became a place of pilgrimage. Caesar, Octavian, Hadrian, Caligula, and a dozen other emperors came to pay homage. Should have been quite a site. A gold-encrusted mummy with a golden crown, encased in a golden sarcophagus, surrounded by golden honey. For a century and a half Alexander lay undisturbed until Ptolemy IX needed money. He stripped the body of all its gold and melted the coffin, replacing it with a glass one. The Soma eventually stood for six hundred years. The last record of it existing was in 391 CE.”
He knew the rest of the tale. Both the building and the remains of Alexander the Great disappeared. For sixteen hundred years people had searched. But the greatest conqueror of the ancient world, a man venerated as a living god, had vanished.
“Do you know where the body is?” he asked.
“Ely thought he did.” The words sounded distant, as if she were talking to his ghost.
“You think he was right?”
She shrugged. “We’re going to have to go and see.”
“Where?”
She finally looked at him with tired eyes. “ Venice. But first we have to get that last medallion. The one Viktor is surely headed toward right now.”
“And where is it?”
“Interestingly, it’s in Venice, too.”
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.”
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.”
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.”
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-
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-
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-
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.
VOZROZHDENIYA ISLAND
CENTRAL ASIAN FEDERATION
1:00 P.M.
ZOVASTINA WAS THRILLED WITH THE CROWD. HER STAFF HAD promised five thousand would appear. Instead, her traveling secretary told her on the helicopter flight, northwest from Samarkand, that over twenty thousand were awaiting her arrival. More proof, she was told, of her popularity. Now, seeing the bedlam of goodwill, perfect for the television cameras focused on the dais, she could not help but be pleased.
“Look around you,” she said into the microphone, “at what we can accomplish when both our minds and our hearts work in unison.” She hesitated a moment for effect, then motioned outward. “Kantubek reborn.”
The crowd, thick as ants, cheered their approval with an enthusiasm she’d grown accustomed to hearing.
Vozrozhdeniya Island sat in the central Aral Sea, a remote wilderness that once housed the Soviet Union’s Microbiological Warfare Group, and also provided a tragic example of Asia ’s exploitation by its former masters. Here was where anthrax spores and plague bacilli were both developed and stored. After the fall of the communist government, in 1991, the laboratory staff abandoned the island and the containers holding the deadly spores, which, over the ensuing decade, developed leaks. The potential biological disaster was compounded by the receding Aral Sea. Fed by the ample Amu Darya, the wondrous lake had once been shared by Kazakhstan and Uzbekistan. But when the Soviets changed the Darya’s course and diverted the river’s flow into a twelve-hundred-kilometer-long canal-water used to grow cotton for Soviet mills-the inland sea, once one of the world’s largest freshwater bodies, began to vanish, replaced by a desert incapable of supporting life.
But she’d changed all that. The canal was now gone, the river restored. Most of her counterparts had seemed doomed to mimic their conquerors, but her brain had never atrophied from vodka. She’d always kept her eye on the prize, and learned how to both seize and hold power.
“Two hundred tons of communist anthrax was neutralized here,” she told the crowd. “Every bit of their poison is gone. And we made the Soviets pay for it.”
The crowd roared their approval.
“Let me tell you something. Once we were free, away from Moscow ’s choke hold, they had the audacity to say we owed them money.” Her arms rose into the air. “Can you imagine? They rape our land. Destroy our sea. Poison the soil with their germs. And we owe them money?” She saw thousands of heads shake. “That’s exactly what I said, too. No.”
She scanned the faces staring back at her, each bathed in bright midday sunshine.
“So we made the Soviets pay to clean up their own mess. And we closed their canal, which was sucking the life from our ancient sea.”
Never did she use the singular “I.” Always “we.”
“Many of you I’m sure, as I do, remember the tigers, wild boar, and waterfowl that thrived in the Amu Darya delta. The millions of fish that filled the Aral Sea. Our scientists know that one hundred and seventy-eight species once lived here. Now, only thirty-eight remain. Soviet progress.” She shook her head. “The virtues of communism.” She smirked. “Criminals. That’s what they were. Plain, ordinary criminals.”
The canal had been a failure not only environmentally but also structurally. Seepage and flooding had been common. Like the Soviets themselves, who cared little for efficiency, the canal lost more water than it ever delivered. As the Aral Sea dried to nothing, Vozrozhdeniya Island eventually became a peninsula, connected to the shore, and the fear rose that land mammals and reptiles would carry off the deadly biological toxins. Not anymore. The land was clean. Declared so by a United Nations inspection team, which labeled the effort “masterful.”
She raised her fist to the air. “And we told those Soviet criminals that if we could, we’d sentence each one of them to our prisons.”
The people roared more approval.
“This town of Kantubek, where we stand, here in its central plaza, has risen from the ashes. The Soviets reduced it to rubble. Now free Federation citizens will live here, in peace and harmony, on an island that is also reborn. The Aral itself is returning, its water levels rising each year, man-made desert once again becoming seabed. This is an example of what we can achieve. Our land. Our water.” She hesitated. “Our heritage.”
The crowd erupted.
Her gaze raked the faces, soaking in the anticipation her message seemed to generate. She loved being among the people. And they loved her. Acquiring power was one thing. Keeping it, quite another.
And she planned to keep it.
“My fellow citizens, know that we can do anything if we set our minds to it. How many across the globe declared we could not consolidate? How many said we’d split thanks to civil war? How many claimed we were incapable of governing ourselves? Twice we’ve conducted national elections. Free and open, with many candidates. No one can say that either contest was not fair.” She paused. “We have a constitution that guarantees human rights, along with personal, political, and intellectual freedom.”
She was enjoying this moment. The reopening of Vozrozhdeniya Island was certainly an event that demanded her presence. Federation television, along with three new independent broadcasting channels that she’d licensed to Venetian League members, were spreading her message nationwide. Those new station owners had privately promised control over what they produced, all part of the camaraderie League membership offered to fellow members, and she was glad for their presence. Hard to argue that she controlled the media when, from all outward appearances, she did not.
She stared out at the rebuilt town, its brick and stone buildings erected in the style of a century ago. Kantubek would once again be populated. Her Interior ministry had reported that ten thousand had applied for land grants on the island, another indication of the confidence the people placed in her since so many were willing to live where only twenty years ago nothing would have survived.
“Stability is the basis of everything,” she roared.
Her catchphrase, used repeatedly over the past fifteen years.
“Today, we christen this island in the name of the people of the Central Asian Federation. May our union last forever.”
She stepped from the podium as the crowd applauded.
Three of her guardsmen quickly closed ranks and escorted her off the dais. Her helicopter was waiting, as was a plane that would take her west, to Venice, where the answers to so many questions awaited.
VENICE
2:15 P.M.
MALONE STOOD BESIDE CASSIOPEIA AS SHE PILOTED THE MOTORBOAT out into the lagoon. They’d flown from Copenhagen on a direct flight, landing at Aeroporto Marco Polo an hour ago. He’d visited Venice many times in years past on assignments with the Magellan Billet. It was familiar territory, expansive and isolated, but its heart remained compact, about two miles long and a mile wide-and had wisely managed for centuries to keep the world at bay.
The boat’s bow was pointed northeast, away from the center, leading them past the glass-making center of Murano, straight for Torcello, one of the many squats of land that dotted the Venetian lagoon.
They’d rented the launch near the airport, a sleek wooden craft with enclosed cabins fore and aft. Frisky outboards skimmed the low-riding hull across the choppy swells, churning the green water behind them into a lime foam.
Over breakfast, Cassiopeia had told him about the final elephant medallion. She and Thorvaldsen had charted the thefts across Europe, noticing early on that the decadrachms in Venice and Samarkand seemed to be ignored. That was why they’d been reasonably sure the Copenhagen medallion would be next. After the fourth was stolen from a private collector in France three weeks ago, she and Thorvaldsen had waited patiently.
“They held the Venice medallion last for a reason,” Cassiopeia said to him over the engines. One of the city water buses chugged past, heading in the opposite direction. “I guess you’d like to know why?”
“The thought did occur to me.”
“Ely believed Alexander the Great may be inside St. Mark’s tomb.”
Interesting idea. Different. Nuts.
“Long story,” she said, “but he may be right. The body in St. Mark’s basilica is supposedly of a two-thousand-year-old mummy. St. Mark was mummified in Alexandria, after he died in the first century CE. Alexander is three hundred years older and was mummified, too. But in the fourth century, when Alexander disappeared from his tomb, Mark’s remains suddenly appeared in Alexandria.”
“I assume you have more evidence than that?”
“Irina Zovastina is obsessed with Alexander the Great. Ely told me all about it. She has a private collection of Greek art, an expansive library, and fashions herself an expert on Homer and the Iliad. Now she’s sending guardsmen out to collect elephant medallions and leave no trail. And the coin in Samarkand goes completely untouched.” She shook her head. “They waited for this theft to be last, so they could be near St. Mark’s.”
“I’ve been inside that basilica,” he said. “The saint’s sarcophagus is under the main altar, which weighs tons. You’d need hydraulic lifts and lots of time to get inside it. That’s impossible considering the basilica is the city’s number one tourist attraction.”
“I don’t know how she intends to do it, but I’m convinced she’s going to make a try for that tomb.”
But first, he thought, they apparently needed the seventh medallion.
He retreated from the helm down three steps into the forward cabin adorned with tasseled curtains, embroidered seats, and polished mahogany. Ornate for a rental. He’d bought a Venetian guidebook at the airport and decided to learn what he could about Torcello.
Romans first inhabited the tiny island in the fifth and sixth centuries. Then, in the eighth century, frightened mainlanders fled invading Lombards and Huns and reoccupied it. By the 1500s twenty thousand people lived in a thriving colony among churches, convents, palaces, markets, and an active shipping center. The merchants who stole the body of St. Mark from Alexandria in 828 were citizens of Torcello. The guidebook noted it as a place where “ Rome first met Byzantium.” A watershed. To the west lay the Houses of Parliament. To the east the Taj Mahal. Then, pestilent fever, malaria, and silt clogging its canals brought a decline. Its most vigorous citizens moved to central Venice. The merchant houses folded. All of the palaces became forgotten. Builders from other islands eventually scrabbled among its rubble for the right stone or sculptured cornice, and everything gradually disappeared. Marshland reclaimed high ground and now fewer than sixty people lived there in only a handful of houses.
He stared out the forward windows and spotted a single redbrick tower-old, proud, and lonely-stretching skyward. A photograph in the guidebook matched the outline. He read and learned the bell tower stood beside Torcello’s remaining claim to fame. The Basilica di Santa Maria Assunta, built in the seventh century, Venice ’s oldest house of worship. Beside it, according to the guidebook, sat a squat of a church in the shape of a Greek cross, erected six hundred years later. Santa Fosca.
The engines dimmed as Cassiopeia throttled down and the boat settled into the water. He climbed back to where she stood at the helm. Ahead he spotted thin streaks of ochre-colored sandbank cloaked in reeds, rushes, and gnarly cypresses. The boat slowed to a crawl and they entered a muddy canal, its bulwarks flanked on one side by overgrown fields and on the other by a paved lane. To their left, one of the city’s water buses was taking on passengers at the island’s only public transportation terminal.
“Torcello,” she said. “Let’s hope we got here first.”
VIKTOR STEPPED OFF THE VAPORETTO WITH RAFAEL FOLLOWING.
The water bus had delivered them from San Marco to Torcello in a laborious chug across the Venetian lagoon. He’d chosen public transportation as the most inconspicuous way to reconnoiter tonight’s target.
They followed a crowd of camera-clad tourists making their way toward the island’s two famed churches, a sidewalklike street flanking a languid canal. The path ended near a low huddle of stone buildings that accommodated a couple of restaurants, a few tourist vendors, and an inn. He’d already studied the island’s layout and knew that Torcello was a minuscule strip of land that supported artichoke farms and a few opulent residences. Two ancient churches and a restaurant were its claims to fame.
They’d flown from Hamburg, with a stop in Munich. After here, they would head back to the Federation and home, their European foray completed. Per the Supreme Minister’s orders, Viktor needed to obtain the seventh medallion before midnight, as he was due at the basilica in San Marco by one A.M.
Zovastina’s coming to Venice was highly unusual.
Whatever she’d been anticipating had apparently started.
But at least this theft should be easy.
MALONE STARED DOWN AT THE ARCHITECTURAL ELEGANCE OF the island’s bell tower, a mass of brick and marble ingeniously held together by pilasters and arches. A hundred and fifty feet tall, like a talisman in the waste, the path to the top, on ramps that wound upward along the exterior walls, had reminded him of the Round Tower in Copenhagen. They’d paid the six euros admission and made the climb to study the island from its highest point.
He stood at a chest-high wall and stared out open arches, noting how the land and water seemed to pursue each other in a tight embrace. White herons soared skyward from a grassy marsh. Orchards and artichoke fields loomed quiet. The somber scene seemed like a ghost town from the American West.
Below, the basilica stood, nothing warm or welcoming to it, a makeshift barnlike feel to its design, as if uncompleted. Malone had read in the guidebook that it was built in a hurry by men who thought the world would end in the year 1000.
“It’s a great allegory,” he said to Cassiopeia. “A Byzantine cathedral right beside a Greek church. East and West, side by side. Just like Venice.”
In front of the two churches stretched a grass-infested piazzetta. Once the center of city life, now no more than a village green. Dusty paths stretched outward, a couple leading to a second canal, more winding toward distant farmhouses. Two other stone buildings fronted the piazzetta, both small, maybe forty by twenty feet, two-storied, with gabled roofs. Together they comprised the Museo di Torcello. The guidebook noted they were once palazzos, occupied centuries ago by wealthy merchants, but were now owned by the state.
Cassiopeia pointed at the building on the left. “The medallion is in there, on the second floor. Not much of a museum. Mosaic fragments, capitals, a few paintings, some books, and coins. Greek, Roman, and Egyptian artifacts.”
He faced her. She continued to stare out over the island. To the south loomed the outline of Venice central, its campaniles reaching for a darkening sky, the hint of a storm rising. “What are we doing here?”
She did not immediately answer. He reached over and touched her arm. She shuddered at the contact, but did not resist. Her eyes watered and he wondered if Torcello’s sad atmosphere had reminded her of memories better left forgotten.
“This place is all gone,” she muttered.
They were alone at the top of the tower, the lazy silence disturbed only by footfalls, voices, and laughter from others, below, making the climb.
“So is Ely,” he said.
“I miss him.” She bit her lip.
He wondered if her burst of sincerity implied a growing trust. “There’s nothing you can do.”
“I wouldn’t say that.”
He did not like the sound of her words. “What do you have in mind?”
She did not answer and he did not press. Instead, he stared with her across the church rooftops. A few stalls selling lace, glassware, and souvenirs flanked a short lane leading from the village to the grassy piazzetta. A group of visitors were making their way toward the churches. Among them, Malone spotted a familiar face.
Viktor.
“I see him, too,” Cassiopeia said.
People arrived at the top, in the bell chamber.
“The man beside him is the one who slashed the car tires,” she said.
They watched as the two men headed straight for the museum.
“We need to get down from here,” he said. “They might decide to check the high ground, too. Remember they think we’re dead.”
“Like this whole place,” she muttered.
VENICE
3:20 P.M.
STEPHANIE HOPPED FROM THE WATER TAXI AND MADE HER WAY through the tight warren of close-quartered streets. She’d asked directions at her hotel and was following them the best she could, but Venice was a vast labyrinth. She was deep into the Dorsoduro district, a quiet, picturesque neighborhood long associated with wealth, following busy, alleylike thoroughfares lined with bustling commerce.
Ahead, she spotted the villa. Rigidly symmetrical, casting an air of lost distinction, its beauty sprang from a pleasing contrast of redbrick walls veined with emerald vines, highlighted with marble trim.
She stepped through a wrought-iron gate and announced her presence with a knock on the front door. An older woman with an airy face, dressed in a servant’s uniform, answered.
“I’m here to see Mr. Vincenti,” Stephanie said. “Tell him I bring greetings from President Danny Daniels.”
The woman appraised her with a curious look and she wondered if the name of the president of the United States struck a chord. So, to be sure, she handed the attendant a folded slip of paper. “Give this to him.”
The woman hesitated, then closed the door.
Stephanie waited.
Two minutes later the door reopened.
Wider this time.
And she was invited in.
“Fascinating introduction,” Vincenti said to her.
They sat in a rectangular room beneath a gilded ceiling, the room’s elegance highlighted by the dull gleam of lacquer that had surely coated the furniture for centuries. She sniffed the dank fragrance and thought she detected the odor of cats mixed with a scent of lemon polish.
Her host held up the note. “‘The President of the United States sent me.’ Quite a statement.” He seemed pleased at his perceived importance.
“You’re an interesting man, Mr. Vincenti. Born in upstate New York. A U.S. citizen. August Rothman.” She shook her head. “Enrico Vincenti? You changed the name. I’m curious, why?”
He shrugged. “It’s all about image.”
“It does sound more,” she hesitated, “continental.”
“Actually, a lot of thought was given to that name. Enrico came from Enrico Dandolo, thirty-ninth doge of Venice, in the late twelfth century. He led the Fourth Crusade that conquered Constantinople and ended the Byzantine Empire. Quite a man. Legendary, you might say.
“Vincenti I took from another twelfth-century Venetian. A Benedictine monk and nobleman. When his entire family was wiped out in the Aegean Sea, he applied for and got permission to dispense with his monastic vows. He married and founded five new lines of his family from his children. Quite resourceful. I admired his flexibility.”
“So you became Enrico Vincenti. Venetian aristocracy.”
He nodded. “Sounds great, no?”
“Want me to continue on what I know?”
He motioned his assent.
“You’re sixty years old. Bachelor of science from the University of North Carolina, in biology. Master’s degree from Duke University. A doctorate in virology from the University of East Anglia, the John Innes Centre, in England. Recruited there by a Pakistani pharmaceutical firm with ties to the Iraqi government. You worked for the Iraqis early on, with their initial biological weapons program, just after Saddam assumed power in 1979. At Salman Pak, north of Baghdad, operated by the Technical Research Center, which oversaw their germ search. Though Iraq signed the Biological Weapons Convention in 1972, Saddam never ratified it. You stayed with them until 1990, just before the first Gulf War went to shit in a handbasket for the Iraqis. That’s when they shut everything down and you hauled ass.”
“All correct, Ms. Nelle, or do I get to call you Stephanie?”
“Whatever you prefer.”
“Okay, Stephanie, why am I so interesting to the president of the United States?”
“I wasn’t finished.”
He motioned again for her to continue.
“Anthrax, botulinum, cholera, plague, ricin, salmonella, even smallpox-you and your colleagues dabbled with them all.”
“Didn’t your people in Washington finally figure out that was all fiction?”
“May have been in 2003 when Bush invaded, but it sure as hell wasn’t in 1990. Then, it was real. I particularly liked camel pox. You assholes thought it the perfect weapon. Safer than smallpox to handle in the lab, but a great ethnic weapon since Iraqis were generally immune thanks to all of the camels they’ve handled through the centuries. But for Westerners and Israelis, another matter entirely. Quite a deadly zoonosis.”
“More fiction,” Vincenti said, and she wondered how many times he’d voiced the same lie with similar conviction.
“Too many documents, photos, and witnesses to make that cover story stick,” she said. “That’s why you disappeared from Iraq, after 1990.”
“Get real, Stephanie, nobody in the eighties thought biological warfare was even a weapon of mass destruction. Washington could not have cared less. Saddam, at least, saw its potential.”
“We know better now. It’s quite a threat. In fact, many believe that the first biological war won’t be a cataclysmic exchange. It’ll be a low-intensity, regional conflict. A rogue state versus its neighbor. No global consensual morality will apply. Just local hatred and indiscriminate killing. Similar to the Iran/Iraq War of the nineteen-eighties where some of your bugs were actually used on people.”
“Interesting theory, but isn’t that your president’s problem? Why do I care?”
She decided to change tack. “Your company, Philogen Pharmaceutique, is quite a success story. You personally own two point four million shares of its stock, representing about forty-two percent of the company, the single largest shareholder. An impressive conglomerate. Assets at just under ten billion euros, which includes wholly owned subsidiaries that manufacture cosmetics, toiletries, soap, frozen foods, and a chain of European department stores. You bought the company fifteen years ago for practically nothing-”
“I’m sure your research showed it was nearly bankrupt at the time.”
“Which begs the question-how and why did you manage to both buy and save it?”
“Ever hear of public offerings? People invested.”
“Not really. You funneled most of the start-up capital into it. About forty million dollars, by our estimate. Quite a nest egg you amassed from working for a rogue government.”
“The Iraqis were generous. They also had a superb health plan and a wonderful retirement system.”
“Many of you profited. We monitored a lot of key microbiologists back then. You included.”
He seemed to catch the edge in her voice. “Is there a point to this visit?”
“You’re quite the businessman. From all accounts, an excellent entrepreneur. But your corporation is overextended. Your debt service is straining every resource you possess, yet you continue onward.”
Edwin Davis had briefed her well.
“Daniels looking to invest? What’s left, three years on his term? Tell him I could find a place on my board of directors for him.”
She reached into her pocket and tossed him the jacketed elephant medallion. He caught the offering with a surprising quickness.
“You know what that is?”
He studied the decadrachm. “Looks like a man fighting an elephant. Then a man standing, holding a spear. I’m afraid history is not my strong point.”
“Germs are your specialty.”
He appraised her with a look of conviction.
“When the UN weapons inspectors questioned you, after the first Gulf War, about Iraq ’s biological weapons program, you told them nothing had been developed. Lots of research, but the whole venture was underfunded and poorly managed.”
“All those toxins you mentioned? They’re bulky, difficult to store, cumbersome, and nearly impossible to control. Not practical weapons. I was right.”
“Smart guys like you can conquer those problems.”
“I’m not that good.”
“That’s what I said, too. But others disagree.”
“You shouldn’t listen to them.”
She ignored his challenge. “Within three years after you left Iraq, Philogen Pharmaceutique was up and running and you were a member of the Venetian League.” She watched to see if her words spurred a reaction. “That membership comes with a price. Quite an expensive one, I’m told.”
“I don’t believe it’s illegal for men and women to enjoy one another’s company.”
“You’re not the Rotary Club.”
“We have a purpose, quality members, and a dedication to our mission. Sounds like any service club I know of.”
“You still never answered my question,” she pointed out. “Ever seen one of those coins before?”
He tossed it back to her. “Never.”
She tried to read this man of commanding girth whose face was as deceptive as his voice. From everything she’d been told, he was a mediocre virologist with an ordinary education who had a knack for business. But he may also have been responsible for the death of Naomi Johns.
Time to find out.
“You’re not half as smart as you think you are.”
Vincenti smoothed back a rebellious lock of his thin hair. “This is becoming tiresome.”
“If she’s dead, so are you.”
She watched again for a reaction and he seemed to be weighing the minimum truth he could voice against a lie she’d never tolerate.
“Are we finished?” he asked, still with a warm cloak of politeness.
She stood. “Actually, we’re just getting started.” She held up the medallion. “On the face of this coin, hidden within the folds of the warrior’s cloak, are microletters. Amazing that ancient people could engrave like that. But I checked with experts and they could. The letters were like watermarks. Security devices. This one has two. ZH. Zeta. Eta. Mean anything to you?”
“Not a thing.”
But she caught a moment when his eyes flickered with interest. Or was it surprise? Perhaps even a nanosecond of shock.
“I asked some experts on Old Greek. They said ZH means ‘life.’ Interesting, wouldn’t you say, that someone went to the trouble of engraving tiny letters with such a message, when so few at the time could have read them. Lenses were practically unknown in those days.”
He shrugged. “Doesn’t concern me.”
VINCENTI WAITED A FULL FIVE MINUTES AFTER THE PALAZZO’S front door closed. He sat in the salon and allowed the quiet to ease his anxiety. Only a rustle of caged wings and the clicking of his canaries’ beaks disturbed the stillness. The palazzo had once been owned by a bon viveur of intellectual tastes who, centuries ago, made it a central location for Venetian literary society. Another owner took advantage of the Grand Canal and accommodated the many funeral processions, utilizing the room where he sat as a theater for autopsies and a holding place for corpses. Later, smugglers chose the house as a mart for contraband, deliberately surrounding its walls with ominous legends to keep the curious away.
He longed for those days.
Stephanie Nelle, employed with the U. S. Justice Department, sent supposedly by the president of the United States, had rattled him.
But not because of anything the Americans knew about his past-that would soon become irrelevant. And not because of what may have happened to their agent sent to spy on him-she was dead and buried, never to be found. No. His stomach ached because of the letters on the coin.
ZH.
Zeta. Eta.
Life.
“You can come in now,” he called out.
Peter O’Conner strolled into the room, having listened to the entire conversation from the adjacent parlor. One of Vincenti’s many house cats scampered into the main parlor, too.
“What do you think?” Vincenti asked.
“She’s a messenger who chose her words with care.”
“That medallion she showed me is exactly what Zovastina is after. It matches the description I read yesterday in the materials you gave me at the hotel.” But he still did not know why the coins were so important.
“There’s something new. Zovastina is coming to Venice. Today.”
“On a state visit? I’ve heard nothing of that.”
“Not official. In and out tonight. Private plane. Special arrangement, by the Vatican, with Italian customs. A source called and told me.”
Now he knew. Something was definitely happening and Zovastina was several steps ahead of him. “We need to know when she arrives and where she goes.”
“I’m already on it. We’ll be ready.”
Time for him to move, as well. “Are we ready in Samarkand?”
“Just say the word.”
He decided to take advantage of his enemy’s absence. No sense waiting till the weekend. “Have the jet ready. We’ll leave within the hour. But while we’re gone, make sure we know exactly what the Supreme Minister is doing here.”
O’Conner nodded his understanding.
Now for what really troubled him. “One more thing. I need to send a message to Washington. One that will be perfectly understood. Have Stephanie Nelle killed. And get that medallion.”
5:50 P.M.
MALONE ENJOYED HIS PLATE OF SPINACH PASTA SWIRLED WITH cheese and ham. Viktor and his cohort had left the island an hour ago, after spending twenty minutes inside the museum, then surveying the area around the basilica, especially the garden that separated the church from the Canale Borgognoni, a riverlike waterway that stretched between Torcello and the next patchy island over. He and Cassiopeia had watched from varying positions. Viktor had not seemed to notice anything, surely concentrating on the task that lay ahead, comfortable in his anonymity.
After Viktor and his accomplice departed on the water bus, he and Cassiopeia retreated to the village. One of the vendors peddling souvenirs told them that the restaurant, Locanda Cipriani, which had been around for decades, was regarded as one of Venice ’s most famous. People boated over each evening to enjoy its ambiance. Inside, among wooden ceilings, terra-cotta brick, and impressive bas-reliefs, hung a gallery of photographs-Hemingway, Picasso, Diana and Charles, Queen Elizabeth, Churchill, countless actors and performers-each one personalized with a testament of thanks.
They were seated in the garden, beneath a pergola of sweet-smelling roses, in the shadow of the two churches and campanile, the tranquil oasis framed by blossoming pomegranate trees. He had to admit, the food was excellent. Even Cassiopeia seemed hungry. Neither one of them had eaten since breakfast in Copenhagen.
“He’ll be back after dark,” she quietly said.
“Another bonfire?”
“Seems their way, though it’s not necessary. Nobody will miss that coin.”
After Viktor left, they’d ventured inside the museum. Cassiopeia had been right. Not much there. Bits and pieces, fragments of columns, capitals, mosaics, and a few paintings. On the second floor, two rickety glass-topped cases displayed pottery shards, jewelry, and ancient household items, all supposedly found in and around Torcello. The elephant medallion lay in one of the cases, among a variety of coinage. Malone had noticed that the building possessed no alarms or security and the lone attendant, a heavyset woman in a plain white dress, seemed only concerned that no one take photographs.
“I’m going to kill the son of a bitch,” Cassiopeia muttered.
The declaration did not surprise him. He’d sensed her rising anger in the bell tower. “You think Irina Zovastina ordered Ely’s murder.”
She’d stopped eating.
“Any proof, besides the fact that his house burned to the ground?”
“She did it. I know it.”
“Actually, you don’t know crap.”
She sat immobile. Beyond the garden, dusk was beginning to take hold. “I know enough.”
“Cassiopeia, you’re leaping to conclusions. I agree, the fire is suspect, but if she did it, you need to know why.”
“When Gary was threatened, what did you do?”
“I got him back. Unharmed.”
He saw she knew he was right. First rule of a mission. Never lose sight of the goal.
“I don’t need your advice.”
“What you need to do is stop and think.”
“Cotton, there’s more happening here than you realize.”
“That’s a shocker.”
“Go home. Let me be.”
“Can’t do that.”
A vibration in his trouser pocket startled him. He removed the cell phone, noticed the number, and said to her, “It’s Henrik.” He answered.
“Cotton, President Daniels just called.”
“I’m sure that was interesting.”
“Stephanie is in Venice. She was sent there to see a man named Enrico Vincenti. The president is concerned. They’ve lost contact.”
“Why call you?”
“He was looking for you, though I sensed he knew you were already here.”
“Not a hard thing to check, what with passport scans made at the airport. Provided you know what country to check.”
“Apparently he knew the right one.”
“Why was Stephanie sent here?”
“He said this Vincenti is connected to Irina Zovastina. I know of Vincenti. He’s a problem. Daniels also told me that another agent has been missing now for over a day and is presumed dead. He said you knew her. A woman named Naomi Johns.”
He shut his eyes. They had joined the Magellan Billet together and worked as a team several times. A good agent. A better friend. That was the problem with his fomer profession-rarely was someone fired. You either quit, retired, or died. He’d attended many memorials.
“Vincenti implicated in that?” he asked.
“Daniels thought so.”
“Tell me about Stephanie.”
“She’s staying at the Montecarlo, a block north and behind the basilica in San Marco, on the Calle degli Specchieri.”
“Why not use one of their own people?”
“He said Naomi Johns was their person on the scene. No one else in position. He was hoping I could contact you and ask if you’d check on Stephanie. Is it possible?”
“I’ll take care of it.”
“How are things there?”
He stared across the table at Cassiopeia. “Not good.”
“Tell Cassiopeia the package she ordered will be there shortly.”
He clicked off and asked her, “You called Henrik?”
She nodded. “Three hours ago. After we spotted our thieves.”
They’d split up and reconned the two museums separately.
“Stephanie’s in Venice and may be in trouble,” he said. “I have to go see about her.”
“I can handle things here.”
He doubted that.
“They’ll wait till it’s dark before returning,” she said. “I asked. This island is deserted at night, except for people who come over for dinner here. Closing time is nine P.M. The last water bus leaves at ten. By then, everyone is gone.”
A waiter delivered a silver box, wrapped in a red ribbon, along with a long cloth bag, maybe three feet, it, too, tied with a decorative bow. He explained that a water taxi had delivered both a few moments ago. Malone tipped him two euros.
Cassiopeia unwrapped the box, peeked, then passed it to him. Inside lay two automatic pistols with spare magazines.
He motioned at the bag. “And that?”
“A surprise for our thieves.”
He didn’t like the implications.
“You check on Stephanie,” she said. “Time for Viktor to see a ghost.”
9:40 P.M.
MALONE FOUND THE HOTEL MONTECARLO EXACTLY WHERE Thorvaldsen had directed, hidden along a hallwaylike street lined with shops and busy cafés a hundred feet north of the basilica. He wove his way through a dense evening crowd to the glass-fronted entrance and entered a lobby where a Middle Eastern man sporting a white shirt, tie, and black pants waited behind a counter.
“Prego,” Malone said. “English?”
The man smiled. “Of course.”
“I’m looking for Stephanie Nelle. American. She’s staying here.”
Recognition instantly came to the other man’s face, so he asked, “Which room?”
The man searched the key rack behind him. “Two-ten.”
Malone stepped toward a marble stairway.
“But she’s not there.”
He turned back.
“She went out in the square a few minutes ago. For a gelato. Just dropped her key.” The attendant held up a heavy chunk of brass with 210 etched on the side.
How different it was in Europe learning things. That would have cost him at least a hundred dollars at home. Still, nothing about this seemed right. Thorvaldsen said Washington had lost contact with Stephanie. But clearly she’d been in the hotel and, like all Magellan Billet agents, carried a world phone.
And yet she’d just casually left her hotel in search of an ice cream?
“Any idea where?”
“I directed her to the arcade. In front of the basilica. Good treats there.”
He liked the stuff, too. So why not?
They’d both have one.
CASSIOPEIA ASSUMED A POSITION NEAR WHERE THE MUDDY CANAL drained into the lagoon, not far from Torcello’s public transportation terminal. If her instincts proved correct, Viktor and his cohort would return here sometime in the next couple of hours.
Darkness cloaked the island.
Only the restaurant where she and Malone had eaten remained open, but she knew it would close in another half hour. She’d also checked the two churches and the museum. Both were locked down, all the employees departing on the water bus that left an hour ago.
Through a thickening mist shrouding the lagoon she spotted boats crisscrossing in all directions, confined, she knew, to marked channels that acted like highways on the shallow water. What she was about to do would cross a moral line-one she’d never breached before. She’d killed, but only when forced. This was different. Her blood ran cold, which frightened her.
But she owed Ely.
She thought of him every day.
Especially about their time in the mountains.
She stared out over the mass of rock sloping into steeply falling hills, ravines, gorges, and precipices. She’d learned that the Pamirs were a place of violent storms and earthquakes, of constant mists and soaring eagles. Desolate and lonely. Only a wild barking tore through the silence.
“You like this, don’t you?” Ely asked.
“I like you.”
He smiled. He was in his late thirties, broad-shouldered, with a bright, round face and mischievous eyes. He was one of the few men she’d encountered who made her feel mentally inadequate, and she loved that feeling. He’d taught her so much.
“Coming here is one of the great perks of my job,” Ely said.
He’d told her about his retreat in the mountains, east of Samarkand, close to the Chinese border, but this was her first visit. The three-room cabin was built with stout timber, nestled in the woods off the main highway, about two thousand meters above sea level. A short walk through the trees brought them to this perch and the spectacular mountain view.
“You own the cabin?” she asked.
He shook his head. “The widow of a shopkeeper in the village owns it. She offered it to me last year, when I came here for a visit. The money I pay in rent helps her live, and I get to enjoy all this.”
She loved his quiet manner. Never raised his voice or uttered a profanity. Just a simple man who loved the past. “Have you found what you wanted?”
He motioned to the rocky ground and the magenta earth. “Here?”
She shook her head. “In Asia.”
He seemed to consider her question in earnest. She allowed him the luxury of his thoughts and watched as snow trickled down one of the distant flanks.
“I believe I have,” he said.
She grinned at his assertion. “And what have you accomplished?”
“I met you.”
Flattery never worked with her. Men tried all the time. But with Ely it was different. “Besides that,” she said.
“I’ve learned that the past never dies.”
“Can you talk about it?”
The barking stopped and the weak patter of some far-off rivulet could be heard.
“Not now,” he said.
She wrapped her arm around him, brought him close, and said, “Whenever you’re ready.”
Her eyes moistened at the memory. Ely had been special in so many ways. His death came as a shock, similar to when she learned that her father died, or when her mother succumbed to a cancer nobody knew she’d harbored. Too much pain. Too many heartbreaks.
She spotted a pair of yellow lights heading her way, the boat plowing a course straight for Torcello. Two water taxis had already come and gone, shuttling patrons to and from the restaurant.
This could be another.
She’d meant what she’d said to Malone. Ely had been murdered. She possessed no proof. Just her gut. But that feeling had always served her well. Thorvaldsen, God bless him, had sensed she needed a resolution, which was why he’d sent, without argument, the cloth bag she cradled in a tight embrace, and the gun snuggled at her belt. She hated Irina Zovastina, and Viktor, and anyone else who’d driven her to this moment.
The boat slowed, its engine weakening.
The low-lying craft was similar to the one she and Malone had rented. Its course was straight for the canal entrance and, as the craft drew closer, in the amber light from its helm, she spotted not a nondescript taximan but Viktor.
Early.
Which was fine.
She wanted to handle this without Malone.
STEPHANIE EASED ACROSS SAN MARCO SQUARE, THE HIGH GOLDEN baubles of the basilica lit to the night. Chairs and tables stretched out from the arcades across the famous pavement in symmetrical rows. A couple of ensembles stringed away in blithe disharmony. The usual rabble of tourists, guides, vendors, beggars, and touts seemed diminished by the deteriorating weather.
She passed the celebrated bronze flagpoles and the impressive campanile, closed for the night. A smell of fish, pepper, and a hint of clove caught her attention. Somber pools of light illuminated the square in a golden hue. Pigeons, which dominated by day, were gone. Any other time the scene would be romantic.
But now she was on guard.
Ready.
MALONE SEARCHED THE CROWD FOR STEPHANIE AS THE BELLS high in the campanile pealed out ten P.M. A breeze blew in from the south and swirled the mist-muffled air. He was glad for his jacket, beneath which he concealed one of the guns Thorvaldsen had provided Cassiopeia.
The brightly lit basilica dominated one end of the old square, a museum the other, everything mellowed by years of glory and splendor. Visitors milled through the long arcades, many searching the shop windows for possible treasures. The trattorias, coffee shops, and gelato stands, shielded from the weather by the arcade, were all doing a brisk business.
He surveyed the piazza. Maybe six hundred feet long by three hundred wide. Bordered on three sides by a continuous row of artistic buildings that seemed to form one vast marble palace. Across the damp square, through bobbing umbrellas, he spotted Stephanie, who was walking briskly toward the south arcade.
He stood beneath the north arcade, which stretched to his right for what seemed like forever from the basilica, toward the museum at the far end.
Among the crowd, one man caught his attention.
He stood alone, dressed in an olive green overcoat, his hands stuffed into his coat pockets. Something about the way he stopped and started down the arcade, hesitating at each archway, his attention focused outward, caught Malone’s attention.
Malone decided to take advantage of his anonymity and head toward the problem. He kept one eye on Stephanie and the other on the man in the olive coat. It only took a moment for him to determine that the man was definitely interested in her.
Then he spied more trouble in a beige raincoat at the far end of the arcade, the other man’s attention also directed out into the piazza.
Two suitors.
Malone kept walking, taking in the voices, laughter, a fragrance of perfume, the click-clack of heels. The two men joined together, then abandoned their positions, turning left, hustling toward the south arcade, which Stephanie had now entered.
Malone veered left, out into the mist, and trotted across the square.
The two men advanced parallel to him, their images illuminated between each of the arches. The thin strain of one of the café orchestras masked all sound.
Malone slowed and wove his way through a maze of tables, empty thanks to the inclement weather. Beneath the covered arcade, Stephanie stood before a glass case studying the ice cream.
The two men rounded the corner a hundred feet away.
He stepped up beside her and said, “The chocolate chip is excellent.”
Surprise invaded her face. “Cotton, what in-”
“No time. We have company, behind me, coming this way.”
He saw her glance over his shoulder.
He turned.
Guns appeared.
He shoved Stephanie away from the counter and together they fled the arcade, back into the piazza.
He gripped his gun and readied himself for a fight.
But they were trapped. A football field-size open square spread out behind them. Nowhere to go.
“Cotton,” Stephanie said. “I have this under control.”
He stared at her, and hoped to heaven she was right.
VIKTOR INCHED THE BOAT THROUGH THE NARROW CANAL AND passed beneath a rickety arched bridge. He wasn’t planning on tying up at the waterway’s end, near the restaurant, he just wanted to make sure the village had cleared out for the night. He was glad for the wet weather, a typical Italian storm had blown in from the sea, rain coming off and on, more a nuisance than a distraction, but enough to provide them with great cover.
Rafael kept an eye out on the blackened banks. High tide had arrived two hours ago, which should make their eventual landing point that much more accessible. He’d spotted the location earlier. Adjacent to the basilica, where a sluggish canal cut a broad path across the breadth of the island. A concrete dock, near the basilica, would provide the stopping point.
Ahead, he spotted the village.
Dark and quiet.
No boats.
They’d just come from the warehouse Zovastina had directed him toward. True to her word, the Supreme Minister had planned ahead. Greek fire, guns, and ammunition were stored there. He wondered, though, about torching the museum. It seemed unnecessary, but Zovastina had made clear that nothing should remain.
“Looks okay,” Rafael said.
He agreed.
So he shifted the boat’s throttle into neutral, then reversed the engine.
CASSIOPEIA SMILED. SHE’D BEEN RIGHT. THEY WOULDN’T BE FOOLISH enough to dock at the village. They’d intentionally reconnoitered the other canal that ran beside the basilica as their destination.
She watched the boat’s outline turn one hundred eighty degrees and leave the canal. She reached back, found the gun Thorvaldsen had sent, and chambered a round. She gripped both the gun and the cloth bag and fled her hiding place, keeping her eyes locked out on the water.
Viktor and his accomplice found the lagoon.
Engines revved.
The boat veered right, beginning its circumnavigation of the island.
She trotted through the soggy night, toward the churches, one stop to make along the way.
STEPHANIE WAS PUZZLED BY MALONE’S PRESENCE. ONLY ONE WAY she could have been found. No time at the moment, though, to consider the implications.
“Do it now,” she said into the lapel mike.
Three pops echoed across the piazza and one of the armed men crumpled to the pavement. She and Malone dove to the damp flagstones as the remaining man sought cover. Malone reacted with the skill of the agent he’d once been and rolled himself back into the arcade, firing twice, trying to flush the remaining attacker out into the open square.
People scattered in a frenzy, as a panic overtook San Marco.
Malone sprang to his feet and hugged the wet side of one of the arches. The assailant stood fifty feet away, caught in a crossfire between Malone and the rifleman Stephanie had stationed atop the building on the north side.
“Care to tell me what’s happening?” Malone asked, not taking his eyes off the man.
“Ever heard of bait?”
“Yeah, and it’s a bitch on that hook.”
“I have men in the square.”
He risked a look around, but saw nothing. “They invisible?”
She looked around, too. No one was coming their way. Everyone was fleeing toward the basilica. A familiar anger swelled inside her.
“Police will be here any second,” he said.
She realized that could be a problem. Her rules at the Magellan Billet discouraged agents from involving the locals. They were usually not helpful or were downright hostile, and she’d seen evidence of that, firsthand, in Amsterdam.
“He’s on the move,” Malone said, as he rushed forward.
She followed and said into the mike, “Get out of here.”
Malone was running to an exit that led from the arcade, away from the square, back into the dark streets of Venice. At the exit’s end a pedestrian bridge arced over one of the canals.
She saw Malone race across it.
MALONE KEPT RUNNING. CLOSED SHOPS LINED BOTH SIDES OF THE ridiculously narrow lane. Just ahead, the street right-angled. A few pedestrians turned the corner. He slowed and concealed the gun beneath his jacket, keeping his fingers tight on the trigger.
He stopped at the next corner, embracing the gleam of a wet store window. He swallowed hot, heavy gulps of air and carefully peered around the edge.
A bullet whizzed past and ricocheted off the stone.
Stephanie found him.
“Isn’t this foolish?” she asked.
“Don’t know. It’s your party.”
He risked another look.
Nothing.
He abandoned his position and rushed forward another thirty feet to where the street turned again. A glance around the corner and he saw more closed shops and deep shadows and a misty murk that could conceal almost anything.
Stephanie approached, holding a gun.
“Aren’t you the little field agent?” he said. “Carrying a weapon now?”
“Seems I’ve had a lot of use for one lately.”
So had he, but she was right. “This is foolish. We’re going to get shot or arrested if we keep going. What are you doing here?”
“That was going to be my question for you. This is my job. You’re a bookseller. Why did Danny Daniels send you?”
“He said they’d lost contact with you.”
“No one tried to contact me.”
“Seems our president apparently wants me involved, but didn’t have the courtesy to ask.”
Shouts and screams could be heard from behind them in the square.
But he had a greater concern. Torcello. “I have a boat docked just beyond San Marco, at the quayside.” He pointed right at another alleylike street. “We should be able to get there if we head that way.”
“Where are we going?” Stephanie asked.
“To help someone who needs even more help than you do.”
VIKTOR KILLED THE ENGINE AND ALLOWED THE BOAT TO GENTLY touch the stone dock. A muted scene of slate grays, muddy greens, and pale blues engulfed them. The iron silhouette of the basilica rose thirty meters away, just past a jagged patch of stubbled shadows that defined a garden and orchard. Rafael emerged from the aft cabin carrying two shoulder bags and said, “Eight packs and one turtle ought to be enough. If we torch the bottom, the rest will burn easily.”
Rafael understood the ancient potion and Viktor had come to rely on that expertise. He watched as his partner gently laid the rucksacks down and stepped back into the cabin, toting up one of the robotic turtles.
“He’s charged and ready.”
“Why is it a ‘he’?”
“I don’t know. Seems appropriate.”
Viktor smiled. “We need a rest.”
“A few days off would be good. Maybe the minister will give us the time, as a reward.”
He laughed. “The minister doesn’t believe in rewards.”
Rafael adjusted the straps on the two packs. “A few days in the Maldives would be great. Lying on a beach. Warm water.”
“Stop dreaming. Not going to happen.”
Rafael shouldered one of the heavy rucksacks. “Nothing wrong with dreaming. Especially out here, in this rain.”
He grabbed the turtle as Rafael lifted the other satchel. “In and out. Quick and fast. Okay?”
His partner nodded. “Should be an easy run.”
He agreed.
CASSIOPEIA STOOD ON THE BASILICA’S FRONT PORCH, USING ITS shadows and six towering columns for cover. The mist had evolved into a drizzle, but thankfully the damp night was warm. A steady breeze kept the froth stirred and masked sounds she desperately needed to hear. Like the engine on the boat, just beyond the garden to her right, which should be there by now.
Two pebbled paths led away, one to a stone pier that was surely Viktor’s stopping point, the other to the water itself. She needed to be patient, to allow them to enter the museum and make their way to the second floor.
Then give them a dose of their own medicine.
STEPHANIE STOOD BESIDE MALONE AS HE EASED THE BOAT AWAY from the concrete dock. Police cruisers were arriving, tying up at the quayside mooring posts where San Marco ended at the lagoon’s edge. Emergency lights strobed the darkness.
“All hell is going to break loose out there,” Malone said.
“Daniels should have thought about that before he interfered.”
Malone followed the lighted channel markers northward, paralleling the shore. More police boats raced by, sirens blasting. She found her world phone, dialed a number, then stepped close to Malone and switched to “Speaker.”
“Edwin,” she said. “You’re lucky you’re not here or I’d kick your ass.”
“Don’t you work for me?” Davis asked.
“I had three men in that square. Why weren’t they there when I needed them?”
“We sent Malone. I hear he’s equal to three men.”
“Whoever you are,” Malone said, “flattery would normally work. But I’m with her. You called her backup off?”
“She had the roof sniper and you. That was enough.”
“Now I’m really going to kick your ass,” she said.
“How about we get through this, then you can have the opportunity.”
“What the hell’s going on?” she said, voice rising. “Why is Cotton here?”
“I need to know what happened.”
She sucked in her anger and provided a brief summary. Then said, “Lots going on in that square right now. Plenty of attention.”
“Not necessarily a bad thing,” Davis said.
The original idea had been to see if Vincenti would act. Men had been staking out her hotel all evening and, when she’d left, they’d promptly headed upstairs, surely intent on finding the medallion. She wondered why the change in strategy-involving Malone-but held that inquiry and said into the phone, “You still haven’t said why Cotton is here.”
Malone steered left as they rounded the shoreline, the compass indicating northeast, and added power to the engines.
“What are you doing right now?” Davis asked.
“Heading into another problem,” Malone said. “You need to answer her question.”
“We want San Marco in an uproar tonight.”
She waited for more.
“We’ve learned that Irina Zovastina is on her way to Venice. She’ll be landing within the next two hours. Unusual, to say the least. A head of state making an unannounced visit to another country for no apparent reason. We need to find out what she’s doing there.”
“Why don’t you ask her?” Malone said.
“Are you always so helpful?”
“It’s one of my better traits.”
“Mr. Malone,” Davis said. “We know about the fire in Copenhagen and the medallions. Stephanie has one of them with her. Can you cut me some slack and help us out?”
“Is this that bad?” she asked.
“It’s not good.”
She saw that Malone’s cooperation was never in doubt. “Where is Zovastina headed?”
“Into the basilica, around one A.M.”
“You apparently have good information.”
“One of those impeccable sources. So damn impeccable I have to wonder.”
The line went silent a moment.
“I’m not wild about any of this,” Davis finally said. “But, believe me, we have no choice.”
VIKTOR STEPPED INTO THE VILLAGE GREEN, BEFORE THE BASILICA and its companion church, studying the Museo di Torcello. He laid his shoulder pack on a chunk of marble carved into a thronelike perch. He’d heard earlier that it was called Sedia d’Attila, Attila’s Seat. Supposedly, Attila the Hun himself had sat there, but he doubted that claim.
He studied their final target. The museum was a squat two-story rectangle, maybe twenty by ten meters, with a set of double windows, top and bottom, at each end, barred with wrought iron. A bell tower jutted skyward from one side. The piazzetta around him was dotted with trees and displayed, across the trimmed grass, remnants of marble columns and carved stone.
Double wooden doors in the center of the museum’s ground floor provided the only entrance. They opened outward and were barred with a thick piece of blackened lumber laid across their center, held close by iron brackets. Padlocks at each end clamped the bar in place.
He motioned at the doors and said, “Burn them off.”
Rafael removed a plastic bottle from one of the shoulder bags. He followed his partner to the doors where Rafael carefully doused both padlocks with Greek fire. He stood back as Rafael removed a striker and sparked both locks into a brilliant blue blaze.
Amazing stuff. Even metal succumbed to its fury-not enough to melt, but plenty to weaken.
He watched as the flames burned for nearly two minutes before consuming themselves.
CASSIOPEIA KEPT HER VIGIL THIRTY METERS AWAY AS TWO POINTS of intense blue light, like distant stars, glowed and then extinguished. Two thrusts of a crowbar and the thieves unbarred the museum’s main doors.
They carried their equipment inside.
She saw that they’d brought one of the robotic gizmos, which meant the Museo di Torcello would soon be ash.
One of the men closed the double doors.
The piazzetta once again loomed dark, damp, and sinister. Only the click of rain finding puddles disturbed the silence. She stood on the basilica’s porch and contemplated what she was about to do, then noticed the wooden bar that had secured the doors had been left outside.
VIKTOR CLIMBED A SPIRAL STAIRCASE TO THE MUSEUM’S SECOND floor, his eyes adjusted to the murky night. He’d discerned enough shadows for him to navigate his way through the sparse ground-floor exhibits and up to the equally sparse top level, where three oversized glass-topped cases waited. In the middle case, right where he’d noted earlier, lay the elephant medallion.
Rafael was below, positioning Greek fire packets for maximum destruction. He carried two packs earmarked for the second floor. With a quick blow from the crowbar, he shattered the glass and, from among the shards, carefully retrieved the medallion. He then tossed one of the three-quart vacuum packs into the display case.
The other he laid on the floor.
He pocketed the medallion.
Hard to say if it was genuine but, from a casual long-distance inspection earlier, it had certainly looked authentic.
He glanced at his watch. Ten forty P.M. Ahead of schedule. More than enough time to meet the Supreme Minister. Maybe Zovastina would reward them with a few days’ rest.
He descended the stairway to ground level.
They’d noted earlier that the flooring on both levels was wood. Once the fire below started to rage, it would only be a few minutes before the packs overhead joined the mélange.
Through the darkness he saw Rafael bent over the turtle. He heard a click and the device began to roam. The robot halted at the room’s far end and started dousing the outer wall, spewing odorous Greek fire.
“Everything’s ready,” Rafael said.
The turtle continued its task, unconcerned that it would shortly disintegrate. Just a machine. No feelings. No remorse. Precisely, he thought, what Irina Zovastina expected from him.
Rafael pushed on the main doors.
They did not open.
His partner shoved again.
Nothing.
Viktor stepped close and pressed his palm flat against the wood. The double doors were barred. From the outside. A surge of anger swept through him and he rammed himself into the wood, but all he did was pound his shoulder. The thick slabs, held upright with iron hinges, refused to yield.
His gaze raked the darkness.
While reconnoitering the building earlier he’d noted bars on the windows. Not an obstacle since they planned to enter and leave through the front door. Now, though, the barred windows assumed a greater significance.
He stared at Rafael. Though he could not see his partner’s face he knew exactly what he was thinking.
They were trapped.