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.
THIRTY-NINE
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.
PART THREE
FORTY
SAMARKAND
TUESDAY, APRIL 2 1
1:40 A.M.
VINCENTI CAREFULLY DESCENDED THE STAIRWAY FROM THE PRIVATE jet. The trip east from Venice to the Central Asian Federation had taken nearly six hours, but he'd made the journey many times and had learned to enjoy the jet's luxury and rest during the long flight. Peter O'Conner followed him into a balmy night.
“I love Venice,” Vincenti said, “but I'll enjoy when I finally live here. I won't miss all that rain.”
A car waited on the tarmac and he headed straight for it, stretching his stiff legs, working his tired muscles. A driver emerged and opened the rear door. Vincenti climbed inside as O'Conner sat in the front passenger's seat. A Plexiglass partition assured the rear compartment privacy. Already sitting in the back was a black-haired, olive-skinned man with eyes that always, even in the face of adversity, seemed to find life comic. A heavy stubble coated a square jaw and thin neck, the youthful features, even at this late hour, quick and observant. Kamil Karimovich Revin served as the Federation's foreign minister. Barely forty, with few or no credentials, he was generally regarded as the Supreme Minister's lapdog, doing exactly what she commanded. Several years ago, though, Vincenti had noticed something else.
“Welcome back,” Kamil said to him. “It's been a few months.”
“Lots to do, my friend. The League consumes much of my time.”
“I've been dealing with your members. Many are beginning to select home sites.”
One of the arrangements made with Zovastina had been for League members to relocate to the Federation. A good move for both sides. Their new business utopia would free them all from burdensome taxation. But the influx of their capital into the economy, in the form of goods, services, and direct investment, would more than compensate the Federation for any taxes that could be imposed. Even better, an entire upper class would be instantly established, with no trickle-down effect that Western democracies loved to impose, where–quite unfairly, Vincenti had always thought–the few paid for the many.
League members had been encouraged to purchase tracts and many had, including himself, paying the government as most Federation land, thanks to the Soviets, lay in public hands. Vincenti had actually been part of the committee that negotiated this aspect of the League's deal with Zovastina, and had been one of the first to buy, acquiring two hundred acres of valley and mountain in what was once eastern Tajikistan.
“How many have closed deals?” he asked.
“One hundred and ten so far. Lots of varied tastes in locations, but in and around Samarkand has been the most popular.”
“Near the source of power. That town and Tashkent will soon become world financial centers.”
The car left the air terminal and began the four-kilometer trek into town. Another improvement would be a new airport. Three League members had already drawn plans for a more modern facility.
“Why are you here?” Kamil asked. “Mr. O'Conner was not all that forthcoming when I spoke to him earlier.”
“We appreciate the information on Zovastina's trip. Any idea why she's in Venice?”
“She left no word, saying only she would return shortly.”
“So she's in Venice doing who knows what.”
“And if she discovers you're here plotting,” Kamil said, “we're all dead. Remember, her little germs cannot be defended against.”
The foreign minister was one of a new breed of politicians that had risen with the Federation. And though Zovastina was the first to become Supreme Minister, she would not be the last.
“I can counter her bugs.”
A smile came to the Asian's face. “Can you kill her and be done with it?”
He appreciated raw ambition. “That would be foolish.”
“What do you have in mind?”
“Something better.”
“Will the League stand with you?”
“The Council of Ten has authorized everything I'm doing.”
Kamil grinned. “Not everything, my friend. I know better. That attempt on her life. That was you. I could tell. And you bargained that assassin away. How else would she have been ready?”
He paused. “I wonder. Will I be bargained away, too?”
“Do you want to succeed her?”
“I prefer to live.”
He glanced out the window at flat roofs, blue domes, and spindly minarets. Samarkand lay in a natural bowl, surrounded by mountains. Night camouflaged a hazy smog that perpetually blanketed the ancient earth. In the distance, factory lights cast a fuzzy halo. What once supplied the Soviet Union with manufactured goods now churned out Federation gross national product. The League had already invested billions for modernization. More was coming. So he needed to know, “How much do you want to be Supreme Minister?”
“It all depends. Can your League make that happen?”
“Her germs don't scare me. They shouldn't scare you, either.”
“Oh, my stout friend, I've seen too many enemies die suddenly. It's amazing that no one has ever noticed. But her diseases work well. Just a cold or a flu that turns bad.”
Though Federation bureaucrats, including Zovastina, detested anything Soviet, they'd learned well from their corrupt predecessors. That was why Vincenti was always careful with his words but generous with promises. “Nothing can be gained without risk.”
Revin shrugged. “True. But sometimes the risks are too great.”
Vincenti gazed out at Samarkand. Such an old place, dating from the fifth century before Christ. The City of Shadows, Garden of the Soul, Jewel of Islam, Capital of the World. A Christian see before Islam and the Russians conquered. Thanks to the Soviets, Tashkent, two hundred kilometers to the northeast, had grown far larger and more prosperous. But Samarkand remained the region's soul.
He stared across at Kamil Revin. “I'm personally about to take a dangerous step. My time as head of the Council of Ten ends soon. If we're going to do this, we have to do it now. Time for you, as we say where I come from, to shit or get off the pot. You in or out?”
“I doubt I would live to see tomorrow if I said out. I'm in.”
“Glad we understand each other.”
“And what is it you're about to do?” the foreign minister asked. He gazed back out at the city. On one of the hundreds of mosques that dominated the landscape, in brilliantly illuminated Arabic calligraphy, letters at least a meter high proclaimed
“God Is Immortal.” For all its elaborate history, Samarkand still cast a bland institutional solemnity, derived from a culture that had long ago lost all imagination. Zovastina seemed intent on changing that malady. Her vision was grand and clear. He had lied when he told Stephanie Nelle that history was not his strong point. In reality, it was his goal. But he hoped he wasn't making a mistake breathing life into the past.
No matter. Too late to turn back now.
So he stared across at his coconspirator and answered the question honestly.
“Change the world.”
FORTY-ONE
TORCELLO
VIKTOR'S MIND RACED. THE TURTLE CONTINUED ITS PROGRAMMED assault of the museum's ground floor, leaving a stinking trail of Greek fire. He thought about trying to force the double doors with Rafael, but he knew the wood's breadth and the bar outside would make any effort foolish.
The windows seemed the only way out.
“Get one of the vacuum packs,” he said to Rafael, as his eyes raked the room and he decided on the set of windows to his left. br />
Rafael retrieved one of the clear plastic bags from the floor.
The Greek fire should weaken the aged wrought iron, along with the bolts that held the bars to the exterior wall, enough that they could force them. He drew one of the guns they'd obtained in the warehouse and was just about to shoot out the panes when, from the far side of the room, glass shattered.
Someone had shot out the window from outside.
He ducked for cover, as did Rafael, waiting to see what would happen next. The turtle continued its rhythmic crawl, stopping and starting as it encountered obstacles. He had no idea how many people were outside and whether or not he and Rafael were vulnerable from the three other sets of windows.
He felt the edge of danger on which they were balancing. One thing was clear. The turtle needed to be stopped. That would buy them some time.
But still.
They knew nothing.
CASSIOPEIA STUFFED THE GUN BACK AGAINST HER SPINE AND gripped the fiberglass bow she'd removed from the cloth bag. Thorvaldsen had not questioned why she needed a bow and high-velocity arrows, and she'd not really known if the weapon would prove useful.
But now it certainly would.
She was standing thirty meters from the museum, dry under the basilica's porch. On her way from the other side of the island, she had stopped in the village and retrieved one of the oil lamps that illuminated the quayside near the restaurant. She'd noticed the lanterns earlier when she and Malone first arrived, which was another reason why she'd asked Thorvaldsen for the bow. She'd then found some rags in a trash bin near a vendor stall. While the thieves tended to their mission inside the museum, she'd prepared four arrows, wrapping strips of cloth around the metal tips and soaking them with lamp oil.
Matches were obtained during dinner with Malone–a few books retrieved from a tray in the restroom.
She lit the flammable rags on two of the arrows, then carefully loaded the first flaming projectile onto the bow. Her aim was for the ground-floor windows that she'd just shattered with bullets. If Viktor wanted a fire, then that was precisely what he was going to get. She'd learned archery as a child. Never had she hunted, she detested the thought, but she regularly enjoyed target practice at her French estate. She was good, especially at distances, so thirty meters to the window across the piazzetta was no problem. And the bars themselves should not be a deterrent. Far more air than iron.