The Venetian Betrayal (21 page)

"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."

Chapter
THIRTY-SIX

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."

Chapter
THIRTY-SEVEN

9:40 P
. M
.

MALONE FOUND THE HOTEL MONTECARLO EXACTLY WHERE Thorvaldsen had directed, hidden along a hallwaylike street lined with shops and busy cafes 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.