The Venetian Betrayal (23 page)

"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.

Chapter
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 melange.

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.

Chapter
FORTY

SAMARKAND

TUESDAY, APRIL 21

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.