The Venetian Betrayal

ONE

COPENHAGEN, DENMARK

SATURDAY, APRIL 18, THE PRESENT

11:55 P.M.

THE SMELL ROUSED COTTON MALONE TO CONSCIOUSNESS. SHARP, acrid, with a hint of sulfur. And something else. Sweet and sickening. Like death.

He opened his eyes.

He lay prone on the floor, arms extended, palms to the hardwood, which he immediately noticed was sticky.

What happened?

He’d attended the April gathering of the Danish Antiquarian Booksellers Society a few blocks west of his bookshop, near the gaiety of Tivoli. He liked the monthly meetings and this one had been no exception. A few drinks, some friends, and lots of book chatter. Tomorrow morning he’d agreed to meet Cassiopeia Vitt. Her call yesterday to arrange the meeting had surprised him. He’d not heard from her since Christmas, when she’d spent a few days in Copenhagen. He’d been cruising back home on his bicycle, enjoying the comfortable spring night, when he’d decided to check out the unusual meeting location she’d chosen, the Museum of Greco-Roman Culture-a preparatory habit from his former profession. Cassiopeia rarely did anything on impulse, so a little advance preparation wasn’t a bad idea.

He’d found the address, which faced the Frederiksholms canal, and noticed a half-open door to the pitch-dark building-a door that should normally be closed and alarmed. He’d parked his bike. The least he could do was close the door and phone the police when he returned home.

But the last thing he remembered was grasping the doorknob.

He was now inside the museum.

In the ambient light that filtered in through two plate-glass windows, he saw a space decorated in typical Danish style-a sleek mixture of steel, wood, glass, and aluminum. The right side of his head throbbed and he caressed a tender knot.

He shook the fog from his brain and stood.

He’d visited this museum once and had been unimpressed with its collection of Greek and Roman artifacts. Just one of a hundred or more private collections throughout Copenhagen, their subject matter as varied as the city’s population.

He steadied himself against a glass display case. His fingertips again came away sticky and smelly, with the same nauseating odor.

He noticed that his shirt and trousers were damp, as were his hair, face, and arms. Whatever covered the museum’s interior coated him, too.

He stumbled toward the front entrance and tried the door. Locked. Double dead bolt. A key would be needed to open it from the inside.

He stared back into the interior. The ceiling soared thirty feet. A wood-and-chrome staircase led up to a second floor that dissolved into more darkness, the ground floor extending out beneath.

He found a light switch. Nothing. He lumbered over to a desk phone. No dial tone.

A noise disturbed the silence. Clicks and whines, like gears working. Coming from the second floor.

His training as a Justice Department agent cautioned him to keep quiet, but also urged him to investigate.

So he silently climbed the stairs.

The chrome banister was damp, as were each of the laminated risers. Fifteen steps up, more glass-and-chrome display cases dotted the hardwood floor. Marble reliefs and partial bronzes on pedestals loomed like ghosts. Movement caught his eye twenty feet away. An object rolling across the floor. Maybe two feet wide with rounded sides, pale in color, tight to the ground, like one of those robotic lawn mowers he’d once seen advertised. When a display case or statue was encountered, the thing stopped, retreated, then darted in a different direction. A nozzle extended from its top and every few seconds a burst of aerosol spewed out.

He stepped close.

All movement stopped. As if it sensed his presence. The nozzle swung to face him. A cloud of mist soaked his pants.

What was this?

The machine seemed to lose interest and scooted deeper into the darkness, more odorous mist expelling along the way. He stared down over the railing to the ground floor and spotted another of the contraptions parked beside a display case.

Nothing about this seemed good.

He needed to leave. The stench was beginning to turn his stomach.

The machine ceased its roaming and he heard a new sound.

Two years ago, before his divorce, his retirement from the government, and his abrupt move to Copenhagen, when he’d lived in Atlanta, he’d spent a few hundred dollars on a stainless-steel grill. The unit came with a red button that, when pumped, sparked a gas flame. He recalled the sound the igniter made with each pump of the button.

The same clicking he heard right now.

Sparks flashed.

The floor burst to life, first sun yellow, then burnt orange, finally settling on pale blue as flames radiated outward, consuming the hardwood. Flames simultaneously roared up the walls. The temperature rose swiftly and he raised an arm to shield his face. The ceiling joined the conflagration, and in less than fifteen seconds the second floor was totally ablaze.

Overhead sprinklers sprang to life.

He partially retreated down the staircase and waited for the fire to be doused.

But he noticed something.

The water simply aggravated the flames.

The machine that started the disaster suddenly disintegrated in a muted flash, flames rolling out in all directions, like waves searching for shore.

A fireball drifted to the ceiling and seemed to be welcomed by the spraying water. Steam thickened the air, not with smoke but with a chemical that made his head spin.

He leaped down the stairs two at a time. Another swoosh racked the second floor. Followed by two more. Glass shattered. Something crashed.

He darted to the front of the building.

The other gizmo that had sat dormant sprang to life and started skirting the ground-floor display cases.

More aerosol spewed into the scorching air.

He needed to get out. But the locked front door opened to the inside. Metal frame, thick wood. No way to kick it open. He watched as fire eased down the staircase, consuming each riser, like the devil descending to greet him. Even the chrome was being devoured with a vengeance.

His breaths became labored, thanks to the chemical fog and the rapidly vanishing oxygen. Surely someone would call the fire department, but they’d be no help to him. If a spark touched his soaked clothes…

The blaze found the bottom of the staircase.

Ten feet away.

TWO

VENICE, ITALY

SUNDAY, APRIL 19

12:15 A.M.

ENRICO VINCENTI STARED AT THE ACCUSED AND ASKED, “ANYTHING to say to this Council?”

The man from Florence seemed unconcerned by the question. “How about you and your League cram it.”

Vincenti was curious. “You apparently think we’re to be taken lightly.”

“Fat man, I have friends.” The Florentine actually seemed proud of the fact. “Lots of them.”

He made clear, “Your friends are of no concern to us. But your treachery? That’s another matter.”

The Florentine had dressed for the occasion, sporting an expensive Zanetti suit, Charvet shirt, Prada tie, and the obligatory Gucci shoes. Vincenti realized that the ensemble cost more than most people earned in a year.

“Tell you what,” the Florentine said. “I’ll leave and we’ll forget all about this…whatever this is…and you people can go back and do whatever it is you do.”

None of the nine seated beside Vincenti said a word. He’d warned them to expect arrogance. The Florentine had been hired to handle a chore in central Asia, a job the Council had deemed vitally important. Unfortunately, the Florentine had modified the assignment to suit his greed. Luckily, the deception had been discovered and countermeasures taken.

“You believe your associates will actually stand with you?” Vincenti asked.

“You’re not that naive, are you, fat man? They’re the ones who told me to do it.”

He again ignored the reference to his girth. “That’s not what they said.”

Those associates were an international crime syndicate that had many times proven useful to the Council. The Florentine was contracted help and the Council had overlooked the syndicate’s deception in order to make a point to the liar standing before them. Which would make a point to the syndicate as well. And it had. Already the fee owed had been waived and the Council’s hefty deposit returned. Unlike the Florentine, those associates understood precisely who they were dealing with.

“What do you know of us?” Vincenti asked.

The Italian shrugged. “A bunch of rich people who like to play.”

The bravado amused Vincenti. Four men stood behind the Florentine, each armed, which explained why the ingrate thought himself safe. As a condition to his appearing, he’d insisted on them coming.

“Seven hundred years ago,” Vincenti said, “a Council of Ten oversaw Venice. They were men supposedly too mature to be swayed by passion or temptation, charged with maintaining public safety and quelling political opposition. And that’s precisely what they did. For centuries. They took evidence in secret, pronounced sentences, and carried out executions, all in the name of the Venetian state.”

“You think I care about this history lesson?”

Vincenti folded his hands in his lap. “You should care.”

“This mausoleum is depressing. It belong to you?”

True, the villa lacked the charm of a house that had once been a family home, but tsars, emperors, archdukes, and crowned heads had all stayed under its roof. Even Napoleon had occupied one of the bedrooms. So he said with pride, “It belongs to us.”

“You need a decorator. Are we through here?”

“I’d like to finish what I was explaining.”

The Italian gestured with his hands. “Get on with it. I want some sleep.”

“We, too, are a Council of Ten. Like the original, we employ Inquisitors to enforce our decisions.” He gestured and three men stepped forward from the far side of the salon. “Like the originals, our rule is absolute.”

“You’re not the government.”

“No. We’re something else altogether.”

Still the Florentine seemed unimpressed. “I came here in the middle of the night because I was ordered to by my associates. Not because I’m impressed. I brought these four to protect me. So your Inquisitors might find it difficult to enforce anything.”

Vincenti pushed himself up from the chair. “I think something needs to be made clear. You were hired to handle a task. You decided to change that assignment to suit your own purpose.”

“Unless all of you intend on leaving here in a box. I’d say we just forget about it.”

Vincenti’s patience had worn thin. He genuinely disliked this part of his official duties. He gestured and the four men who’d come with the Florentine grabbed the idiot.

A smug look evolved into one of surprise.

The Florentine was disarmed while three of the men restrained him. An Inquisitor approached and, with a roll of thick tape, bound the accused’s struggling arms behind his back, his legs and knees together, and wrapped his face, sealing his mouth. The three then released their grip and the Florentine’s thick frame thudded to the rug.

“This Council has found you guilty of treason to our League,” Vincenti said. He gestured again and a set of double doors swung open. A casket of rich lacquered wood was wheeled in, its lid hinged open. The Florentine’s eyes went wide as he apparently realized his fate.

Vincenti stepped close.

“Five hundred years ago traitors to the state were sealed into rooms above the Doge’s palace, built of wood and lead, exposed to the elements-they became known as the coffins.” He paused and allowed his words to take hold. “Horrible places. Most who entered died. You took our money while, at the same time, trying to make more for yourself.” He shook his head. “Not to be. And, by the way, your associates decided you were the price they would pay to keep peace with us.”

The Florentine fought his restraints with a renewed vigor, his protests stifled by the tape across his mouth. One of the Inquisitors led the four men who’d come with the Florentine from the room. Their job was done. The other two Inquisitors lifted the struggling problem and tossed him into the coffin.

Vincenti stared down into the box and read exactly what the Florentine’s eyes were saying. No question he’d betrayed the Council, but he’d only done what Vincenti, not those associates, had ordered him to do. Vincenti was the one who changed the assignment, and the Florentine had only appeared before the Council because Vincenti had privately told him not to worry. Just a dog and pony show. No problem. Play along. It would all be resolved in an hour.

“Fat man?” Vincenti asked. “Arrivederci.”

And he slammed the lid shut.

THREE

COPENHAGEN

MALONE WATCHED AS THE FLAMES DESCENDING THE STAIRCASE stopped three quarters of the way down, showing no signs of advancing farther. He stood before one of the windows and searched for something to hurl through the plate glass. The only chairs he spotted were too close to the fire. The second mechanism continued to prowl the ground floor, exhaling mist. He was hesitant to move. Stripping off his clothes was an option, but his hair and skin also stank with the chemical.

Three thuds on the plate-glass window startled him.

He whirled and, a foot away, a familiar face stared back.

Cassiopeia Vitt.

What was she doing here? His eyes surely betrayed his surprise, but he came straight to the point and yelled, “I need to get out of here.”

She pointed to the door.

He intertwined his fingers and signaled that it was locked.

She motioned for him to stand back.

As he did, sparks popped from the underside of the roaming gizmo. He darted straight for the thing and kicked it over. Beneath he spotted wheels and mechanical works.

He heard a pop, then another, and realized what Cassiopeia was doing.

Shooting the window.

Then he saw something he’d not noticed before. Atop the museum’s display cases lay sealed plastic bags filled with a clear liquid.

The window fractured.

No choice.

He risked the flames and grabbed one of the chairs he’d earlier noticed, slinging it into the damaged glass. The window shattered as the chair found the street beyond.

The roving mechanism righted itself.

One of the sparks caught and blue flames began to consume the ground floor, advancing in every direction, including straight for him.

He bolted forward and leaped out the open window, landing on his feet.

Cassiopeia stood three feet away.

He’d felt the change in pressure when the window shattered. He knew a little about fires. Right now flames were being supercharged by a rush of new oxygen. Pressure differences were also having an effect. Firefighters called it flashover.

And those plastic bags atop the cases.

He knew what they contained.

He grabbed Cassiopeia’s hand and yanked her across the street.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

“Time for a swim.”

They leaped from the brick parapet, just as a fireball surged from the museum.

FOUR

SAMARKAND

CENTRAL ASIAN FEDERATION

5:45 A.M.

SUPREME MINISTER IRINA ZOVASTINA STROKED THE HORSE AND prepared herself for the game. She loved to play, just after dawn, in the breaking light of early morning, on a grassy field damp with dew. She also loved the famed, blood-sweating stallions of Fergana, first prized over a millennia ago when they were traded to the Chinese for silk. Her stables contained over a hundred steeds bred both for pleasure and politics.

“Are the other riders ready?” she asked the attendant.

“Yes, Minister. They await you on the field.”

She wore high leather boots and a quilted leather jacket over a long chapan. Her short, silver-blond hair was topped by a fur hat fashioned from a wolf she’d taken great pride in killing. “Let’s not keep them waiting.”

She mounted the horse.

Together, she and the animal had many times won buzkashi. An ancient game, once played across the steppe by a people who lived and died in the saddle. Genghis Khan himself had enjoyed it. Then, women were not even allowed to watch, much less participate.

But she’d changed that rule.

The spindly-legged, broad-chested horse stiffened as she caressed his neck. “Patience, Bucephalas.”

She’d named him after the animal that had carried Alexander the Great across Asia, into battle after battle. Buzkashi horses, though, were special. Before they played a single match years of training accustomed them to the game’s chaos. Along with oats and barley, eggs and butter were included in their diet. Eventually, when the animal fattened, he was bridled and saddled and stood in the sun for weeks at a time, not just to burn away excess kilos, but to teach him patience. Even more training came in close-quarter galloping. Aggression was encouraged, but always disciplined so that horse and rider became a team.

“You are prepared?” the attendant asked. He was a Tajik, born among the mountains to the east, and had served her for nearly a decade. He was the only one she allowed to ready her for the game.

She patted her chest. “I believe I’m properly armored.”

Her fur-lined leather jacket fit snugly, as did the leather pants. It had served her well that nothing about her stout frame was particularly feminine. Her muscular arms and legs bulged from a meticulous exercise routine and a rigid diet. Her wide face and broad features carried a hint of Mongol, as did her deep-set brown eyes, all thanks to her mother, whose family traced their roots to the far north. Years of self-imposed discipline had left her quick to listen and slow to speak. Energy radiated from her.

Many had said that an Asian federation was impossible, but she’d proven them all wrong. Kazakhstan, Uzbekistan, Kyrgyzstan, Karakalpakstan, Tajikistan, and Turkmenistan were no more. Instead, fifteen years ago, those former Soviet republics, after briefly trying independence, merged into the newly formed Central Asian Federation. Nine and a half million square kilometers, sixty million people, a massive stretch of territory that rivaled North America and Europe in size, scope, and resources. Her dream. Now a reality.

“Careful, Minister. They like to best you.”

She smiled. “Then they better play hard.”

They conversed in Russian, though Dari, Kazakh, Tajik, Turkmen, and Kyrgyz together were now the official Federation languages. As a compromise to the many Slavs, Russian remained the language of “interethnic communication.”

The stable doors swung open and she gazed out onto a flat field that stretched for over a kilometer. Toward its center, twenty-three mounted horsemen congregated near a shallow pit. Inside lay the boz-a goat’s carcass, without a head, organs, or legs, soaked in cold water for a day to give it strength for what it was about to endure.

At each end of the field rose a striped post.

The horsemen continued to ride. Chopenoz. Players, like herself. Ready for the game.

Her attendant handed her a whip. Centuries ago they were leather thongs tied to balls of lead. They were more benign now, but still used not only to spur a horse but to attack the other players. Hers had been fashioned with a beautiful ivory handle.

She steadied herself in the saddle.

The sun had just topped the forest to the east. Her palace had once been the residence of the khans who ruled the region until the late nineteenth century, when the Russians had invaded. Thirty rooms, rich in Uzbek furniture and Oriental porcelain. What was now the stables had then housed the harem. Thanks to the gods those days were over.

She sucked a deep breath, which carried the sweet scent of a new day. “Good playing,” the attendant said.

She acknowledged his encouragement with a nod and prepared to enter the field.

But she could not help wondering.

What was happening in Denmark?

FIVE

COPENHAGEN

VIKTOR TOMAS STOOD IN THE SHADOWS, ACROSS THE CANAL, AND watched the Greco-Roman museum burn. He turned to his partner but did not speak the obvious.

Problems.

It was Rafael who had attacked the intruder, then dragged the unconscious body into the museum. Somehow, after their surreptitious entrance, the front door had become ajar and, from the second-floor railing, he’d spotted a shadow approaching the stoop. Rafael, working on the ground floor, had instantly reacted, positioning himself just inside. True, he should have simply waited and seen what the visitor’s intentions had been. But instead, he’d yanked the shadow inside and popped the side of the man’s head with one of the sculptures.

“The woman,” Rafael said. “She was waiting, with a gun. That can’t be good.”

He agreed. Long dark hair, shapely, dressed in a tight-fitting body-suit. As the building caught fire, she’d emerged from an alley and stood near the canal. When the man appeared in the window, she’d produced a gun and shot out the glass.

The man, too, was a problem.

Fair-haired, tall, sinewy. He’d propelled a chair through the glass then leaped out with surprising agility, as if he’d done that before. He’d instantly grabbed the woman and they’d both plunged into the canal.

The fire department had arrived within minutes, just as the two emerged from the water and blankets were wrapped around them. The turtles had clearly performed their tasks. Rafael had christened them with the label since, in many ways, they resembled turtles, even possessing the ability to right themselves. Thankfully, no remnant of the devices would remain. Each was made of combustible materials that vaporized in the intense heat of their destruction. True, any investigator would quickly label the blaze arson, but proof of the method and mechanism would be impossible to determine.

Except that the man had survived.

“Will he be trouble?” Rafael asked.

Viktor continued to watch the firemen battle the blaze. The man and woman sat on the brick parapet, still wrapped in their blankets.

They seemed to know each other.

That worried him more.

So he answered Rafael’s inquiry the only way he could.

“No doubt.”

MALONE HAD RECOVERED HIS WITS. CASSIOPEIA HUDDLED IN A blanket beside him. Only remnants of the museum’s walls remained and nothing of its inside. The old building had burned quickly. Firemen continued to mind the blaze, concentrating on confining the destruction. So far, none of the adjacent buildings had been affected.

The night air reeked of soot, along with another smell-bitter, yet sweet-similar to what he’d inhaled while trapped inside. Smoke continued to drift skyward, filtering the bright stars. A stout man in dingy yellow firefighting gear waddled over for the second time. One of the crew chiefs. A city policeman had already taken a statement from both he and Cassiopeia.

“Like you said about the sprinklers,” the chief said in Danish. “Our water only seemed to spark it up.”

“How’d you finally control it?” Malone asked.

“When the tanker ran out of juice, we dipped our hoses into the canal and pumped straight from it. That worked.”

“Salt water?” All of Copenhagen ’s canals connected to the sea.

The chief nodded. “Stops it cold.”

He wanted to know, “Find anything in the building?”

“No little machines, like you told the police. But that place was so hot it melted the marble statues.” The chief ran a hand through his wet hair. “That’s a powerful fuel. We’ll need your clothes. May be the only way to determine its composition.”

“Maybe not,” he said. “I took a dip in that canal, too.”

“Good point.” The chief shook his head. “The arson investigators are going to love this one.”

As the fireman lumbered off, Malone faced Cassiopeia and plunged into an interrogation. “You want to tell me what’s going on?”

“You weren’t supposed to be here till tomorrow morning.”

“That’s not an answer to my question.”

Wet tangles of thick dark hair hung past her shoulders and roughly framed her alluring face. She was a Spanish Muslim, living in southern France. Bright, rich, and cocky-an engineer and a historian. But her presence in Copenhagen, a day earlier than she’d told him, meant something. Also, she’d come armed and dressed for battle-dark leather pants and a tight-fitting leather jacket. He wondered if she was going to be difficult or cooperative.

“Lucky I was here to save your hide,” she said to him.

He couldn’t decide if she was serious or teasing him. “How did you know my hide needing saving?”

“Long story, Cotton.”

“I’ve got the time. I’m retired.”

“I’m not.”

He heard the bitter edge in her voice and sensed something. “You knew that building was going to burn, didn’t you?”

She did not look at him, just stared off across the canal. “I actually wanted it to burn.”

“Care to explain that one?”

She sat silently, absorbed in thought. “I was here. Earlier. I watched while two men broke into the museum. I saw them grab you. I needed to follow them, but couldn’t.” She paused. “Because of you.”

“Who were they?”

“The men who left those machines.”

She’d listened as he’d given his statement to the police, but he’d sensed the whole time that she already knew the story. “How about we cut the crap and you tell me what’s going on. I almost got killed over whatever it is you’re doing.”

“You should ignore open doors in the night.”

“Old habits are hard to break. What’s going on?”

“You saw the flames. Felt the heat. Unusual, wouldn’t you say?”

He recalled how the fire had descended the stairs then stopped, as if waiting to be invited further. “You could say that.”

“In the seventh century, when the Muslim fleets attacked Constantinople, they should have easily routed the city. Better weapons. A mass of forces. But the Byzantines had a surprise. They called it liquid fire, or wild fire, and they unleashed it on the ships, totally destroying the invading fleet.” Cassiopeia still wasn’t looking at him. “The weapon survived in various forms to the time of the Crusades, and eventually acquired the name Greek fire. The original formula was so secret that it was held personally by each Byzantine emperor. They guarded it so well that, when the empire finally fell, the formula was lost.” She breathed deeply as she continued to clutch the blanket. “It’s been found.”

“You’re telling me that I just saw Greek fire?”

“With a twist. This kind hates salt water.”

“So why didn’t you tell the firemen that when they arrived?”

“I don’t want to answer any more questions than I have to.”

But he wanted to know. “Why let this museum burn? There’s nothing of any consequence there?”

He stared back toward the burned hulk and spotted the charred remains of his bicycle. He sensed something more from Cassiopeia, as she continued to avoid his gaze. Never in all the time he’d known her had he seen any sign of misgiving, nervousness, or dejection. She was tough, eager, disciplined, and smart. But at the moment she seemed troubled.

A car appeared at the far end of the cordoned-off street. He recognized the expensive British sedan and the hunched figure that emerged from its rear seat.

Henrik Thorvaldsen.

Cassiopeia stood. “He’s here to talk with us.”

“And how did he know we were here?”

“Something’s happening, Cotton.”

SIX

VENICE

2:30 A.M.

VINCENTI WAS GLAD THE POTENTIAL DISASTER WITH THE FLORENTINE had been averted. He’d made a mistake. Time was short and he was playing a dangerous game, but it seemed fate had dealt him another chance.

“Is the situation in central Asia under control?” one of the Council of Ten asked him. “Did we halt whatever that fool had tried to do?”

All of the men and women had lingered in the meeting hall after the Florentine, struggling within his coffin, was wheeled away. A bullet to the head should have, by now, ended further resistance.

“We’re okay,” he said. “I personally handled the matter, but Supreme Minister Zovastina is quite the showgirl. I assume she’ll make a spectacle of things.”

“She’s not to be trusted,” another said.

He wondered about the declaration’s vehemence considering Zovastina was their ally, but he nonetheless agreed. “Despots are always a problem.” He stood and approached a map that hung from one wall. “Damn if she hasn’t accomplished a lot, though.”

“She managed to merge six corrupt Asian states into a federation that might actually succeed.” He pointed. “She’s essentially redrawn the world map.”

“And how did she do it?” came a question. “Certainly not by diplomacy.”

Vincenti knew the official account. After the Soviet Union fell, central Asia suffered civil wars and strife, as each of the emerging “nation-stans” struggled with independence. The so-called Commonwealth of Independent States, which succeeded the USSR, existed in name only. Corruption and incompetence ran rampant. Irina Zovastina had headed local reforms under Gorbachev, championing perestroika and glasnost, spearheading the prosecution of many corrupt bureaucrats. Eventually, though, she led the charge to expel the Russians, reminding the people of Russia ’s colonial conquest and sounding an environmental alarm, noting that Asians were dying by the thousands from Russian pollution. Ultimately, she stood before Kazakhstan ’s Assembly of Representatives and helped proclaim the republic.

A year later, she was elected president.

The West welcomed her. She seemed a reformer in a region that rarely reformed. Then, fifteen years ago, she stunned the world with the announcement of the Central Asian Federation.

Six nations, now one.

Yet Vincenti’s colleague was right. Not a miracle. More a manipulation. So he answered the inquiry with the obvious. “She achieved it with power.”

“And the fortunate demise of political opponents.”

“That’s always been a way to power,” he said. “We can’t fault her for that. We do the same.” He stared at another of the Council members. “Are the funds in place?”

The treasurer nodded. “Three point six billion, scattered at a variety of banks around the globe, access clean, straight to Samarkand.”

“I assume our members are ready?”

“A renewed influx of investment will start immediately. Most of the members are planning major expansions. They’ve been careful, per our directive, to this point.”

Time was short. Just as with the original Council of Ten, half of the current Council would soon rotate off. League bylaws mandated that five members changed every two years. Vincenti’s term would expire in less than thirty days.

A blessing and a problem.

Six hundred years ago Venice had been an oligarchical republic, governed by merchants through a complicated political system designed to prevent despotism. Faction and intrigue were thought foiled by processes that relied heavily on chance. No one person ever held sole authority. Always groups advising, deciding, and acting. Groups that changed at regular intervals.

But corruption still crept in. Plots and pet projects flourished. Webs of conspiracy were woven.

Men always found a way.

And so had he.

Thirty days.

More than enough time.

“What of Supreme Minister Zovastina?” one of the Council asked, breaking his thoughts. “Will she be all right?”

“Now that,” he said, “may well become the talk of this day.”

SEVEN

SAMARKAND

CENTRAL ASIAN FEDERATION

6:20 A.M.

ZOVASTINA SPURRED HER HORSE. THE OTHER CHOPENOZ WHIPPED their mounts, too. Mud splattered up at her from wet turf obliterated by hooves. She bit down on the whip and gripped the reins with both hands. No one had, as yet, made a move on the goat carcass lying in its earthen pan.

“Come now, Bucephalas,” she said through clenched teeth into the horse’s ear. “Time to show them.” She yanked and the animal bolted right.

The game was simple. Grab the boz, ride with it in hand to the far end of the field, round the pole, then return and deposit the dead goat in the circle of justice, outlined in lime on the grass. Sounded easy, but the problem came from the chopenoz who were allowed to do most anything to steal the boz.

An invitation to play buzkashi with her was considered an honor, and she chose the participants with great care. Today’s were a mixture of her personal guard and nine invited guests, making for two teams of twelve.

She was the only woman.

And she liked that.

Bucephalas seemed to sense what was expected of him and closed on the boz. Another player slammed into the horse’s right flank. Zovastina retrieved the whip from her mouth and slashed a blow at the other rider, popping the man’s face with leather tendrils. He brushed aside her attack and continued his assault, now joined by three other horsemen trying to stop her.

Two of her team closed ranks and battled the three opponents.

A storm of horses and riders orbited the boz.

She’d told her team earlier that she wanted to make the first run around the pole and they seemed to be doing their part to accommodate her.

A fourth player from the opposing team drove his horse close.

The world spun around her as all twenty-four chopenoz circled. One of her opponents’ whips found her chest, but the thick leather jacket deflected the blow. Usually, striking the Supreme Minister was a capital offense, but that rule was waived during buzkashi. She wanted players to hold nothing back.

A horsemen slipped from his mount and slammed to the ground.

No one stopped to help. Not allowed.

Broken limbs, cuts, and slashes were common. Five men had actually died on this field during the past two years. Death had always been common during buzkashi. Even the Federation’s criminal code contained an exception to murder that applied only during the game.

She rounded the shallow pit.

Another rider reached for the boz, but she pounded his hand with her whip. She then pulled hard on the reins and slowed Bucephalas, whirling them both around and, once again, charging the carcass before the others caught back up with her.

Two more riders plunged to the ground.

Each of her breaths came laced with grass and mud and she spat out the sediment, but she welcomed the scent of sweating horseflesh.

She stuffed the whip back in her mouth and leaned down, one hand keeping a stranglehold on the saddle, the other yanking up the carcass. Blood squirted from where the goat’s hooves and head had been severed. She dragged the dead goat up and held tight, then signaled for Bucephalas to sweep left.

Only three rules now governed.

No tying of the carcass. No striking the hand of the holder. No tripping the horses.

Time for a run at the pole.

She spurred Bucephalas.

The other team closed.

Her teammates galloped to her defense.

The carcass was heavy, maybe thirty kilos, but her strong arms were more than capable of holding on. Blood continued to soak her hand and sleeve.

A blow to her spine caught her attention.

She whirled.

Two opposing horsemen.

More swarmed inward.

Hooves pounded the damp earth like thunder, pierced by the frenzied screams of horses. Her chopenoz came to her defense. Blows were exchanged. She held the boz in a death grip, her forearms aching.

The pole stood fifty meters away.

The field spread out behind the summer palace on a grassy plain that eventually ended at thick forest. The Soviets had utilized the complex as a retreat for the party elite, which explained how it had survived. She’d changed the layout, but a few aspects of the Russian occupation had been wisely retained.

More riders joined the fray as both teams fought with each other.

Whips snapped.

Men groaned in pain.

Obscenities were exchanged.

She surged into the lead, but only slightly. She’d have to slow to round the pole and begin her return to the circle of justice, which would give them all an opportunity to pounce. Though her team had been accommodating to this point, the rules now allowed anyone to steal the boz and make a run of their own.

She decided to catch them all off guard.

Kicking, she directed Bucephalas to angle right.

No out of bounds governed. Riders could, and did, venture anywhere. She arced their galloping path outward, the bulk of the chopenoz massed to her left, stretching her advance to the field’s fringes where rows of tall trees guarded the perimeter. She could weave between them-she’d done so before-but today she preferred a different route.

Before any of the others could react to her sudden shift, she hooked left and crisscrossed the field, cutting off the main body of galloping riders, causing them all to slow.

Their instant of hesitation allowed her to sweep ahead and loop the pole.

The others followed.

She turned her attention ahead.

One rider waited fifty meters down the field. He was swarthy, bearded, with a stiff face. He sat tall in the saddle and she saw his hand emerge from beneath a leather cape, holding a gun. He kept the weapon close, waiting for her.

“Let’s show him, Bucephalas, that we’re not afraid.”

The horse raced forward.

The man with the gun did not move. Zovastina stared him down. No one would ever cause her to retreat.

The gun came level.

A shot echoed across the field.

The man with the gun teetered, then collapsed to the wet ground. His horse, spooked by the retort, raced away riderless.

She trampled the corpse, Bucephalas’ hooves digging into the still-warm flesh, the body swept away in their wake.

She kept riding until the circle of justice came into view. She rode past and tossed the boz into its center, then brought Bucephalas to a stop.

The other riders had all halted where the dead man lay.

Shooting a player was absolutely against the rules. But this was not part of any game. Or maybe it was? Just a different contest. With different players and different rules. One none of the men here today would either understand or appreciate.

She yanked on the reins and straightened herself in the saddle, casting a glance toward the palace roof. Inside one of the old Soviet gun stations, her sharpshooter signaled success by waving his rifle.

She returned the gesture by rearing Bucephalas onto his hind legs and the horse whinnied his approval of the kill.

EIGHT

COPENHAGEN

3:10 A.M.

CASSIOPEIA FOLLOWED MALONE AND HENRIK THORVALDSEN into Malone’s bookshop. She was tired. Even though she’d expected a long night, the past few months had taken a toll, especially the last few weeks, and the ordeal seemed far from over.

Malone switched on the lights.

She’d been told about what had happened the previous fall-when Malone’s ex-wife had appeared…and the firebombing-but the restorers had done a terrific job. She noted the workmanship. New, yet made to appear old. “My compliments to the craftsmen.”

Thorvaldsen nodded. “I wanted it to look like it once did. Too much history in this building to be blown away by fanatics.”

“Want to get out of those damp clothes?” Malone asked her.

“Shouldn’t we send Henrik home first?”

Malone grinned. “I hear he likes to watch.”

“Sounds intriguing,” Thorvaldsen said. “But tonight I’m not in the mood.”

Neither was she. “I’m fine. Leather dries quickly. One reason I wear it when I’m working.”

“And what were you working on tonight?”

“You sure you want to hear this? Like you say all the time, you’re a bookseller, not an operative. Retired, and all those other excuses.”

“You sent me an e-mail telling me to meet you at that museum in the morning. With what you said back at the fire, there wouldn’t have been any museum there tomorrow.”

She sat in one of the club chairs. “Which is why we were going to meet there. Tell him, Henrik.”

She liked Malone. He was a smart, confident, handsome man-she’d thought that when they first met last year in France. A uniquely trained lawyer. Twelve years he worked for the U.S. Justice Department in a covert unit known as the Magellan Billet. Then, two years ago, he opted out and bought a bookshop from Thorvaldsen in Copenhagen. He was plain spoken and sometimes rough in manner, just like her, so she couldn’t complain. She liked his animated face, that malicious twinkle in his bright green eyes, his sandy-colored hair, and the always-swarthy complexion. She knew his age, mid-forties, and realized that, thanks to a bloom of youth that had yet to fade, he was at the zenith of his charms.

She envied him.

Time.

For her, it seemed in such short supply.

“Cotton,” Thorvaldsen said, “across Europe there have been other fires. They started in France, then in Spain, Belgium, and Switzerland. Similar to what you just experienced. The police in each location realized arson but, so far, none of them have been connected. Two of the buildings burned to ash. They were in rural locations and nobody seemed to care. All four were unoccupied private residences. The one here was the first commercial establishment.”

“And how did you connect the dots?” Malone asked.

“We know what they’re after,” she said. “Elephant medallions.”

“You know,” Malone said, “that’s exactly what I was thinking. Five arsons. All across Europe. Has to be elephant medallions. What else could it be?”

“They’re real,” she said.

“Nice to know, but what the hell is an elephant medallion?”

“Twenty-three hundred years ago,” Thorvaldsen said, “after Alexander the Great conquered Asia Minor and Persia, he set his sights on India. But his army quit him before he could take much of that land. He fought several battles in India and, for the first time, encountered war elephants. They crushed the Macedonian lines, wreaked havoc. Alexander’s men were terrified of them. Medallions were later struck to commemorate the event, which depicted Alexander facing off with the elephants.”

“The medallions,” she said, “were minted after Alexander’s death. We have no idea how many, but today only eight are known. The four already taken, the one from tonight, two more in private hands, and one on display in the Museum of Cultural History in Samarkand.”

“The capital of the Central Asian Federation?” Malone said. “Part of the region Alexander conquered.”

Thorvaldsen slouched in one of the club chairs, his crooked spine cocking his neck forward and settling his fleshy chin onto a thin chest. Cassiopeia noticed that her old friend looked worn. He wore his customary baggy sweater and oversized corduroy trousers. A uniform he used, she knew, to conceal the deformity. She regretted involving him, but he’d insisted. He was a good friend. Time to see how good a friend Malone was. “What do you know about the death of Alexander the Great?”

“I’ve read about it. Lots of myth mixed with conflicting facts.”

“That eidetic memory of yours?”

He shrugged. “It came with me out of the womb.”

She smiled. “What happened in June 323 BCE made a great deal of difference to the world.”

Thorvaldsen gestured with his arm. “Go ahead. Tell him. He needs to know.”

So she did.

On the final day of May, within the walls of Babylon, Alexander attended a dinner given by one of his trusted Companions. He pledged a toast, drank a large cup of undiluted wine, then shrieked aloud as if smitten by a violent blow. He was quickly taken to bed where a fever came, but he continued to play dice, plan with his generals, and make the proper sacrifices. On the fourth day he complained of weariness and some of his Companions noticed a lack of his normal energy. He lay quiet for several more days, sleeping in the bathhouse for coolness. Despite his weakened condition, Alexander sent word to the infantry to be ready to march in four days and for the fleet to sail in five. His plans to move west and take Arabia were about to unfold. On June 6, feeling weaker, he passed his ring to Perdiccas so the proper administration of the government could continue. This caused a panic. His troops feared he’d died and, to calm their unease, Alexander allowed them to file past his bed. He greeted each one with a smile. When the last man left he whispered, “After my death, where will you find a king who deserves such men?” He commanded that, after his death, his body should be taken to the Temple of Ammon in Egypt. But none of the Companions wanted to hear such fatalism. His condition worsened until, on June 9, his Companions asked, “To whom do you leave your kingdom?” Ptolemy said he heard, “to the brightest.” Seleucus said, “to the righteous.” Peithon recalls, “to the strongest.” A great debate ensued as to who was right. Early during the morning of the next day, in the thirty-third year of life, twelve years and eight months into his reign, Alexander III of Macedonia died.

“People still debate those last words,” she said.

“And why is it so important?” Malone asked.

“It’s what he left behind,” Thorvaldsen said. “His kingdom, with no rightful heir.”

“And that has something to do with elephant medallions?”

“Cotton,” Thorvaldsen said, “I bought that museum knowing someone would destroy it. Cassiopeia and I have been waiting for that to happen.”

She said, “We had to stay a step ahead of whoever is after the medallions.”

“Seems like they won. They have the thing.”

Thorvaldsen cast her a look, then the older man stared at Malone and said, “Not exactly.”

NINE

VIKTOR RELAXED ONLY WHEN THE DOOR TO THE HOTEL ROOM was closed and locked. They were across Copenhagen, near Nyhavn, where boisterous waterfront cafés catered to rowdy patrons. He sat at the desk and switched on a lamp as Rafael assumed a window position, which overlooked the street four stories below.

He now possessed the fifth medallion.

The first four had been disappointments. One was a forgery, the other three in poor condition. Six months ago he knew little about elephant medallions. Now he considered himself quite proficient in their provenance.

“We should be fine,” he said to Rafael. “Calm down. No one followed us.”

“I’ll keep watch to be sure.”

He knew Rafael was trying to make amends for overreacting in the museum, so he said, “It’s okay.”

“He should have died.”

“It’s better he didn’t. At least we know what we’re facing.”

He unzipped a leather case and removed a stereomicroscope and digital scale.

He laid the coin on the desk. They’d found it displayed in one of the museum cases, correctly noted as an “Elephant Medallion (Alexander the Great), a decadrachm, circa second century BCE.”

He first measured its width. Thirty-five millimeters. About right. He flicked on the electronic scales and checked its weight. Forty point seventy-four grams. Correct, too.

With a magnifying glass he examined the image on one face-a warrior in regal splendor, complete with plumed helmet, neck guard, breastplate, and a calvary cloak that fell to his knees.

He was pleased. An obvious flaw in the forgeries was the cloak, which in the false medallions hung to the ankles. For centuries, trade in fake Greek coins had flourished and clever forgers had become adept at fooling both the anxious and the willing.

Luckily, he was neither.

The first known elephant medallion had surfaced when it was donated to the British Museum in 1887. It came from somewhere in central Asia. A second appeared in 1926, from Iran. A third was discovered in 1959. A fourth in 1964. Then, in 1973, four more were found near the ruins of Babylon. Eight in all that had made the rounds through museums and private collectors. Not all that valuable, considering the variety of Hellenistic art and the thousands of coins available, but nonetheless collectible.

He returned to his examination.

The clean-shaven, youthful warrior grasped a sarissa in his left hand topped by a leaf-shaped point. His right hand held a bolt of lightning. Above him loomed a flying Nike, the winged goddess of victory. To the warrior’s left, the die cutter had left a curious monogram.

Whether it was BA or BAB, and what the letters represented Viktor did not know. But an authentic medallion should show that odd symbol.

All seemed in order. Nothing added or missing.

He flipped the coin over.

Its edges were grossly distorted, the pewter-colored patina worn smooth as if by running water. Time was slowly dissolving the delicate engraving on both sides. Amazing, really, that any of them had managed to survive.

“All quiet?” he asked Rafael, who still stood near the window.

“Don’t patronize me.”

He glanced up. “I actually want to know.”

“I can’t seem to get it right.”

He caught the defeatism. “You saw someone coming to the museum door. You reacted. That’s all.”

“It was foolish. Killing attracts too much attention.”

“There would have been no body to find. Quit worrying about it. And besides, I approved leaving him there.”

He refocused his attention on the medallion. The obverse showed the warrior, now a calvaryman, wearing the same outfit, attacking a retreating elephant. Two men sat atop the elephant, one brandishing a sarissa, the other trying to remove a calvaryman’s pike from his chest. Numismatists all agreed that the regal warrior on both sides of the coin represented Alexander, and the medallions commemorated a battle with war elephants.

But the real test as to whether the thing was authentic came under the microscope.

He switched on the illuminator and slid the decadrachm onto the examining tray.

Authentic ones contained an anomaly. Tiny microletters concealed within the engraving, added by ancient die cutters using a primitive lens. Experts believed the lettering represented something akin to a watermark on a modern banknote, perhaps to ensure authenticity. Lenses were not common in ancient times, so detecting the mark then would have been nearly impossible. The lettering was noticed when the first medallion surfaced years ago. But of the four they’d stolen so far, only one had contained the peculiarity. If this medallion were genuine, within the folds of the cavalryman’s clothing there should be two Greek letters – ZH.

He focused the microscope and saw tiny writing.

But not letters.

Numbers.

36 44 77 55.

He glanced up from the eyepiece.

Rafael was watching him. “What is it?”

Their dilemma had just deepened. Earlier he’d used the hotel room’s phone and made several calls. His gaze shot to the telephone and the display at its base. Four sets of numbers, two each, starting with thirty-six.

Not the same ones he’d just seen through the microscope.

But he instantly knew what the digits on the supposedly ancient medallion represented.

A Danish phone number.

TEN

VENICE

6:30 A.M.

VINCENTI STUDIED HIMSELF IN THE MIRROR AS HIS VALET creased the jacket and allowed the Gucci suit to drape his enormous frame. With a camel-haired brush, all remnants of lint from the dark wool were removed. He then adjusted his tie and made sure the dimple plunged deep. The valet handed him a burgundy handkerchief and he adjusted the silk folds into his coat pocket.

His three-hundred-pound frame looked good in the tailored suit. The Milan fashion consultant he kept on retainer had advised him that swarthy colors not only conveyed authority, they also drew attention away from his stature. Which wasn’t an easy thing to do. Everything about him was big. Pouched cheeks, rolled forehead, cob-nose. But he loved rich food and dieting seemed such a sin.

He motioned and the valet buffed his Lorenzo Banfi laced shoes. He stole a last look in the mirror, then glanced at his watch.

“Sir,” the valet said, “she called while you were showering.”

“On the private line?”

The valet nodded.

“She leave a number?”

The valet reached into his pocket and found a slip of paper. He’d managed some sleep both before and after the Council meeting. Sleep, unlike dieting, was not a waste of time. He knew people were waiting for him, and he despised being late, but he decided to call from the privacy of his bedroom. No use broadcasting everything over a cellular.

The valet retreated from the room.

He stepped to a bedside phone and dialed international. Three buzzes shrilled in his ear before a woman’s voice answered and he said, “I see, Supreme Minister, that you’re still among the living.”

“And it’s good to know your information was accurate.”

“I wouldn’t have bothered you with fantasy.”

“But you still haven’t said how you knew someone would try to kill me today.”

Three days ago he’d passed on to Irina Zovastina the Florentine’s plan. “The League watches over its members, and you, Supreme Minister, are one of our most important.”

She chuckled. “You’re so full of it, Enrico.”

“Did you win at buzkashi?”

“Of course. Two times into the circle. We left the assassin’s body on the field and trampled it into pieces. The birds and dogs are now enjoying the rest.”

He winced. That was the problem with central Asia. Wanting desperately to be a part of the twenty-first century, its culture remained entrenched in the fifteenth. The League would have to do what it could to change all that. Even if the task would be like weaning a carnivore onto a vegetarian diet.

“Do you know the Iliad?” she asked.

He knew she’d have to be humored. “I do.”

“Cast the souls of many stalwart heroes to Hades and their bodies to the gods and birds of prey.”

He grinned. “You fashion yourself Achilles?”

“There’s much to admire in him.”

“Wasn’t he a proud man? Excessive, as I recall.”

“But a fighter. Always a fighter. Tell me, Enrico, what of your traitor? Was that problem resolved?”

“The Florentine will enjoy a lovely burial north of here, in the lake district. We’ll send flowers.” He decided to see if she was in the mood. “We need to talk.”

“Your payment for saving my life?”

“Your end of our bargain, as we originally discussed long ago.”

“I’ll be ready to meet with the Council in a few days. First, there are things I need to resolve.”

“I’m more interested in when you and I will meet.”

She chuckled. “I’m sure you are. I am, too, actually. But there are things I must complete.”

“My time on the Council ends soon. Thereafter, you’ll have others to deal with. They may not be as accommodating.”

She laughed. “I love that. Accommodating. I do enjoy dealing with you, Enrico. We so understand each other.”

“We need to talk.”

“Soon. First, you have that other problem we spoke about. The Americans.”

Yes, he did. “Not to worry, I plan to deal with that today.”

ELEVEN

COPENHAGEN

“WHAT DO YOU MEAN NOT EXACTLY?” MALONE ASKED THORVALDSEN.

“I commissioned a fake elephant medallion. It’s quite easy to do, actually. There are many counterfeits on the market.”

“And why did you do that?”

“Cotton,” Cassiopeia said to him, “these medallions are important.”

“Gee, never would have guessed. What I haven’t heard is how and why.”

“What do you know of Alexander the Great, after he died?” Thorvaldsen asked. “With what happened to his body.”

He’d read on the subject. “I know some.”

“I doubt you know what we do,” Cassiopeia said. She stood beside one of the bookshelves. “Last fall, I received a call from a friend who worked at the cultural museum in Samarkand. He’d found something he thought I might like to see. An old manuscript.”

“How old?”

“First or second century after Christ. Ever hear of X-ray fluorescence?”

He shook his head.

“It’s a relatively new procedure,” Thorvaldsen said. “During the early Middle Ages, parchment was so scarce that monks developed a recycling technique where they scraped away the original ink, then reused the clean parchment for prayer books. With fluorescence, X-rays are formed from a particle accelerator, then bombarded onto the recycled parchment. Thankfully, the ink used centuries ago contained lots of iron. When the X-rays hit that ink, molecules deep in the parchment glow, and those images can be recorded. Pretty amazing, actually. Like a fax from the past. Words once thought erased, written over with new ink, reappear from their molecular signature.”

“Cotton,” Cassiopeia said, “what we know firsthand about Alexander is confined to the writings of four men who all lived nearly five hundred years after Alexander. Ephemerides, Alexander’s so-called royal journal, which was supposedly contemporaneous, is useless-the victor rewriting history. The Alexander Romance, which many people cite as authority, is wild fiction and bears little relation to reality. The other two, though, were written by Arrian and Plutarch, both reputable chroniclers.”

“I’ve read the Alexander Romance. Great story.”

“But that’s all it is. Alexander is like Arthur, a man whose actual life has been replaced with romantic legend. He’s now regarded as some great, benign conqueror. Some sort of statesman. Actually, he slaughtered people on an unprecedented scale and totally squandered the resources of the lands he acquired. He murdered friends out of paranoia and led most of his troops to early deaths. He was a gambler who staked his life, and the lives of those around him, on chance. There’s nothing magical about him.”

“I disagree,” he said. “He was a great military commander, the first person to unite the world. His conquests were bloody and brutal because that’s war. True, he was bent on conquering, but his world seemed ready to be conquered. He was politically shrewd. A Greek, who ultimately became a Persian. From everything I’ve read, he seemed to have little use for petty nationalism-and I can’t fault him for that. After he died his generals, the Companions, divided the empire among themselves, which ensured that Greek culture dominated for centuries. And it did. The Hellenistic Age utterly changed Western civilization. And all that started with him.”

He saw that Cassiopeia did not agree with him.

“It’s that legacy which was discussed in the old manuscript,” she said. “What actually happened after Alexander died.”

“We know what happened,” he said. “His empire became the prey of his generals and they played finders-keepers with his body. Lots of differing accounts about how they each tried to highjack the funeral cortege. They all wanted the body as a symbol of their power. That’s why it was mummified. Greeks burned their dead. But not Alexander. His corpse needed to live on.”

“It’s what happened between the time when Alexander died in Babylon and when his body was finally transported back west that concerned the manuscript,” Cassiopeia said. “A year passed. A year that’s critical to the elephant medallions.”

A soft ring broke the room’s silence.

Malone watched as Henrik removed a phone from his pocket and answered. Unusual. Thorvaldsen hated the things, and especially detested people who talked on one in front of him.

Malone glanced at Cassiopeia and asked, “That important?”

Her expression stayed sullen. “It’s what we’ve been waiting for.”

“Why you so chipper?”

“You may not believe this, Cotton, but I have feelings, too.”

He wondered about the caustic comment. When she’d visited Copenhagen during Christmas, they’d spent a few pleasant evenings together at Christiangade, Thorvaldsen’s seaside home north of Copenhagen. He’d even given her a present, a rare seventeenth-century edition on medieval engineering. Her French reconstruction project, where stone by stone she was building a castle with tools and raw materials from seven hundred years ago, continued to progress. They’d even agreed that, in the spring, he’d come for a visit.

Thorvaldsen finished his call. “That was the thief from the museum.”

“And how did he know to call you?” Malone asked.

“I had this phone number engraved on the medallion. I wanted to make it perfectly clear that we’re waiting. I told him that if he wants the original decadrachm he’s going to have to buy it.”

“Knowing that, he’ll probably kill you instead.”

“We’re hoping.”

“And how do you plan to prevent that from happening?” Malone asked.

Cassiopeia stepped forward, her face rigid. “That’s where you come in.”

TWELVE

VIKTOR LAID THE PHONE BACK IN ITS CRADLE. RAFAEL HAD STOOD by the window and listened to the conversation.

“He wants us to meet in three hours. At a house north of town, on the coastal highway.” He held up the elephant medallion. “They knew we were coming-and for some time-to have this made. It’s quite good. The forger knew his craft.”

“This is something we should report.”

He disagreed. Minister Zovastina had sent him because he was her most trusted. Thirty men guarded her on a daily basis. Her Sacred Band. Modeled after ancient Greece ’s fiercest fighting unit, which fought valiantly until Philip of Macedonia and his son, Alexander the Great, slaughtered them. He’d heard Zovastina speak on the subject. The Macedonians were so impressed with the Sacred Band’s bravery that they erected a monument in their memory, which still stood in Greece. When Zovastina assumed power, she’d enthusiastically revived the concept. Viktor had been her first recruit, and he’d located the other twenty-nine, including Rafael, an Italian whom he’d found in Bulgaria, working for that government’s security forces.

“Should we not call Samarkand?” Rafael asked again.

He stared at his partner. The younger man was a quick, energetic soul. Viktor had come to like him, which explained why he tolerated mistakes that others would never be allowed. Like jerking that man into the museum. But maybe that hadn’t been a mistake after all?

“We can’t call,” he quietly said.

“If this becomes known, she’ll kill us.”

“Then we can’t let it become known. We’ve done well so far.”

And they had. Four thefts. All from private collectors who, luckily, kept their wares in flimsy safes or casually displayed. They’d masked each of their crimes with fires and covered their presence well.

Or, maybe not.

The man on the phone seemed to know their business.

“We’re going to have to solve this ourselves,” he said.

“You’re afraid she’ll blame me.”

A knot clenched in his throat. “Actually, I’m afraid she’ll blame us both.”

“I’m troubled, Viktor. You carry me too much.”

He threw his partner a self-deprecating expression. “We both messed this one up.” He fingered the medallion. “These cursed things are nothing but trouble.”

“Why does she want them?”

He shook his head. “She’s not one to explain herself. But it’s surely important.”

“I overheard something.”

He stared up into eyes alive with curiosity. “Where did you hear this something?”

“When I was detailed to her personal service, just before we left last week.”

They all rotated as Zovastina’s day-to-day guards. One rule was clear. Nothing heard or said mattered, only the Supreme Minister’s safety. But this was different. He needed to know. “Tell me.”

“She’s planning.”

He held up the medallion. “What does that have to do with these?”

“She said it did. To someone on the phone. What we’re doing will prevent a problem.” Rafael paused. “Her ambition is boundless.”

“But she’s done so much. What no one has ever been able to do. Life is good in central Asia. Finally.”

“I saw it in her eyes, Viktor. None of that’s enough. She wants more.”

He concealed his own anxiety with a look of puzzlement.

Rafael said, “I was reading a biography of Alexander that she mentioned to me. She likes to recommend books. Especially on him. Do you know the story of Alexander’s horse, Bucephalas?”

He’d heard Zovastina speak of the tale. Once, as a boy, Alexander’s father acquired a handsome horse that could not be broken. Alexander chastised both his father and the royal trainers, saying he could tame the animal. Philip doubted the claim, but after Alexander promised to buy the horse from his own funds if he failed, the king allowed him the chance. Seeing that the horse seemed frightened by his shadow, Alexander turned him to the sun and, after some coaxing, managed to mount him.

He told Rafael what he knew.

“And do you know what Philip told Alexander after he broke the horse?”

He shook his head.

“He said, ‘Look for a kingdom that matches your size, for Macedonia has not enough space for you.’ That’s her problem, Viktor. Her Federation is larger than Europe, but it’s not big enough. She wants more.”

“That’s not for us to worry about.”

“What we’re doing somehow fits into her plan.”

He said nothing in response, though he, too, was concerned.

Rafael seemed to sense his reluctance. “You told the man on the phone that we’d bring fifty thousand euros. We have no money.”

He appreciated the change in subject. “We won’t need any. We’ll get the medallion without spending anything.”

“We need to eliminate whoever is doing this.”

Rafael was right. Supreme Minister Zovastina would not tolerate errors.

“I agree,” he said. “We’ll kill them all.”

THIRTEEN

SAMARKAND

CENTRAL ASIAN FEDERATION

11:30 A.M.

THE MAN WHO ENTERED IRINA ZOVASTINA’S STUDY WAS SHORT, squat, with a flat face and a jawline that signaled stubbornness. He was third in command of the Consolidated Federation Air Force, but he was also the covert leader of a minor political party, whose voice had, of late, acquired an alarming volume. A Kazakh who secretly resisted all Slavic influences, he liked to speak about nomadic times, hundreds of years ago, long before the Russians changed everything.

Staring at the rebel she wondered how his bald cranium and barren eyes endeared him to anyone, yet reports described him as smart, articulate, and persuasive. He’d been brought to the palace two days ago after suddenly collapsing with a raging fever, blood gushing from his nose, coughing fits that had left him exhausted, and a pounding in his hips that he’d described as hammer blows. His doctor had diagnosed a viral infection with a possible pneumonia, but no conventional treatment had worked.

Today, though, he seemed fine.

In bare feet, he wore one of the palace’s chestnut bathrobes.

“You’re looking good, Enver. Much better.”

“Why am I here?” he asked in an expressionless tone that carried no appreciation.

Earlier, he’d been questioning the staff, who, on her orders, had dropped hints of his treachery. Interestingly, the colonel had showed no fear. He was further displaying his defiance by avoiding Russian, speaking to her in Kazakh, so she decided to humor him and kept to the old language. “You were deathly ill. I had you brought here so my doctors could care for you.”

“I remember nothing of yesterday.”

She motioned for him to sit and poured tea from a silver service. “You were in a bad condition. I was concerned, so I decided to help.”

He eyed her with clear suspicion.

She handed him a cup and saucer. “Green tea, with a hint of apple. I’m told you like it.”

He did not accept the offering. “What is it you want, Minister?”

“You’re a traitor to me and this Federation. That political party of yours has been inciting people to civil disobedience.”

He showed no surprise. “You say constantly that we have the right to speak out.”

“And you believe me?”

She tabled the cup and decided to stop playing hostess. “Three days ago you were exposed to a viral agent, one that kills within twenty-four to forty-eight hours. Death comes from an explosive fever, fluid in the lungs, and a weakening in the arterial walls that leads to massive internal bleeding. Your infection had not, as yet, progressed to that point. But, by now, it would have.”

“And how was I cured?”

“I stopped it.”

“You?”

“I wanted you to experience what I’m capable of inflicting.”

He said nothing for a moment, apparently digesting reality.

“You’re a colonel in our air force. A man who took an oath to defend this Federation with his life.”

“And I would.”

“Yet you apparently have no problem inciting treason.”

“I’ll ask again. What do you want?” His tone had lost all civility.

“Your loyalty.”

He said nothing.

She grabbed a remote control from the table. A flat-screen monitor resting on the corner of the desk sprang to life with the image of five men milling among a crowd, examining stalls beneath bright awnings burgeoning with fresh produce.

Her guest rose to his feet.

“This surveillance video came from one of the cameras in the Navoi market. They’re quite useful in maintaining order and fighting crime. But they also allow us to track enemies.” She saw that he recognized the faces. “That’s right, Enver. Your friends. Committed to opposing this Federation. I’m aware of your plans.”

She well knew his party’s philosophy. Before the communists dominated, when Kazakhs lived mainly in yurts, women had been an integral part of society, occupying over a third of the political positions. But between the Soviets and Islam, women were shoved aside. Independence in the 1990s brought not only an economic depression, it also allowed women back into the forefront, where they’d steadily reacquired political influence. The Federation cemented that resurrection.

“You don’t really want a return to the old ways, Enver. Back to the time when we roamed the steppes? Women ran this society then. No. You just want political power. And if you can inflame the people with thoughts of some glorious past, you’ll use it to your advantage. You’re as bad as I am.”

He spat at her feet. “That’s what I think of you.”

She shrugged. “Doesn’t change a thing.” She pointed at the screen. “Each of those men, before the sun sets, will be infected, just like you were. They’ll never realize a thing until a runny nose, or a sore throat, or a headache signals they may be coming down with a cold. You recall those symptoms, don’t you, Enver?”

“You’re as evil as I ever believed.”

“If I were evil, I would have let you die.”

“Why didn’t you?”

She pointed the remote and changed channels. A map appeared.

“This is what we’ve achieved. A unified Asian state that all of the leaders agreed to.”

“You didn’t ask the people.”

“Really? It’s been fifteen years since we achieved this reality and the economies of all the former nations have dramatically improved. We’ve built schools, houses, roads. Medical care is markedly better. Our infrastructure has been modernized. Electricity, water, sewage disposal-nothing like it once was with the Soviets-now works. The Russian rape of our land and resources has stopped. International business is invested here in the multibillions. Tourism is on the rise. Our gross national product has increased a thousand percent. The people are happy, Enver.”

“Not all.”

“There’s no way to make everyone happy. All we can do is please a majority. That’s what the West preaches all the time.”

“How many others have you pressured like me?”

“Not all that many. Most see the benefit of what we’re doing on their own. I share the wealth, and power, with my friends. And, let me say, if any one of you has a better idea, I’m willing to listen. But so far no one has offered anything better. The little bit of opposition we’ve faced, you included, simply want to put themselves in power. Nothing more.”

“Easy for you to be generous, while your germs can whip us all into line.”

“I could have allowed you to die and solved my problem. But, Enver, killing you is foolish. Hitler, Stalin, Roman emperors, Russian tsars, and just about every European monarch all made the same mistake. They eliminated the exact people who could sustain them when they really needed help.”

“Perhaps they were right? Keeping your enemies alive can be dangerous.”

She sensed a slight thawing in his bitterness so she asked, “Do you know about Alexander the Great?”

“Just another Western invader.”

“And in a dozen years he conquered us, taking all of Persia and Asia Minor. More territory than the Roman Empire acquired after a thousand years of fighting. And how did he rule? Not by force. When he claimed a kingdom he always allowed the former ruler to keep power. By doing that he cultivated friends who sent men and supplies when he needed them, so more conquests could be made. Then, he shared the wealth. He was successful because he understood how to use power.”

Hard to tell if she was making progress, but the Kazakh had made one valid point. Enemies did indeed surround her, and the assassination attempt from earlier still loomed fresh in her mind. She tried always to either eliminate or recruit the opposition, but new factions seemed to spring up daily. Alexander himself eventually fell victim to an unreasonable paranoia. She could not repeat that mistake.

“What do you say, Enver? Join us.”

She watched as he mulled over her request. He may not have liked her, but reports noted that this warrior, an aviator trained by the Soviets who fought with them in many of their foolish struggles, hated something else far worse.

Time to see if that were true.

She pointed at the screen toward Pakistan, Afghanistan, and Iran. “These are our problem.”

She saw he agreed.

“What do you plan to do?” he asked, with interest.

“End them.”

FOURTEEN

COPENHAGEN

8:30 A.M.

MALONE STARED AT THE HOUSE. HE, THORVALDSEN, AND CASSIOPEIA had left his bookshop a half hour ago and driven north, following a seaside route. Ten minutes south of Thorvaldsen’s palatial estate, they’d veered off the main highway and parked before a modest one-story dwelling nestled among a grove of gnarly beechwoods. Spring daffodils and hyacinths wrapped its walls, the brick and wood topped by a lopsided gabled roof. Gray-brown waters of the Øresund lapped a rocky beach fifty yards behind.

“As if I have to ask who owns this place.”

“It’s run-down,” Thorvaldsen said. “It abuts my land. I bought it for a bargain, but the waterfront location is wonderful.”

Malone agreed. Prime real estate. “And who’s supposed to live here?”

Cassiopeia grinned. “The owner of the museum. Who else?”

He noticed that her mood was lightening. But his two friends were clearly on edge. He’d changed clothes before leaving town and retrieved his Magellan Billet-issue Beretta from beneath his bed. He’d been ordered twice by the local police to surrender it, but Thorvaldsen had used connections with the Danish prime minister to block both attempts. Over the past year, even though retired, he’d found a lot of uses for the weapon. Which was troubling. One reason he’d quit the government was to stop carrying a gun.

They stepped inside the house. Sunlight poured through windows clouded with salt film. The interior was decorated with a mishmash of old and new-a combination of styles that seemed pleasant by merely being itself. He noticed the condition. Lots of repairs were needed.

Cassiopeia searched the house.

Thorvaldsen sat on a dusty tweed-covered couch. “Everything in that museum last night was a copy. I removed the originals after I bought the place. None of it was particularly valuable, but I couldn’t allow it to be destroyed.”

“You went to a lot of trouble,” Malone said.

Cassiopeia returned from her reconnoiter. “There’s a lot at stake.”

Like he needed to hear that. “While we wait for someone to come and try to kill us-the individual you talked to on the phone three hours ago-could you at least explain why we gave them that much prep time?”

“I’m well aware of what I’ve done,” Thorvaldsen said.

“Why are these medallions so important?”

“Do you know much about Hephaestion?” Thorvaldsen asked.

He did. “He was Alexander’s closest companion. Probably his lover. Died a few months before Alexander.”

“The molecular manuscript,” Cassiopeia said, “that was discovered in Samarkand actually fills in the historical record with some new information. We now know that Alexander was so guilt-ridden over Hephaestion’s death that he ordered the execution of his personal physician, a man named Glaucias. Had him torn apart between two trees tied to the ground.”

“And what did the doctor do to deserve that?”

“He failed to save Hephaestion,” Thorvaldsen said. “Seems Alexander possessed a cure. Something that had, at least once before, arrested the same fever that killed Hephaestion. It’s described in the manuscript simply as the draught. But there are also some interesting details.”

Cassiopeia removed a folded page from her pocket.

“Read it for yourself.”

So shameful of the king to execute poor Glaucias. The physician was not to blame. Hephaestion was told not to eat or drink, yet he did both. Had he refrained, the time needed to heal him may have been earned. True, Glaucias had none of the draught on hand, its container had been shattered days before by accident, but he was waiting for more to arrive from the east. Years earlier, during his pursuit of the Scythians, Alexander suffered a bad stomach. In return for a truce, the Scythians provided the draught, which they had long used for cures. Only Alexander, Hephaestion, and Glaucias knew, but Glaucias once administered the wondrous liquid to his assistant. The man’s neck had swollen with lumps so bad he could hardly swallow, as if pebbles filled his throat, and fluid spewed forth with each exhale. Lesions had covered his body. No strength remained within any of his muscles. Each breath was a labor. Glaucias gave him the draught and, by the next day, the man recovered. Glaucias told his assistant that he’d used the cure on the king several times, once when he was near death, and always the king recovered. The assistant owed Glaucias his life, but there was nothing he could do to save him from Alexander’s wrath. He watched from the Babylonian walls as the trees ripped his savior apart. When Alexander returned from the killing field he ordered the assistant to his presence and asked if he knew of the draught. Having seen Glaucias die so horribly, fear forced him to tell the truth. The king told him to speak of the liquid to no one. Ten days later Alexander lay on his deathbed, fever ravaging his body, his strength nearly gone, the same as Hephaestion. On the final day of his life, while his Companions and generals prayed for guidance, Alexander whispered that he wanted the remedy. The assistant mustered his courage and, remembering Glaucias, told Alexander no. A smile came to the king’s lips. The assistant took pleasure in watching Alexander die, knowing that he could have saved him.

“The court historian,” Cassiopeia said, “a man who also lost someone he loved when Alexander ordered Callisthenes executed four years previous, recorded that account. Callisthenes was Aristotle’s nephew. He served as court historian until spring 327 BCE. That’s when he got caught up in an assassination plot. By then, Alexander’s paranoia had amplified to dangerous levels. So he ordered Callisthenes’ death. Aristotle was said never to have forgiven Alexander.”

Malone nodded. “Some say Aristotle sent the poison that supposedly killed Alexander.”

Thorvaldsen scoffed at the comment. “The king wasn’t poisoned. That manuscript proves it. Alexander died of an infection. Probably malaria. He’d been trudging through swamps a few weeks prior. But it’s hard to say for sure. And this drink, the draught, had cured him before and it cured the assistant.”

“Did you catch those symptoms?” Cassiopeia asked. “Fever, neck swelling, mucus, fatigue, lesions. That sounds viral. Yet this liquid totally cured the assistant.”

He was not impressed. “You can’t place much credence in a two-thousand-plus-year-old manuscript. You have no idea if it’s authentic.”

“It is,” Cassiopeia said.

He waited for her to explain.

“My friend was an expert. The technique he used to find the writing is state of the art and doesn’t lend itself to forgeries. We’re talking about reading words at a molecular level.”

“Cotton,” Thorvaldsen said. “Alexander knew there’d be a battle for his body. He’s known to have said, in the days before he died, that his prominent friends would engage in vast funerary games once he was gone. A curious comment, but one we’re beginning to understand.”

He’d caught something else and wanted to know from Cassiopeia, “You said your friend at the museum was an expert? Past tense?”

“He’s dead.”

And now he knew the source of her pain. “You were close?”

Cassiopeia did not answer.

“You could have told me,” he said to her.

“No, I couldn’t.”

Her words stung.

“Suffice it to say,” Thorvaldsen said, “that all this intrigue involves locating Alexander’s body.”

“Good luck. It’s not been seen in fifteen hundred years.”

“That’s the catch,” Cassiopeia coldly replied. “We might know where it is, and the man coming here to kill us doesn’t.”

FIFTEEN

SAMARKAND

12:20 P.M.

ZOVASTINA WATCHED THE STUDENTS’ EAGER FACES AND ASKED the class, “How many of you have read Homer?”

Only a few hands raised.

“I was at university, just like you, when I first read his epic.”

She’d come to the People’s Center for Higher Learning for one of her many weekly appearances. She tried to schedule at least five. Opportunities for the press, and the people, to see and hear her. Once a poorly funded Russian institute, now the center was a respectable place of academic learning. She’d seen to that because the Greeks were right. An illiterate state leads to no state at all.

She read from the copy of the Iliad open before her.

“‘The skin of the coward changes color all the time, he can’t get a grip on himself, he can’t sit still, he squats and rocks, shifting his weight from foot to foot, his heart racing, pounding inside the fellow’s ribs, his teeth chattering. He dreads some grisly death. But the skin of a brave soldier never blanches. He’s all control. Tense but no great fear.’”

The students seemed to enjoy her recitation.

“Homer’s words from over twenty-eight hundred years ago. They still make perfect sense.”

Cameras and microphones pointed her way from the back of the classroom. Being here reminded her of twenty-eight years ago. Northern Kazakhstan. Another classroom.

And her teacher.

“It’s okay to cry,” Sergej said to her.

The words had moved her. More so than she’d thought possible. She stared at the Ukrainian, who possessed a unique appreciation for the world.

“You’re but nineteen,” he said. “I remember when I first read Homer. It affected me, too.”

“Achilles is such a tortured soul.”

“We’re all tortured souls, Irina.”

She liked when he said her name. This man knew things she didn’t. He understood things she’d yet to experience. She wanted to know those things. “I never knew my mother and father. I never knew any of my family.”

“They’re not important.”

She was surprised. “How can you say that?”

He pointed to the book. “The lot of man is to suffer and die. What’s gone is of no consequence.”

For years she’d wondered why she seemed doomed to a life of loneliness. Friends were few, relationships nonexistent, life for her an endless challenge of wanting and lacking. Like Achilles.

“Irina, you’ll come to know the joy of the challenge. Life is one challenge after another. One battle after another. Always, like Achilles, in pursuit of excellence.”

“And what of failure?”

He shrugged. “The consequence of not succeeding. Remember what Homer said. Circumstances rule men, not men circumstances.”

She thought of another line from the poem. “What chilling blows we suffer-thanks to our own conflicting wills-whenever we show these mortal men some kindness.”

Her teacher nodded. “Never forget that.”

“Such a story,” she said to the class. “The Iliad. A war that raged for nine long years. Then, in its tenth, a quarrel led Achilles to stop fighting. A Greek hero, full of pride, a fighter whose humanity stemmed from great passion, invulnerable except for his heels.”

She saw smiles on some faces.

“Everyone has a weakness,” she said.

“What’s yours, Minister?” one of the students asked.

She’d told them not to be bashful.

Questions were good.

“Why do you teach me these things?” she asked Sergej.

“To know your heritage is to understand it. Do you realize that you may well be a descendant of the Greeks?”

She gave him a perplexed look. “How is that possible?”

“Long ago, before Islam, when Alexander and the Greeks claimed this land, many of his men stayed after he returned home. They settled our valleys and took local women as wives. Some of our words, our music, our dance, were theirs.”

She’d never realized.

“My affection for the people of this Federation,” she said in answer to the question. “You’re my weakness.”

The students clapped their approval.

She thought again of the Iliad. And its lessons. The glory of war. The triumph of military values over family life. Personal honor. Revenge. Bravery. The impermanence of human life.

The skin of a brave soldier never blanches.

And had she blanched earlier, when she’d faced down the would-be assassin?

“You say politics interests you,” Sergej said. “Then never forget Homer. Our Russian masters know nothing of honor. Our Greek forebears, they knew everything about it. Don’t ever be like the Russians, Irina. Homer was right. Failing your community is the greatest failure of all.”

“How many of you know of Alexander the Great?” she asked the students.

A few hands were raised.

“Do you realize that some of you may be Greek?” She told them what Sergej told her so long ago about Greeks staying in Asia. “Alexander’s legacy is a part of our history. Bravery, chivalry, endurance. He joined West and East for the first time. His legend spread to every corner of the world. He’s in the Bible, the Koran. The Greek Orthodox made him a saint. The Jews consider him a folk hero. There’s a version of him in Germanic, Icelandic, and Ethiopian sagas. Epics and poems have been written about him for centuries. His tale is a tale of us.”

She could easily understand why Alexander had been so taken with Homer. Why he lived the Iliad. Immortality was gained only through heroic actions. Men like Enrico Vincenti could not understand honor. Achilles was right. Wolves and lambs can enjoy no meeting of the minds.

Vincenti was a lamb. She was a wolf.

And there’d be no meeting.

These encounters with students were beneficial on a multitude of levels, not the least of which was a reminder to her of what came before her. Twenty-three hundred years ago Alexander the Great marched thirty-two thousand kilometers and conquered the known world. He created a common language, encouraged religious tolerance, spurred racial diversity, founded seventy cities, established new trade routes, and ushered in a renaissance that lasted two hundred and fifty years. He aspired to arête. The Greek ideal of excellence.

Her turn now to display the same thing.

She finished with the class and excused herself.

As she left the building, one of her guards handed her a piece of paper. She unfolded and read the message, an e-mail that had arrived thirty minutes ago, noting the cryptic return address and curt message – NEED YOU HERE BY SUNSET.

Irritating, but she had no choice.

“Have a helicopter readied,” she ordered.

SIXTEEN

VENICE

8:35 A.M.

TO VINCENTI, VENICE SEEMED A WORK OF ART. GOBS OF BYZANTINE splendor, Islamic reflections, and allusions to India and China. Half Eastern, half Western-one foot in Europe, the other in Asia. A uniquely human creation born from a series of islands that once managed to weld themselves into the greatest of trading states, a supreme naval power, a twelve-hundred-year-old republic whose lofty ideals even attracted the attention of America’s Founding Fathers. Envied, suspected, even feared-trading indiscriminately with all sides, friend or foe. An unscrupulous moneymaker, dedicated to profit, treating even wars as promising investments. That had been Venice through the centuries.

And himself for the past two decades.

He bought his Grand Canal villa with the first profits from his fledgling pharmaceutical company. Only fitting that both he and his corporation, now valued in the billions of euros, be headquartered here.

He especially loved Venice in the early morning, when nothing could be heard but the human voice. A morning walk from his palazzo on the canal, to his favorite ristorante on the square at Campo del Leon, constituted his only attempt at exercise. But it was one he couldn’t avoid. Feet or boat were the only means of transportation since vehicles were banned in Venice.

Today he walked with a renewed vigor. The problem with the Florentine had worried him. With that now resolved he could turn his attention to the final few hurdles. Nothing satisfied him more than a well-executed plan. Unfortunately, few were ever so.

Especially when deceit proved necessary.

The morning air no longer carried winter’s unpleasant chill. Spring had clearly returned to northern Italy. The wind seemed gentler, too, the sky a lovely salmon, brightened by a sun emerging from the eastern ocean.

He wove a path through the twisting streets, narrow enough that carrying an open umbrella would have presented a challenge, and crossed several of the bridges that tacked the city together. He passed clothing and stationery stores, a wine shop, a shoe dealer, and a couple of well-stocked groceries, all closed at this early hour.

He came to the end of the street and entered the square.

On one end rose an antique tower, once a church, now a theater. At the other end stood the campanile of a Carmine chapel. Between stretched houses and shops that shimmered with age and self-satisfaction. He didn’t particularly like the campos. They tended to feel dry, old, and urban. Different from the canal fronts where palazzos pressed forward, like people in a crowd jostling for air.

He studied the empty square. Everything neat and orderly.

Just as he liked it.

He was a man possessed of wealth, power, and a future. He lived in one of the world’s great cities, his lifestyle befitting a person of prestige and tradition. His father, a nondescript soul who instilled in him a love of science, told him as a child to take life as it came. Good advice. Life was about reaction and recovery. One was either in, just coming out of, or about to find trouble. The trick was knowing which state you were in and acting accordingly.

He’d just come out of trouble.

And was about to find more.

For the past two years he’d headed the Council of Ten, which governed the Venetian League. Four hundred and thirty-two men and women whose ambitions were stymied by excessive government regulation, restrictive trade laws, and politicians who chipped away at corporate bottom lines. America and the European Union were by far the worst. Every day some new impediment sapped profits. League members spent billions trying to avert more regulation. And while one set of politicos were quietly influenced to help, another set were intent on making a name for themselves by prosecuting the helpers.

A frustrating and never-ending cycle.

Which was why the League had decided to create a place where business could not only flourish, but rule. A place similar to the original Venetian republic, which, for centuries, was governed by men possessed of the mercantile ability of Greeks and the audacity of Romans-entrepreneurs who were at once businessmen, soldiers, governors, and statesmen. A city-state that ultimately became an empire. Periodically, the Venetian republic had formed leagues with other city-states-alliances that ensured survival in numbers-and the idea worked well. Their modern incarnation expounded a similar philosophy. He’d worked hard for his fortune and agreed with something Irina Zovastina had once told him. Everybody loves a thing more if it has cost him trouble.

He traversed the square and approached the café, which opened each day at six A.M. simply for him. Morning was his time of day. His mind seemed most alert before noon. He entered the ristorante and acknowledged the owner. “Emilio, might I ask a favor? Tell my guests that I’ll return shortly. There’s something I must do. It won’t take long.”

The man smiled and nodded, assuring there’d be no problem.

He bypassed his corporate officers waiting for him in the adjacent dining room and stepped through the kitchen. An aroma of broiling fish and fried eggs teased his nostrils. He stopped a moment and admired what was simmering on the stove, then left the building through a rear exit and found himself in another of Venice ’s innumerable alleys, this one darkened by tall brick buildings thick with droppings.

Three Inquisitors waited a few meters away. He nodded and they walked single file. At an intersection they turned right and followed another alley. He noticed a familiar stink-half drainage, half decaying stone-the pall of Venice. They stopped at the rear entrance to a building that housed a dress shop on its ground floor and apartments on its upper three stories. He knew they were now diagonally across the square from the café.

Another Inquisitor waited for them at the door.

“She’s there?” Vincenti asked.

The man nodded.

He gestured and three of the men entered the building, while the fourth waited outside. Vincenti followed them up a flight of metal stairs. On the third floor they stopped outside one of the apartment doors. He stood down the hall as guns were drawn and one of the men prepared to kick the door.

He nodded.

Shoe met wood and the door burst inward.

The men rushed inside.

A few seconds later one of his men signaled. He stepped into the apartment and closed the door.

Two Inquisitors held a woman. She was slender, fair-haired, and not unattractive. A hand was clamped over her mouth, a gun barrel pressed to her left temple. She was frightened, but calm. Expected, since she was a pro.

“Surprised to see me?” he asked. “You’ve been watching for nearly a month.”

Her eyes offered no response.

“I’m not a fool, though your government must take me for one.”

He knew she worked for the United States Justice Department, an agent with a special international unit called the Magellan Billet. The Venetian League had encountered the unit before, a few years back when the League first started investing in central Asia. To be expected, actually. America stayed suspicious. Nothing ever came from those inquiries, but now Washington again seemed fixated on his organization.

He spied the agent’s equipment. Long-range camera set on a tripod, cell phone, notepad. He knew questioning her would be useless. She could tell him little, if anything, he did not already know. “You’ve interfered with my breakfast.”

He gestured and one of the men confiscated her toys.

He stepped to the window and gazed down into the still-deserted campo. What he chose next could well determine his future. He was about to play both ends against the middle in a dangerous game that neither the Venetian League nor Irina Zovastina would appreciate. Nor, for that matter, would the Americans. He’d planned this bold move for a long time.

As his father had said many times, the meek deserve nothing.

He kept his gaze out the window, raised his right arm, and flicked his wrist. A snap signaled that the woman’s neck had broken cleanly. Killing he didn’t mind. Watching was another matter.

His men knew what to do.

A car waited downstairs to take the body across town where the coffin from last night waited. Plenty of room inside for one more.

SEVENTEEN

DENMARK

MALONE STUDIED THE MAN WHO’D JUST ARRIVED, ALONE, DRIVING an Audi with a bright rental sticker tacked on the windshield. He was a short, burly fellow with shocks of unkempt hair, baggy clothes, and shoulders and arms that suggested he was accustomed to hard work. Probably early forties, his features suggested Slavic influences-wide nose, deep-set eyes.

The man stepped onto the front stoop and said, “I’m not armed. But you’re welcome to check.”

Malone kept his gun leveled. “Refreshing to deal with professionals.”

“You’re the one from the museum.”

“And you’re the one who left me inside.”

“Not me. But I approved.”

“ Lot of honesty from a man with a gun pointed at him.”

“Guns don’t bother me.”

And he believed that. “I don’t see any money.”

“I haven’t seen the medallion.”

He stepped aside and allowed the man to enter. “You have a name?”

His guest stopped in the doorway and faced him with hard eyes. “Viktor.”

CASSIOPEIA WATCHED FROM THE TREES AS THE MAN FROM THE car and Malone entered the house. Whether he’d come alone or not would not be a problem.

This drama was about to play itself out.

And she hoped, for Malone’s benefit, that she and Thorvaldsen had calculated correctly.

MALONE STOOD OFF TO ONE SIDE AS THORVALDSEN AND THE MAN named Viktor talked. He remained alert, watching with the intensity of someone who had spent a dozen years as a government agent. He, too, had often faced an unknown adversary with only wits and wisdom, hoping to heaven nothing went wrong and he made it out in one piece.

“You’ve been stealing these medallions from all over the continent,” Thorvaldsen said. “Why? Their value is not that great.”

“I don’t know about that. You want fifty thousand euros for yours. That’s five times what it’s worth.”

“And, amazingly, you’re willing to pay. Which means you’re not in it for collecting. Who do you work for?”

“Myself.”

Thorvaldsen gave a refined chuckle. “A sense of humor. I like that. I detect an East European accent to your English. The old Yugoslavia? Croatian?”

Viktor remained silent and Malone noticed that their visitor had not touched a thing inside the house.

“I assumed you wouldn’t answer that question,” Thorvaldsen said. “How do you want to conclude our business?”

“I’d like to examine the medallion. If satisfied, I’ll have the money available tomorrow. Can’t be done today. It’s Sunday.”

“Depends on where your bank is,” Malone said.

“Mine’s closed.” And Viktor’s blank stare indicated he’d offer nothing more.

“Where did you learn about Greek fire?” Thorvaldsen asked.

“You’re quite knowledgeable.”

“I own a Greco-Roman museum.”

The hairs on the back of Malone’s neck bristled. People like Viktor, who did not appear loose-lipped, only offered concessions when they knew their listeners would not be around long enough to repeat them.

“I know you’re after elephant medallions,” Thorvaldsen said, “and you have them all, save mine and three others. My guess is you’re hired help and have no idea why these are so important, nor do you care. A faithful servant.”

“And who are you? Certainly not the owner of a Greco-Roman museum.”

“On the contrary. I do own it, and I want to be paid for my destroyed goods. Hence the high price.”

Thorvaldsen reached into his pocket and removed a clear plastic case, which he tossed. Viktor caught it with both hands. Malone watched as their guest dropped the medallion into his open palm. About the size of a fifty-cent piece, pewter-colored, with symbols etched on both faces. Viktor removed a jeweler’s loop from his pocket.

“You an expert?” Malone asked.

“I know enough.”

“The microengravings are there,” Thorvaldsen said. “Greek letters.

ZH. Zeta. Eta. It’s amazing the ancients possessed the ability to engrave them.”

Viktor continued his examination.

“Satisfied?” Malone asked.

VIKTOR STUDIED THE MEDALLION, AND THOUGH HE DIDN’T HAVE his microscope or scales, this one seemed genuine.

Actually, the best specimen so far.

He’d come unarmed because he wanted these men to think themselves in charge. Finesse, not force, was needed here. One thing worried him, though. Where was the woman?

He glanced up and allowed the loop to drop into his right hand. “Might I examine it closer, at the window? I need better light.”

“By all means,” the older man said.

“What’s your name?” Viktor asked.

“How about Ptolemy?”

Viktor grinned. “There were many. Which one are you?”

“The first. Alexander’s most opportunistic general. Claimed Egypt for his prize after Alexander died. Smart man. His heirs held it for centuries.”

He shook his head. “In the end, the Romans defeated them.”

“Like my museum. Nothing lasts.”

Viktor stepped close to the dusky pane. The man with the gun stood guard at the doorway. He’d only need an instant. As he positioned himself within the shafts of sunlight, his back momentarily to them, he made his move.

CASSIOPEIA SAW A MAN APPEAR FROM THE TREES ON THE FAR SIDE of the house. He was young, thin, and agile. Though last night she’d not seen the faces of either of the two who’d torched the museum, she recognized the nimble gait and careful approach.

One of the thieves.

Heading straight for Thorvaldsen’s car.

Thorough, she’d give them that, but not necessarily careful, especially considering that they knew someone was at least a few steps ahead of them.

She watched as the man plunged a knife into both rear tires, then withdrew.

MALONE CAUGHT THE SWITCH. VIKTOR HAD DROPPED THE LOOP into his right hand while his left held the medallion. But as the loop was replaced to Viktor’s eye and the examination restarted, he noticed that the medallion was now in the right hand, the index finger and thumb of the left hand curled inward, palming the coin.

Not bad. Combined skillfully with the act of moving toward the window and finding the right light. Perfect misdirection.

His gaze caught Thorvaldsen’s, but the Dane quickly nodded that he’d seen it, too. Viktor was holding the coin in the light, studying it through the loop. Thorvaldsen shook his head, which signaled let it go.

Malone asked again, “You satisfied?”

Viktor dropped the jeweler’s loop into his left hand and pocketed it, along with the real medallion. He then held up the coin he’d switched out, surely the fake from the museum, now returned. “It’s genuine.”

“Worth fifty thousand euros?” Thorvaldsen asked.

Viktor nodded. “I’ll have the money wired. You tell me where.”

“Call tomorrow to the number from the medallion, as you did earlier, and we’ll arrange a trade.”

“Just drop it back in its case,” Malone said.

Viktor walked to the table. “This is quite a game you two are playing.”

“It’s no game,” Thorvaldsen said.

“Fifty thousand euros?”

“Like I said, you destroyed my museum.”

Malone spotted the confidence in Viktor’s careful eyes. The man had entered a situation not knowing his enemy, thinking himself smarter, and that was always dangerous.

Malone, though, had committed a worse mistake.

He’d volunteered, trusting only that his two friends knew what they were doing.

EIGHTEEN

XINYANG PROVINCE, CHINA

3:00 P.M.

ZOVASTINA STARED OUT OF THE HELICOPTER AS THEY LEFT FEDERATION airspace and flew into extreme western China. Once the area had been a tightly sealed back door to the Soviet Union, guarded by masses of troops. Now the borders were open. Unrestricted transportation and trade. China had been one of the first to formally recognize the Federation, and treaties between the two nations assured that travel and commerce flowed freely.

Xinyang province constituted sixteen percent of China. Mostly mountains and desert, loaded with natural resources. Wholly different from the rest of the country. Less communism. Heavy Islam. Once called East Turkestan, its identity was traceable far more to central Asia than the Middle Kingdom.

The Venetian League had been instrumental in formalizing friendly relations with the Chinese, another reason she’d chosen to join the group. The Great Western Economic Expansion began five years ago, when Beijing started pouring billions into infrastructure and redevelopment all across Xinyang. League members had received many of the contracts for petrochemicals, mining, machine works, road improvements, and construction. Its friends in the Chinese capital were many, as money spoke as loudly in the communist world as anywhere else, and she’d used those connections to her maximum political advantage.

The flight from Samarkand was a little over an hour in the high-speed chopper. She’d made the trek many times and, as always, stared below at the rough terrain, imagining the ancient caravans that once made their way east and west along its famed Silk Road. Jade, coral, linens, glass, gold, iron, garlic, tea-even dwarfs, nubile women, and horses so fierce they were said to have sweated blood-were all traded. Alexander the Great never made it this far east, but Marco Polo had definitely walked that earth.

Ahead, she spotted Kashgar.

The city sat on the edge of the Taklimakan Desert, a hundred and twenty kilometers east from the Federation border, within the shadows of the snowy Pamirs, some of the highest and most barren mountains in the world. A bejeweled oasis, China ’s western-most metropolis, it had existed, like Samarkand, for over two thousand years. Once a place of bustling open markets and crowded bazaars, now it was consumed by dust, wails, and the falsetto cries of muezzins summoning men to prayer in its four thousand mosques. Three hundred and fifty thousand people lived among its hotels, warehouses, businesses, and shrines. The town walls were long gone and a superhighway, another part of the great economic expansion, now encircled and directed green taxis in all directions.

The helicopter banked north where the landscape buckled. The desert was not far to the east. Taklimakan literally meant “go in and you won’t come out.” An apt description for a place with winds so hot they could, and did, kill entire caravans within minutes.

She spotted their destination.

A black-glass building in the center of a rock-strewn meadow, the beginnings of a forest a half kilometer behind. Nothing identified the two-story structure, which she knew was owned by Philogen Pharmaceutique, a Luxembourg corporation headquartered in Italy, its largest shareholder an American expatriate with the quite Italian name of Enrico Vincenti.

Early on, she’d made a point to learn Vincenti’s personal history.

He was a virologist, hired by the Iraqis in the 1970s as part of a biological weapons program that the then new leader, Saddam Hussein, wanted to pursue. Hussein had viewed the Biological Toxin Weapons Convention of 1972, which banned germ warfare worldwide, as nothing more than an opportunity. Vincenti had worked with the Iraqis until just before the first Gulf War, when Hussein quickly disbanded the research. Peace brought UN inspectors, which forced a near permanent abandonment. So Vincenti moved on, starting a pharmaceutical company that expanded at a record pace during the 1990s. Now it was the largest in Europe, with an impressive array of patents. A huge multinational conglomerate. Quite an achievement for an unheralded mercenary scientist. Which had long made her wonder.

The chopper landed and she hustled inside the building.

The exterior glass walls were merely a facade. Like tables nestled together, another whole structure rose inside. A polished-slate walkway encircled the inner building and bushy indoor plants lined both sides of the walk. The inside stone walls were broken by three sets of double doors. She knew the unique arrangement was a way to quietly ensure security. No external hedgerows topped with strands of barbed wire. No outside guards. No cameras. Nothing to alert anyone that the building was anything special.

She crossed the outer perimeter and approached one of the entrances, her path blocked by a metal gate. A security guard stood behind a marble counter. The gate was controlled by a hand scanner, but she was not required to stop.

On the other side stood an impish man in his late fifties with thinning gray hair and a mousy face. Wire-framed glasses shielded expressionless eyes. He was dressed in a black-and-gold lab coat unbuttoned in the front, a security badge labeled “Grant Lyndsey” clipped to his lapel.

“Welcome, Minister,” he said in English.

She answered his greeting with a look meant to signal annoyance. His e-mail had suggested urgency, and though she’d not liked anything about the summons, she’d canceled her afternoon activities and come.

They entered the inner building.

Beyond the main entrance the path forked. Lyndsey turned left and led her through a maze of windowless corridors. Everything was hospital clean and smelled of chlorine. All of the doors were equipped with electronic locks. At the one labeled “Chief Scientist,” Lyndsey unclipped the ID on his lapel and slid the card through a slot.

Modern decor dominated the windowless office. Each time she visited the same thing struck her as odd. No family pictures. No diplomas on the wall. No mementos. As if this man possessed no life. Which was probably not far from the truth.

“I need to show you something,” Lyndsey said.

He spoke to her as an equal, and that she despised. His tone always clear that he lived in China and was not subject to her.

He flicked on a monitor that, from a ceiling-mounted camera, displayed a middle-aged woman perched in a chair watching television. She knew the room was on the building’s second floor, in the patient ward, as she’d seen images from there before.

“Last week,” Lyndsey said, “I requisitioned a dozen from the prison. Like we’ve done before.”

She’d been unaware that another clinical trial had been performed. “Why wasn’t I told?”

“I didn’t know I was required to tell you.”

She heard what he’d not said. Vincenti’s in charge. His lab, his people, his concoctions. She’d lied to Enver earlier. She’d not cured him. Vincenti had. A technician from this lab had administered the antiagent. Though she possessed the biological pathogens, Vincenti controlled the remedies. A check and balance born of mistrust, in place from the beginning to ensure that their bargaining positions remained equal.

Lyndsey pointed a remote control and the screen changed to other patient rooms, eight in all, each occupied by a man or woman. Unlike the first, these patients lay supine, connected to intravenous drips.

Not moving.

He slipped off his glasses. “I used only twelve, since they were readily available on short notice. I needed a quick study on the antiagent for the new virus. What I told you about a month ago. A nasty little thing.”

“And where did you find it?”

“In a species of rodent east of here in Heilongjiang province. We’d heard tales of how people became sick after eating the things. Sure enough, there’s a complex virus floating around in the rat blood. With a little tweaking, this bugger has punch. Death in less than one day.” He pointed to the screen. “Here’s the proof.”

She’d actually asked for a more offensive agent. Something that worked even faster than the twenty-eight she already possessed.

“They’re all on life support. They’ve been clinically dead for days. I need autopsies to verify the infectious parameters, but I wanted to show you before we sliced them up.”

“And the antiagent?”

“One dosage and all twelve were on their way to good health. Total reversal in a matter of hours. Then I substituted a placebo to all of them, except the first woman. She’s the control. As expected, the others lapsed quickly and died.” He brought the image on the screen back to the first woman. “But she’s virus free. Perfectly normal.”

“Why was this trial needed?”

“You wanted a new virus. I needed to see if the adjustments worked.” Lyndsey threw her a smile. “And, like I said, I had to verify the antiagent.”

“When do I get the new virus?”

“You can take it today. That’s why I called.”

She never liked transporting the viruses, but only she knew this lab’s location. Her deal was with Vincenti. A personal arrangement between them. No way she could trust anyone with the fruits of that bargain. And her helicopter would never be stopped by the Chinese.

“Get the virus ready,” she said.

“All frozen and packed.”

She pointed at the screen. “What about her?”

He shrugged. “She’ll be reinfected. Dead by tomorrow.”

Her nerves were still on edge. Trampling the would-be assassin had vented some of her frustration, but unanswered questions remained about the murder attempt. How had Vincenti known? Perhaps because he’d ordered it? Hard to say. But she’d been caught off guard. Vincenti had been a step ahead of her. And that she did not like.

Nor did she like Lindsey.

She pointed at the screen. “Have her ready to leave, too. Immediately.”

“Is that wise?”

“That’s my concern.”

He grinned. “Some amusement?”

“Would you like to come along and see?”

“No, thanks. I like it here, on the Chinese side of the border.”

She rose. “And if I were you, I’d stay here.”

NINETEEN

DENMARK

MALONE KEPT HIS GUN READY AS THORVALDSEN CONCLUDED HIS business with Viktor.

“We can make the exchange back here,” Thorvaldsen said. “Tomorrow.”

“You don’t strike me as a man who requires money,” Viktor said.

“Actually, I like as much as I can acquire.”

Malone repressed a smile. His Danish friend actually gave away millions of euros to causes all around the world. He’d often wondered if he was one of those causes, since Thorvaldsen had made a point, two years ago, to travel to Atlanta and offer him a chance to change his life in Copenhagen. An opportunity he’d taken and never regretted.

“I’m curious,” Viktor said. “The quality of the forgery was remarkable. Who’s the craftsman?”

“A person of talent, who takes pride in his work.”

“Pass on my compliments.”

“Some of your euros will go that way.” Thorvaldsen paused. “Now I have a question. Are you going after the last two medallions, here in Europe?”

“What do you think?”

“And the third one, in Samarkand?”

Viktor did not reply, but Thorvaldsen’s message had surely been received. I know your business well.

Viktor started to leave. “I’ll call tomorrow.”

Thorvaldsen stayed seated as the man left the room. “Look forward to hearing from you.”

The front door opened, then closed.

“Cotton,” Thorvaldsen said, producing a paper bag from his pocket. “We have little time. Carefully, slide the case with the medallion into this.”

He understood. “Fingerprints? That’s why you gave him the coin.”

“You saw how he touched nothing. But he had to hold the medallion so he could switch them.”

Malone used the barrel of the gun to slide the plastic case into the bag, careful that it landed flat. He rolled the top closed, leaving an air pocket. He knew the drill. Unlike on television, paper, not plastic, was the best repository for fingerprint evidence. Far less chance of smearing.

Thorvaldsen stood. “Come, now.” He watched as his friend shuffled across the room, head cocked forward. “We must hurry.”

He noticed Thorvaldsen was moving toward the rear of the house. “Where are you going?”

“Out of here.”

He hustled after his friend and they left through a kitchen door that opened onto a railed deck, facing the sea. Fifty yards away, a dock jutted from the rocky shoreline where a motorboat waited. The morning sky had turned overcast. Gunmetal gray clouds now hung low. A brisk northern wind cascaded across the sound, swirling the frothy brown water.

“We’re leaving?” he asked, as Thorvaldsen stepped from the deck.

The Dane continued to move with surprising speed for a man with a crooked spine.

“Where’s Cassiopeia?” Malone asked.

“In trouble,” Thorvaldsen said. “But that’s our only saving grace.”

CASSIOPEIA WATCHED AS THE MAN FROM INSIDE THE HOUSE climbed into his rental car and sped back down the tree-lined lane that led to the highway. She switched on a handheld LCD monitor, linked by radio with two video cameras she’d installed the previous week-one at the highway entrance, the other mounted high in a tree fifty meters from the house.

On the tiny screen the car stopped.

Tire Slasher scampered from the woods. The driver opened his door and stepped out. Both men hustled a few meters back down the lane toward the house.

She knew exactly what they were waiting for.

So she switched off the display and rushed from her hiding place.

VIKTOR WAITED TO SEE IF HE WAS RIGHT. HE’D PARKED THE CAR just past a bend in the hard-packed lane and watched the house from behind a tree trunk.

“They’re not going anywhere,” Rafael said. “Two flat tires.”

Viktor knew the woman had to have been watching.

“I never let on,” Rafael said. “I acted like I was on guard and sensed nothing.”

Which was what Viktor had told his partner to do.

From his pocket he removed the medallion that he’d managed to steal. Minister Zovastina’s orders were clear. Retrieve and return all of them intact. Five were accounted for. Only three remained.

“What were they like?” Rafael asked.

“Puzzling.”

And he meant it. He’d anticipated their moves, almost too well, and that bothered him.

The same slender woman with lioness moves emerged from the woods. Surely she’d seen the tires slashed and was racing to report to her compatriots. He was pleased to know that he’d been right. But why had she not stopped the assault? Maybe her task was simply to watch? He noticed she was carrying something. Small and rectangular. He wished he’d brought binoculars.

Rafael reached into his jacket pocket and removed the radio controller.

He gently laid a hand on his partner’s arm. “Not yet.”

The woman stopped and examined the tires, then trotted toward the front door.

“Give her time.”

Three hours ago, after arranging the meeting, they’d driven straight here. A thorough reconnaissance had confirmed that the house stood empty, so they’d stashed packs of Greek fire beneath the raised foundation and inside the attic. Instead of one of the turtles igniting this mixture, they’d rigged a radio charge.

The woman disappeared inside the house.

Viktor silently counted to ten and prepared to lift his hand from Rafael’s arm.

MALONE STOOD IN THE BOAT. THORVALDSEN BESIDE HIM.

“What did you mean Cassiopeia is in trouble?”

“The house is loaded with Greek fire. They came before us and prepared. Now that he has the medallion, Viktor doesn’t intend for us to survive the meeting.”

“And they’re waiting to make sure Cassiopeia is in there.”

“That’s my estimate. But we’re about to see if it’s also theirs.”

CASSIOPEIA ALLOWED THE FRONT DOOR TO CLOSE, THEN RACED through the house. This was chancy. She could only hope that the thieves gave her a few seconds before they detonated the mixture. Her nerves were tingling, her mind surging, her melancholy replaced with an adrenaline-driven rush.

At the museum, Malone had sensed her anxiety, seemingly knowing that something was wrong.

And there was.

But at the moment she couldn’t worry about it. Enough emotion had been expended on things she could not change. Right now, finding the rear door was all that mattered.

She burst out into dull daylight.

Malone and Thorvaldsen waited in the boat.

The house blocked any view of their escape from down the lane in front. She still held the compact LCD monitor.

Sixty meters to the water.

She leaped from the wooden deck.

MALONE SPOTTED CASSIOPEIA AS SHE FLED FROM THE HOUSE AND ran straight for them.

Fifty feet.

Thirty.

A massive swoosh and the house suddenly caught fire. One second it stood intact, the next flames poured from the windows, out from beneath, and stretched skyward through the roof. Like magician’s flash paper, he thought. No explosion. Instant combustion. Total. Complete. And, in the absence of salt water, unstoppable.

Cassiopeia found the dock and leaped into the boat.

“You cut that close,” he said.

“Get down,” she urged.

They crouched in the boat and he watched as she adjusted a video receiver and the image of a car appeared.

Two men climbed inside. He recognized Viktor. The car drove away, disappearing from the screen. She flicked a switch and another image showed the car turning onto the highway.

Thorvaldsen seemed pleased. “Apparently, our ruse worked.”

“Don’t you think you could have told me what was happening?” Malone asked.

Cassiopeia threw him a mischievous grin. “Now what fun would that have been?”

“He has the medallion.”

“Which is precisely what we wanted him to have,” Thorvaldsen said.

The house continued to consume itself. Smoke billowed into the sky. Cassiopeia cranked the outboard and steered the boat out into open water. Thorvaldsen’s seaside estate lay only a few miles to the north.

“I had the boat delivered just after we arrived,” Thorvaldsen said, as he grabbed Malone by the arm and led him to the stern. Cold salt spray misted over the bow. “I appreciate you being here. We were going to ask for your help today, after the museum was destroyed. That’s why she wanted to meet with you. She needs your help, but I doubt she’ll ask now.”

He wanted to inquire further, but knew now was not the time. His answer, though, was never in doubt. “She’s got it.” He paused. “You’ve both got it.”

Thorvaldsen squeezed his arm in appreciation. Cassiopeia kept her attention ahead, navigating the boat through the swells.

“How bad is it?” he asked.

The roar of the engine and the wind masked his question so that only Thorvaldsen heard him.

“Bad enough. But now we have hope.”

TWENTY

XINYANG PROVINCE, CHINA

3:30 P.M.

ZOVASTINA SAT STRAPPED INTO HER SEAT IN THE HELICOPTER’S rear compartment. Usually she traveled by a more luxurious method, but today she’d used the faster, military-issue chopper. One of her Sacred Band piloted the craft. Half of her personal guard, including Viktor, were licensed pilots. She sat across from the female prisoner from the laboratory, another of her guard beside the woman. She’d been brought aboard handcuffed, but Zovastina had ordered them removed.

“What’s your name?” she asked the woman.

“Does it matter?”

They spoke through headsets in Khask, which she knew none of the foreigners aboard understood.

“How do you feel?”

The woman hesitated before answering, as if debating whether to lie. “The best I’ve felt in years.”

“I’m glad. It’s our goal to improve the lives of all our citizens. Perhaps when you’re released from prison, you’ll have a greater appreciation for our new society.”

A look of contempt formed on the woman’s pitted face. Nothing about her was attractive, and Zovastina wondered how many defeats had been needed to strip her of all self-respect.

“I doubt I’ll be a part of your new society, Minister. My sentence is long.”

“I’m told you were involved in the trafficking of cocaine. If the Soviets were still here, you would have been executed.”

“The Russians?” She laughed. “They were the ones who bought the drugs.”

She wasn’t surprised. “The way of our new world.”

“What happened to the others who came with me?”

She decided to be honest. “Dead.”

Though this woman was surely accustomed to difficulties, she noticed an unease. Understandable, really. Here she was, aboard a helicopter with the Supreme Minister of the Central Asian Federation, after being whisked from prison and subjected to some unknown medical test, of which she was the only survivor. “I’ll make sure your sentence is reduced. Though you may not appreciate us, the Federation appreciates your assistance.”

“Am I supposed to be grateful?”

“You volunteered.”

“I don’t recall anyone saying I had a choice.”

She glanced out the window at the silent peaks of the Pamirs, which signaled the border and friendly territory. She caught the woman’s gaze. “Don’t you want to be a part of what’s about to happen?”

“I want to be free.”

Something from her university years, what Sergej had said long ago, flashed through her mind. Anger seemed always directed at individuals-hatred preferred classes. Time cured anger, but never hatred. So she asked, “Why do you hate?”

The woman studied her with a blank expression. “I should have been one of those who died.”

“Why?”

“Your prisons are nasty places, from which few emerge.”

“As they should be, to discourage anyone from wanting to be there.”

“Many have no choice.” The woman paused. “Unlike you, Supreme Minister.”

The bastion of mountains grew larger in the window. “Centuries ago Greeks came east and changed the world. Did you know that? They conquered Asia. Changed our culture. Now Asians are about to go west and do the same. You’re helping to make it possible.”

“I care nothing about your plans.”

“My name, Irina-Eirene in Greek-means peace. That’s what we seek.”

“And killing prisoners will bring this peace?”

This woman cared not about destiny. Zovastina’s entire life had seemed destined. So far, she’d forged a new political order-just as Alexander had done. Another lesson from Sergej spoke loudly. Remember, Irina, what Arrian said of Alexander. He was always the rival of his own self. Only in the past few years had she come to understand that malady. She stared at the woman who’d ruined her life over a few thousand rubles.

“Ever heard of Menander?”

“Why don’t you tell me?”

“He was a Greek playwright from the fourth century BCE. He wrote comedies.”

“I prefer tragedies.”

She was tiring of this defeatism. Not everyone could be changed. Unlike Colonel Enver, who’d earlier seen the possibilities she’d offered and willingly become a convert. Men like him would be useful in the years ahead, but this pitiful soul represented nothing but failure.

“Menander wrote something I’ve always found to be true. If you want to live your whole life free from pain, you must either be a god or a corpse.”

She reached across and unsnapped the woman’s harness. The guardsman, sitting beside the prisoner, wrenched open the cabin door. The woman seemed momentarily stunned by the bitter air and the engine roar that rushed inside.

“I’m a god,” Zovastina said. “You’re a corpse.”

The guard ripped off the woman’s headset, who apparently realized what was about to happen and started to resist.

But he shoved her out the door.

Zovastina watched as the body tumbled through the crystalline air, vanishing into the peaks below.

The guard slammed the cabin door shut and the helicopter kept flying west back to Samarkand.

For the first time since this morning, she felt satisfied.

Everything was now in place.