Chapter 5 of The Venetian Betrayal (Cotton Malone 3)

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 ar??te. 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 ?C 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 cafe, 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 cafe.

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.