The Venetian Betrayal (9 page)

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.

Chapter
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."