by Steve Berry
“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
V E N I C E
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 As
ian 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 tree
s 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.