by Steve Berry
“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.