The Venetian Betrayal

Michener said, “So the body here may not be Alexander after all?”

“I don’t recall that I promised to explain myself.”

He smiled. “No, Minister. You didn’t. Let me just say that I enjoyed your story.”

“As entertaining as your fable of the pillar.”

He nodded. “They probably both rank together in credibility.”

But she disagreed. Her story had come from a molecular manuscript discovered through X-ray analysis, images that had lingered for centuries beyond the view of a human eye. Only modern technology had managed to reveal them. Hers was not a fable. Alexander the Great was never entombed in Egypt. He was taken somewhere else, a place Ptolemy, the first Greek pharaoh, ultimately discovered. A place to which the mummy in the tomb ten meters away might lead her.

A man appeared at the iconostasis and said to Michener, “We’re ready.”

The nuncio nodded, then motioned for her to lead the way. “Seems, Minister, it’s time to see whose fable is true.”

FORTY-SIX

VIKTOR WATCHED AS THE WOMAN CLIMBED THE STEPS TO THE boat’s center deck and kept her gun trained on him.

“How’d you like the fire?” she asked.

He threw the throttle into neutral and moved toward her. “You stupid bitch, I’ll show you-”

She raised the pistol. “Do it. Go ahead.”

The eyes that glared back at him were full of hate. “You murder with ease.”

“So do you.”

“And who did I kill?”

“Maybe it was you. Maybe someone else from your Sacred Band. Two months ago. In Samarkand. Ely Lund. His house burned to the ground, thanks to your Greek fire.”

He recalled the task. One he’d personally handled for Zovastina. “You’re the woman from Copenhagen. I saw you at the museum, then at the house.”

“When you tried to kill us.”

“Seems you and your two friends invited that challenge.”

“What do you know about Ely’s death? You’re the head of Zovastina’s Sacred Band.”

“How do you know that?” Then it occurred to him. “The coin I examined in that house. Fingerprints.”

“Smart guy.”

Her mind seemed to be struggling with some painful conviction, so he decided to stoke her emotional furnace. “Ely was murdered.”

“Your doing?”

He noticed a bow and a zippered quiver of arrows slung over her shoulder. She’d shown how cold her heart beat when she barred the museum doors and used the arrows to ignite the building. So he decided not to push her too far.

“I was there.”

“Why did Zovastina want him dead?”

The boat rocked in the unseen swells and he could feel them drifting with the wind. The only illumination came from the faint glow of the instrument panel.

“You, your friends, the man Ely, all of you are involved with things that don’t concern you.”

“I’d say you’re the one who needs to be concerned. I came to kill you both. One down. One to go.”

“And what will you gain?”

“The pleasure of seeing you die.”

Her gun came level.

And fired.

MALONE BROUGHT THE THROTTLE TO NEUTRAL. “YOU HEAR that?”

Stephanie, too, was alert. “Sounded like a gunshot. Nearby.”

He stuck his head beyond the windscreen and noted that the fire on Torcello, about a mile away, burned with new vigor. The mist had lifted, weather here apparently came in quick waves, the visibility now relatively reasonable. Boat lights crisscrossed paths in all directions.

His ears searched for sound.

Nothing.

He powered up the engines.

CASSIOPEIA AIMED AT THE BULKHEAD, SENDING THE BULLET within inches of Viktor’s leg. “Ely never hurt a soul. Why did she have to kill him?” She kept the gun trained on him. “Tell me. Why?” The question came out one word at a time, through clenched teeth, more pleading than angry.

“Zovastina is a woman on a mission. Your Ely interfered.”

“He was a historian. How could he have been a threat?” She hated herself for referring to him in the past tense.

Water lapped against the low-riding hull and the wind continued to batter the boat.

“You’d be surprised how easily she kills people.”

His avoidance of her questions only compounded her rage. “Man the damn wheel.” She watched him from the opposite side of the helm. “Move us ahead, nice and slow.”

“Where to?”

“San Marco.”

He turned and engaged the throttle, then suddenly spun the boat hard left, twisting the deck beneath her feet. In the moment of surprise where maintaining her balance overrode her desire to shoot, he lunged toward her.

VIKTOR KNEW HE HAD TO KILL THIS WOMAN. SHE REPRESENTED failure on a multitude of levels-enough that, if she was discovered, Zovastina would lose all confidence in him.

Not to mention what happened to Rafael.

His left hand gripped the top of the rear cabin door and he used the wooden panel to swing his body off the twisting deck, crashing his boots into the woman’s arms.

She deflected his blow and fell forward.

The cockpit was a couple of meters square. Two openings on either side provided access off the boat. Engines whined as the boat, without a pilot, fought the swells. Spray crashed over the windscreen. The woman still held the gun, but was having trouble regaining her balance.

He jabbed and caught her on the jaw with the heel of his open palm. Her neck whipped back, banging her head into something. He used the moment of her confusion to spin the wheel again and decrease power. He was concerned about the shifting shoals and clinging grasses. Torcello loomed to his left, the burning museum illuminating the night. The boat twirled in the rough water and the woman grabbed for her skull.

He decided to let nature handle things.

And kicked her into the sea.

FORTY-SEVEN

ZOVASTINA STEPPED THROUGH THE ICONOSTASIS INTO THE PRESBYTERY and stared at the basilica’s magnificent baldachin. Four alabaster columns, each adorned with elaborate reliefs, supported a massive block of verde green marble carved into intersecting vaults. Behind, framed by the baldachin, glittered the famous Pala d’Oro, the screen rich with gold, precious stones, and enamel.

Beneath the altar, she studied the two distinct parts of the stone sarcophagus. The misshapen top was more a slab-the bottom carved smooth into a rectangle upon which was etched CORPVS DIVI MARCI EVANGELISTAE. Her Latin was enough for a rough translation. Body of the divine St. Mark. Two heavy iron rings protruded from the top, which apparently was how the massive stones had been initially lowered into place. Now, thick iron bars pierced the rings, bolted at each end to four hydraulic jacks.

“This is a real challenge,” Michener said. “Not much space beneath the altar. Of course, with heavy equipment we could easily get inside, but we don’t have the time or privacy for that.”

She noticed the men preparing the jacks. “Priests?”

He nodded. “Assigned here. We thought it best to keep this among us.”

“Do you know what’s inside?” she asked.

“What you’re really asking is whether the remains are mummified.” Michener shrugged. “It’s been over one hundred and seventy years since this tomb was opened. No one really knows what’s in there.”

She resented his smugness. Ptolemy had taken advantage of Eumenes’ switch, and used what the world believed to be Alexander’s corpse to its fullest political potential. She had no way of knowing if what she was about to see would provide any answers, but it was imperative she find out.