The Venetian Betrayal

Life.

What a lovely promise.

Ely grasped her hand. “Ready?”

She nodded.

They dropped to their knees and drank.

NINETY-FIVE

COPENHAGEN

SATURDAY, JUNE 6

7:45 P.M.

MALONE SAT ON THE SECOND FLOOR OF THE CAFÉ NORDEN AND enjoyed more of the tomato bisque soup. Still the best he’d ever eaten. Thorvaldsen sat across from him. The second-floor windows were flung open, allowing a lovely late-spring evening to wash over them. Copenhagen’s weather this time of year was nearly perfect, another one of the many reasons why he so enjoyed living here.

“I heard from Ely today,” Thorvaldsen said.

He’d wondered what was happening in central Asia. They’d returned home six weeks ago and he’d been busy selling books. That was the thing about being a field agent. You did your job, then moved on. No postanalysis or follow-up. That task was always left to others.

“He’s excavating Alexander’s tomb. The new Federation government is cooperating with the Greeks.”

He knew that Ely had taken a position in Athens with the Museum of Antiquities, thanks to Thorvaldsen’s intervention. Of course, knowing the location of Alexander the Great’s grave certainly fueled the museum’s enthusiasm.

Zovastina had been succeeded by a moderate deputy minister who, according to the Federation constitution, temporarily assumed power until elections could be held. Washington had quietly ensured that all of the Federation’s biological stockpiles were destroyed and Samarkand had been given a choice. Cooperate or the Federation’s neighbors would learn what Zovastina and her generals had pla

“Ely has full control of the tomb and is quietly working it,” Thorvaldsen said. “He says a lot of history may have to be rewritten. Lots of inscriptions inside. Artwork. Even a map or two. Incredible stuff.”

“And how are Edwin Davis and Da

Thorvaldsen smiled. “I spoke with Edwin a couple of days ago. Daniels is grateful for all we did. He especially liked Cassiopeia blowing up that helicopter. Not a lot of sympathy from that man. He’s a tough one.”

“Glad we could help the president out one more time.” He paused. “What about the Venetian League?”

Thorvaldsen shrugged. “Faded into the woodwork. It didn’t do anything that can be proven.”

“Except kill Naomi Johns.”

“Vincenti did that, and I believe he paid.”

That was true. “You know, it’d be nice if Daniels could, for once, just ask for my help.”

“Not going to happen.”

“Like with you?”

His friend nodded. “Like with me.”

He finished his soup and stared down at Højbro Plads. The square was lively with people enjoying a warm evening, which were few and far between in Copenhagen. His bookshop across the plaza was closed. Business had been great lately and he was pla

But he was also melancholy. He’d been that way every since returning home. He and Thorvaldsen ate di

Unless allowed.

So he asked, “How’s Cassiopeia?”

“I was wondering when you’d inquire.”

“You’re the one who got me into all that.”

“All I did was tell you she needed help.”

“I’d like to think she’d help me, if needed.”

“She would. But, to answer your question, both she and Ely are virus free. Edwin tells me scientists have also verified the bacteria’s effectiveness. Daniels will a

“A lot of people will be affected by that.”

“Thanks to you. You solved the riddle and found the grave.”

He didn’t want to hear that. “We all did our job. And, by the way, I heard you’re a gun-toting fool. Stephanie said you were hell in that house.”

“I’m not helpless.”

Thorvaldsen had told him about Stephanie and the shooting. He’d spoken to her about it before they left Asia and had called her again last week.

“Stephanie’s realizing it’s tough out in the field,” he said.

“I spoke to her myself a few days ago.”

“You two becoming buddies?”

His friend smiled. “We’re a lot alike, though neither one of us would admit that to the other.”

“Killing is never easy. No matter what the reason.”

“I killed three men myself in that house. You’re right. It’s never easy.”

He still had not received an answer to his initial question, and Thorvaldsen seemed to sense what he truly wanted to know.

“I haven’t spoke with Cassiopeia much since we left the Federation. She went home to France. I don’t know about she and Ely-the two of them. She offers little.” Thorvaldsen shook his head. “You’ll have to ask her.”

He decided to take a walk. He liked roaming the Strøget. He asked Thorvaldsen if he wanted to join him but his friend declined.

He stood.

Thorvaldsen tossed some folded papers across the table. “The deed to that property by the sound, where the house burned. I have no use for it.”

He unfolded the sheets and saw his name on the grantee line.

“I want you to have it.”

“That property is worth a lot of money. It’s oceanfront. I can’t take that.”

“Rebuild the house. Enjoy it. Call it compensation for me bringing you into the middle of all this.”

“You knew I’d help.”

“This way, my conscience, what little of it there is, will be satisfied.”

From their two years together he’d learned that when Henrik Thorvaldsen made up his mind, that was it. So he stuffed the deed into his pocket and descended the stairs.

He pushed through the main doors into the warm touch of a Danish evening. People and conversations greeted him from occupied tables that sprawled out from the café.

“Hey, Malone.”

He turned.

Sitting at one of the tables was Cassiopeia.

She stood and walked his way.

She wore a navy canvas jacket and matching canvas pants. A leather shoulder bag draped one shoulder and T-strap sandals accented her feet. The dark hair hung in thick curls. He could still see her in the mountain. Tight leather pants and a sports bra, as she swam with him into the tomb. And those few minutes when they both were down to their underwear.

“What are you doing in town?” he asked.

She shrugged. “You’re always telling me how good the food is at this café, so I came to eat di

He smiled. “Long way for a meal.”

“Not if you can’t cook.”

“I hear you’re cured. I’m glad.”

“Does take a few things off your mind. Wondering if today is the day you start to die.”

He recalled her preoccupation that first night in Copenhagen, when she aided his escape from the Greco-Roman museum. All the melancholy seemed gone.

“Where you headed?” she asked.

He stared out across the square. “Just for a walk.”

“Want some company?”

He glanced back at the café, up to the second story, and the window table where he and Thorvaldsen had been sitting. His friend gazed out the open frame, smiling. He should have known.

He faced her and said, “Are you two always up to something?”

“You haven’t answered my question about the walk.”

What the hell. “Sure. I’d love some company.”