“It’s what he left behind,” Thorvaldsen said. “His kingdom, with no rightful heir.”
“And that has something to do with elephant medallions?”
“Cotton,” Thorvaldsen said, “I bought that museum knowing someone would destroy it. Cassiopeia and I have been waiting for that to happen.”
She said, “We had to stay a step ahead of whoever is after the medallions.”
“Seems like they won. They have the thing.”
Thorvaldsen cast her a look, then the older man stared at Malone and said, “Not exactly.”
NINE
VIKTOR RELAXED ONLY WHEN THE DOOR TO THE HOTEL ROOM was closed and locked. They were across Copenhagen, near Nyhavn, where boisterous waterfront cafes catered to rowdy patrons. He sat at the desk and switched on a lamp as Rafael assumed a window position, which overlooked the street four stories below.
He now possessed the fifth medallion.
The first four had been disappointments. One was a forgery, the other three in poor condition. Six months ago he knew little about elephant medallions. Now he considered himself quite proficient in their provenance.
“We should be fine,” he said to Rafael. “Calm down. No one followed us.”
“I’ll keep watch to be sure.”
He knew Rafael was trying to make amends for overreacting in the museum, so he said, “It’s okay.”
“He should have died.”
“It’s better he didn’t. At least we know what we’re facing.”
He unzipped a leather case and removed a stereomicroscope and digital scale.
He laid the coin on the desk. They’d found it displayed in one of the museum cases, correctly noted as an “Elephant Medallion (Alexander the Great), a decadrachm, circa second century BCE.”
He first measured its width. Thirty-five millimeters. About right. He flicked on the electronic scales and checked its weight. Forty point seventy-four grams. Correct, too.
With a magnifying glass he examined the image on one face-a warrior in regal splendor, complete with plumed helmet, neck guard, breastplate, and a calvary cloak that fell to his knees.
He was pleased. An obvious flaw in the forgeries was the cloak, which in the false medallions hung to the ankles. For centuries, trade in fake Greek coins had flourished and clever forgers had become adept at fooling both the anxious and the willing.
Luckily, he was neither.
The first known elephant medallion had surfaced when it was donated to the British Museum in 1887. It came from somewhere in central Asia. A second appeared in 1926, from Iran. A third was discovered in 1959. A fourth in 1964. Then, in 1973, four more were found near the ruins of Babylon. Eight in all that had made the rounds through museums and private collectors. Not all that valuable, considering the variety of Hellenistic art and the thousands of coins available, but nonetheless collectible.
He returned to his examination.
The clean-shaven, youthful warrior grasped a sarissa in his left hand topped by a leaf-shaped point. His right hand held a bolt of lightning. Above him loomed a flying Nike, the winged goddess of victory. To the warrior’s left, the die cutter had left a curious monogram.
Whether it was BA or BAB, and what the letters represented Viktor did not know. But an authentic medallion should show that odd symbol.
All seemed in order. Nothing added or missing.
He flipped the coin over.
Its edges were grossly distorted, the pewter-colored patina worn smooth as if by running water. Time was slowly dissolving the delicate engraving on both sides. Amazing, really, that any of them had managed to survive.
“All quiet?” he asked Rafael, who still stood near the window.
“Don’t patronize me.”
He glanced up. “I actually want to know.”
“I can’t seem to get it right.”
He caught the defeatism. “You saw someone coming to the museum door. You reacted. That’s all.”
“It was foolish. Killing attracts too much attention.”
“There would have been no body to find. Quit worrying about it. And besides, I approved leaving him there.”
He refocused his attention on the medallion. The obverse showed the warrior, now a calvaryman, wearing the same outfit, attacking a retreating elephant. Two men sat atop the elephant, one brandishing a sarissa, the other trying to remove a calvaryman’s pike from his chest. Numismatists all agreed that the regal warrior on both sides of the coin represented Alexander, and the medallions commemorated a battle with war elephants.
But the real test as to whether the thing was authentic came under the microscope.
He switched on the illuminator and slid the decadrachm onto the examining tray.
Authentic ones contained an anomaly. Tiny microletters concealed within the engraving, added by ancient die cutters using a primitive lens. Experts believed the lettering represented something akin to a watermark on a modern banknote, perhaps to ensure authenticity. Lenses were not common in ancient times, so detecting the mark then would have been nearly impossible. The lettering was noticed when the first medallion surfaced years ago. But of the four they’d stolen so far, only one had contained the peculiarity. If this medallion were genuine, within the folds of the cavalryman’s clothing there should be two Greek letters – ZH.
He focused the microscope and saw tiny writing.
But not letters.
Numbers.
36 44 77 55.
He glanced up from the eyepiece.
Rafael was watching him. “What is it?”
Their dilemma had just deepened. Earlier he’d used the hotel room’s phone and made several calls. His gaze shot to the telephone and the display at its base. Four sets of numbers, two each, starting with thirty-six.
Not the same ones he’d just seen through the microscope.
But he instantly knew what the digits on the supposedly ancient medallion represented.
A Danish phone number.
TEN
VENICE
6:30 A.M.
VINCENTI STUDIED HIMSELF IN THE MIRROR AS HIS VALET creased the jacket and allowed the Gucci suit to drape his enormous frame. With a camel-haired brush, all remnants of lint from the dark wool were removed. He then adjusted his tie and made sure the dimple plunged deep. The valet handed him a burgundy handkerchief and he adjusted the silk folds into his coat pocket.
