rain.”
He grabbed the turtle as Rafael lifted the other satchel. “In and out. Quick and fast. Okay?”
His partner nodded. “Should be an easy run.”
He agreed.
CASSIOPEIA STOOD ON THE BASILICA’S FRONT PORCH, USING ITS shadows and six towering columns for cover. The mist had evolved into a drizzle, but thankfully the damp night was warm. A steady breeze kept the froth stirred and masked sounds she desperately needed to hear. Like the engine on the boat, just beyond the garden to her right, which should be there by now.
Two pebbled paths led away, one to a stone pier that was surely Viktor’s stopping point, the other to the water itself. She needed to be patient, to allow them to enter the museum and make their way to the second floor.
Then give them a dose of their own medicine.
THIRTY-NINE
STEPHANIE STOOD BESIDE MALONE AS HE EASED THE BOAT AWAY from the concrete dock. Police cruisers were arriving, tying up at the quayside mooring posts where San Marco ended at the lagoon’s edge. Emergency lights strobed the darkness.
“All hell is going to break loose out there,” Malone said.
“Daniels should have thought about that before he interfered.”
Malone followed the lighted channel markers northward, paralleling the shore. More police boats raced by, sirens blasting. She found her world phone, dialed a number, then stepped close to Malone and switched to “Speaker.”
“Edwin,” she said. “You’re lucky you’re not here or I’d kick your ass.”
“Don’t you work for me?” Davis asked.
“I had three men in that square. Why weren’t they there when I needed them?”
“We sent Malone. I hear he’s equal to three men.”
“Whoever you are,” Malone said, “flattery would normally work. But I’m with her. You called her backup off?”
“She had the roof sniper and you. That was enough.”
“Now I’m really going to kick your ass,” she said.
“How about we get through this, then you can have the opportunity.”
“What the hell’s going on?” she said, voice rising. “Why is Cotton here?”
“I need to know what happened.”
She sucked in her anger and provided a brief summary. Then said, “Lots going on in that square right now. Plenty of attention.”
“Not necessarily a bad thing,” Davis said.
The original idea had been to see if Vincenti would act. Men had been staking out her hotel all evening and, when she’d left, they’d promptly headed upstairs, surely intent on finding the medallion. She wondered why the change in strategy-involving Malone-but held that inquiry and said into the phone, “You still haven’t said why Cotton is here.”
Malone steered left as they rounded the shoreline, the compass indicating northeast, and added power to the engines.
“What are you doing right now?” Davis asked.
“Heading into another problem,” Malone said. “You need to answer her question.”
“We want San Marco in an uproar tonight.”
She waited for more.
“We’ve learned that Irina Zovastina is on her way to Venice. She’ll be landing within the next two hours. Unusual, to say the least. A head of state making an unannounced visit to another country for no apparent reason. We need to find out what she’s doing there.”
“Why don’t you ask her?” Malone said.
“Are you always so helpful?”
“It’s one of my better traits.”
“Mr. Malone,” Davis said. “We know about the fire in Copenhagen and the medallions. Stephanie has one of them with her. Can you cut me some slack and help us out?”
“Is this that bad?” she asked.
“It’s not good.”
She saw that Malone’s cooperation was never in doubt. “Where is Zovastina headed?”
“Into the basilica, around one A.M.”
“You apparently have good information.”
“One of those impeccable sources. So damn impeccable I have to wonder.”
The line went silent a moment.
“I’m not wild about any of this,” Davis finally said. “But, believe me, we have no choice.”
VIKTOR STEPPED INTO THE VILLAGE GREEN, BEFORE THE BASILICA and its companion church, studying the Museo di Torcello. He laid his shoulder pack on a chunk of marble carved into a thronelike perch. He’d heard earlier that it was called Sedia d’Attila, Attila’s Seat. Supposedly, Attila the Hun himself had sat there, but he doubted that claim.
He studied their final target. The museum was a squat two-story rectangle, maybe twenty by ten meters, with a set of double windows, top and bottom, at each end, barred with wrought iron. A bell tower jutted skyward from one side. The piazzetta around him was dotted with trees and displayed, across the trimmed grass, remnants of marble columns and carved stone.
Double wooden doors in the center of the museum’s ground floor provided the only entrance. They opened outward and were barred with a thick piece of blackened lumber laid across their center, held close by iron brackets. Padlocks at each end clamped the bar in place.
He motioned at the doors and said, “Burn them off.”
Rafael removed a plastic bottle from one of the shoulder bags. He followed his partner to the doors where Rafael carefully doused both padlocks with Greek fire. He stood back as Rafael removed a striker and sparked both locks into a brilliant blue blaze.
Amazing stuff. Even metal succumbed to its fury-not enough to melt, but plenty to weaken.
He watched as the flames burned for nearly two minutes before consuming themselves.
CASSIOPEIA KEPT HER VIGIL THIRTY METERS AWAY AS TWO POINTS of intense blue light, like distant stars, glowed and then extinguished. Two thrusts of a crowbar and the thieves unbarred the museum’s main doors.
They carried their equipment inside.
She saw that they’d brought one of the robotic gizmos, which meant the Museo di Torcello would soon be ash.
One of the men closed the double doors.
The piazzetta once again loomed dark, damp, and sinister. Only the click of rain finding puddles disturbed the silence. She stood on the basilica’s porch and contemplated what she was about to do, then noticed the wooden bar that had secured the doors had been left outside.
