ZOVASTINA STARED AT HENRIK THORVALDSEN AS MORE GUNSHOTS erupted above. Her thirty minutes alone in the basilica had turned into a crowded melange.
Thorvaldsen motioned to the wooden box on the floor. “Not what you expected, was it?”
She decided to be honest. “Worth a try.”
“Ptolemy’s riddle could be a hoax. People have searched for Alexander the Great’s remains for fifteen hundred years with no success.”
“And does anyone actually believe St. Mark was in that box?”
He shrugged. “An awful lot of Venetians certainly do.”
She needed to leave, so she called out, “Viktor.”
“Is there a problem, Minister?” a new voice asked.
Michener.
The priest stepped into the lighted presbytery.
She pointed her gun at him. “You lied to me.”
MALONE CREPT LEFT AS THE GUARDSMAN KEPT TO THE RAILING and moved right. He sidestepped a wooden lion attached to a carved ducal throne and crouched behind a waist-high exhibit of tapestries that separated him from his pursuer.
He scampered ahead, intent on doubling around before the man had a chance to react.
He found the end of the exhibit, turned, and prepared to move.
An arrow pierced the guardsman’s chest, sucking the breath away. He saw a shocked look sweep over the man’s face as he groped for the implanted shaft. Life left him as his body collapsed to the floor.
Malone’s head whirled left.
Across the nave Cassiopeia stood, bow in hand, her face frozen, bearing no emotion. Behind her, high in the outer wall loomed a darkened rose window. Below the window, Viktor emerged from the shadows and moved toward Cassiopeia, a gun coming shoulder high.
ZOVASTINA WAS ANGRY. “YOU KNEW THERE WAS NOTHING IN THAT tomb,” she said to Michener.
“How could I know that? It hasn’t been opened in over a hundred and seventy years.”
“You can tell your pope the Church will not be allowed within the Federation, concordat or no.”
“I’ll pass the message along.”
She faced Thorvaldsen. “You never said. What’s your interest in all this?”
“To stop you.”
“You’ll find that difficult.”
“I don’t know. You have to leave this basilica and the airport is a long boat ride away.”
She’d come to realize that they’d chosen their trap with care. Or, more accurately, they’d allowed her to choose it. Venice. Surrounded by water. No cars. Buses. Trains. Lots of slow-moving boats. Leaving could well pose a problem. What was it? An hour’s ride to the airport?
And the confident glare of the two staring at her from five meters away was no comfort.
VIKTOR APPROACHED THE WOMAN WITH THE BOW. RAFAEL’S killer. The woman who’d just speared another of his guardsmen in the opposite transept. She needed to die, but he realized that was foolish. He’d listened to Zovastina and knew that things were not going well. To leave, they’d need insurance. So he pressed the barrel of his gun into the nape of her neck.
The woman did not move.
“I should shoot you,” he spit out.
“What sport would that be?”
“Enough to even the score.”
“I’d say we’re even. Ely, for your partner.”
He fought a rising anger and forced his mind to think. Then an idea dawned. A way to bring the situation back under control. “Move to the railing. Slowly.”
She strode three steps forward.
“Minister,” he called out over the balustrade.
He glanced past his captive and saw Zovastina looking up, her gun still pointed at the two men.
“This one,” he said to her, “will be our pass out of here. A hostage.”
“Excellent idea, Viktor.”
“She doesn’t know what a mess you’ve made, does she?” the woman whispered to him.
“You’ll die before uttering the first word.”
“Not to worry. I won’t tell her.”
MALONE SAW CASSIOPEIA’S PREDICAMENT. HE SPRANG TO THE railing and aimed his gun across the nave.
“Toss it down,” Viktor called out.
He ignored the command.
“I’d do as he says,” Zovastina said from below. Her gun was still trained on Michener and Thorvaldsen. “Or I will shoot these two.”
“Supreme Minister of the Central Asian Federation committing murder in Italy? I doubt it.”
“True,” Zovastina said. “But Viktor can easily kill the woman, which should not be a problem for me.”
“Toss it,” Cassiopeia said to him.
He realized that to comply was foolish. Just retreat into the shadows and remain a threat.
“Cotton,” Thorvaldsen said from below, “do as Cassiopeia says.”
He had to trust that both his friends knew what they were doing. Wrong? Probably. But he’d done stupid things before.
He allowed the pistol to drop over the railing.
“BRING HER DOWN,” ZOVASTINA CALLED OUT TO VIKTOR. “YOU,” she said to the other man who’d just tossed away his gun. “Come here.”
He did not move from his perch.
“Please, Cotton,” Thorvaldsen said. “Do as she says.”
A hesitation and the man disappeared from the railing.
“You control him?” she asked.
“No one does.”
Viktor and his female captive entered the presbytery. The other man, the one Thorvaldsen commanded, followed them a moment later.
“Who are you?” she asked him. “Thorvaldsen called you Cotton.”
“Name’s Malone.”
“And you?” she said, staring at the woman with the archer’s bow.
“A friend of Ely Lund.”
What was happening? She desperately needed to know, so she thought fast and motioned at Viktor’s female captive. “That one is coming with me. To ensure safe passage.”
