“Smart guys like you can conquer those problems.”

“I’m not that good.”

“That’s what I said, too. But others disagree.”

“You shouldn’t listen to them.”

She ignored his challenge. “Within three years after you left Iraq, Philogen Pharmaceutique was up and running and you were a member of the Venetian League.” She watched to see if her words spurred a reaction. “That membership comes with a price. Quite an expensive one, I’m told.”

“I don’t believe it’s illegal for men and women to enjoy one another’s company.”

“You’re not the Rotary Club.”

“We have a purpose, quality members, and a dedication to our mission. Sounds like any service club I know of.”

“You still never answered my question,” she pointed out. “Ever seen one of those coins before?”

He tossed it back to her. “Never.”

She tried to read this man of commanding girth whose face was as deceptive as his voice. From everything she’d been told, he was a mediocre virologist with an ordinary education who had a knack for business. But he may also have been responsible for the death of Naomi Johns.

Time to find out.

“You’re not half as smart as you think you are.”

Vincenti smoothed back a rebellious lock of his thin hair. “This is becoming tiresome.”

“If she’s dead, so are you.”

She watched again for a reaction and he seemed to be weighing the minimum truth he could voice against a lie she’d never tolerate.

“Are we finished?” he asked, still with a warm cloak of politeness.

She stood. “Actually, we’re just getting started.” She held up the medallion. “On the face of this coin, hidden within the folds of the warrior’s cloak, are microletters. Amazing that ancient people could engrave like that. But I checked with experts and they could. The letters were like watermarks. Security devices. This one has two. ZH. Zeta. Eta. Mean anything to you?”

“Not a thing.”

But she caught a moment when his eyes flickered with interest. Or was it surprise? Perhaps even a nanosecond of shock.

“I asked some experts on Old Greek. They said ZH means ‘life.’ Interesting, wouldn’t you say, that someone went to the trouble of engraving tiny letters with such a message, when so few at the time could have read them. Lenses were practically unknown in those days.”

He shrugged. “Doesn’t concern me.”

VINCENTI WAITED A FULL FIVE MINUTES AFTER THE PALAZZO’S front door closed. He sat in the salon and allowed the quiet to ease his anxiety. Only a rustle of caged wings and the clicking of his canaries’ beaks disturbed the stillness. The palazzo had once been owned by a bon viveur of intellectual tastes who, centuries ago, made it a central location for Venetian literary society. Another owner took advantage of the Grand Canal and accommodated the many funeral processions, utilizing the room where he sat as a theater for autopsies and a holding place for corpses. Later, smugglers chose the house as a mart for contraband, deliberately surrounding its walls with ominous legends to keep the curious away.

He longed for those days.

Stephanie Nelle, employed with the U. S. Justice Department, sent supposedly by the president of the United States, had rattled him.

But not because of anything the Americans knew about his past-that would soon become irrelevant. And not because of what may have happened to their agent sent to spy on him-she was dead and buried, never to be found. No. His stomach ached because of the letters on the coin.

ZH.

Zeta. Eta.

Life.

“You can come in now,” he called out.

Peter O’Conner strolled into the room, having listened to the entire conversation from the adjacent parlor. One of Vincenti’s many house cats scampered into the main parlor, too.

“What do you think?” Vincenti asked.

“She’s a messenger who chose her words with care.”

“That medallion she showed me is exactly what Zovastina is after. It matches the description I read yesterday in the materials you gave me at the hotel.” But he still did not know why the coins were so important.

“There’s something new. Zovastina is coming to Venice. Today.”

“On a state visit? I’ve heard nothing of that.”

“Not official. In and out tonight. Private plane. Special arrangement, by the Vatican, with Italian customs. A source called and told me.”

Now he knew. Something was definitely happening and Zovastina was several steps ahead of him. “We need to know when she arrives and where she goes.”

“I’m already on it. We’ll be ready.”

Time for him to move, as well. “Are we ready in Samarkand?”

“Just say the word.”

He decided to take advantage of his enemy’s absence. No sense waiting till the weekend. “Have the jet ready. We’ll leave within the hour. But while we’re gone, make sure we know exactly what the Supreme Minister is doing here.”

O’Conner nodded his understanding.

Now for what really troubled him. “One more thing. I need to send a message to Washington. One that will be perfectly understood. Have Stephanie Nelle killed. And get that medallion.”

THIRTY-SIX

5:50 P.M.

MALONE ENJOYED HIS PLATE OF SPINACH PASTA SWIRLED WITH cheese and ham. Viktor and his cohort had left the island an hour ago, after spending twenty minutes inside the museum, then surveying the area around the basilica, especially the garden that separated the church from the Canale Borgognoni, a riverlike waterway that stretched between Torcello and the next patchy island over. He and Cassiopeia had watched from varying positions. Viktor had not seemed to notice anything, surely concentrating on the task that lay ahead, comfortable in his anonymity.

After Viktor and his accomplice departed on the water bus, he and Cassiopeia retreated to the village. One of the vendors peddling souvenirs told them that the restaurant, Locanda Cipriani, which had been around for decades, was regarded as one of Venice ’s most famous. People boated over each evening to enjoy its ambiance. Inside, among wooden ceilings, terra-cotta brick, and impressive bas-reliefs, hung a gallery of photographs-Hemingway, Picasso, Diana and Charles, Queen Elizabeth, Churchill, countless actors and performers-each one personalized with a testament of thanks.

They were seated in the garden, beneath a pergola of sweet-smelling roses, in the shadow of the two churches and campanile, the tranquil oasis framed by blossoming pomegranate trees. He had to admit, the food was excellent. Even Cassiopeia seemed hungry. Neither one of them had eaten since breakfast in Copenhagen.

“He’ll be back after dark,” she quietly said.

“Another bonfire?”

“Seems their way, though it’s not necessary. Nobody will miss that coin.”

After Viktor left, they’d ventured inside the museum. Cassiopeia had been right. Not much there. Bits and pieces, fragments of columns, capitals, mosaics, and a few paintings. On the second floor, two rickety glass-topped cases displayed pottery shards, jewelry, and ancient household items, all supposedly found in and around Torcello. The elephant medallion lay in one of the cases, among a variety of coinage. Malone had noticed that the building possessed no alarms or security and the lone attendant, a heavyset woman in a plain white dress, seemed only concerned that no one take photographs.

“I’m going to kill the son of a bitch,” Cassiopeia muttered.

The declaration did not surprise him. He’d sensed her rising anger in the bell tower. “You think Irina Zovastina ordered Ely’s murder.”

She’d stopped eating.

“Any proof, besides the fact that his house burned to the ground?”

“She did it. I know it.”