“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.
VIKTOR CLIMBED A SPIRAL STAIRCASE TO THE MUSEUM’S SECOND floor, his eyes adjusted to the murky night. He’d discerned enough shadows for him to navigate his way through the sparse ground-floor exhibits and up to the equally sparse top level, where three oversized glass-topped cases waited. In the middle case, right where he’d noted earlier, lay the elephant medallion.
Rafael was below, positioning Greek fire packets for maximum destruction. He carried two packs earmarked for the second floor. With a quick blow from the crowbar, he shattered the glass and, from among the shards, carefully retrieved the medallion. He then tossed one of the three-quart vacuum packs into the display case.
The other he laid on the floor.
He pocketed the medallion.
Hard to say if it was genuine but, from a casual long-distance inspection earlier, it had certainly looked authentic.
He glanced at his watch. Ten forty P.M. Ahead of schedule. More than enough time to meet the Supreme Minister. Maybe Zovastina would reward them with a few days’ rest.
He descended the stairway to ground level.
They’d noted earlier that the flooring on both levels was wood. Once the fire below started to rage, it would only be a few minutes before the packs overhead joined the mélange.
Through the darkness he saw Rafael bent over the turtle. He heard a click and the device began to roam. The robot halted at the room’s far end and started dousing the outer wall, spewing odorous Greek fire.
“Everything’s ready,” Rafael said.
The turtle continued its task, unconcerned that it would shortly disintegrate. Just a machine. No feelings. No remorse. Precisely, he thought, what Irina Zovastina expected from him.
Rafael pushed on the main doors.
They did not open.
His partner shoved again.
Nothing.
Viktor stepped close and pressed his palm flat against the wood. The double doors were barred. From the outside. A surge of anger swept through him and he rammed himself into the wood, but all he did was pound his shoulder. The thick slabs, held upright with iron hinges, refused to yield.
His gaze raked the darkness.
While reconnoitering the building earlier he’d noted bars on the windows. Not an obstacle since they planned to enter and leave through the front door. Now, though, the barred windows assumed a greater significance.
He stared at Rafael. Though he could not see his partner’s face he knew exactly what he was thinking.
They were trapped.