FORTY-ONE

TORCELLO

VIKTOR’S MIND RACED. THE TURTLE CONTINUED ITS PROGRAMMED assault of the museum’s ground floor, leaving a stinking trail of Greek fire. He thought about trying to force the double doors with Rafael, but he knew the wood’s breadth and the bar outside would make any effort foolish.

The windows seemed the only way out.

“Get one of the vacuum packs,” he said to Rafael, as his eyes raked the room and he decided on the set of windows to his left.

Rafael retrieved one of the clear plastic bags from the floor.

The Greek fire should weaken the aged wrought iron, along with the bolts that held the bars to the exterior wall, enough that they could force them. He drew one of the guns they’d obtained in the warehouse and was just about to shoot out the panes when, from the far side of the room, glass shattered.

Someone had shot out the window from outside.

He ducked for cover, as did Rafael, waiting to see what would happen next. The turtle continued its rhythmic crawl, stopping and starting as it encountered obstacles. He had no idea how many people were outside and whether or not he and Rafael were vulnerable from the three other sets of windows.

He felt the edge of danger on which they were balancing. One thing was clear. The turtle needed to be stopped. That would buy them some time.

But still.

They knew nothing.

CASSIOPEIA STUFFED THE GUN BACK AGAINST HER SPINE AND gripped the fiberglass bow she’d removed from the cloth bag. Thorvaldsen had not questioned why she needed a bow and high-velocity arrows, and she’d not really known if the weapon would prove useful.

But now it certainly would.

She was standing thirty meters from the museum, dry under the basilica’s porch. On her way from the other side of the island, she had stopped in the village and retrieved one of the oil lamps that illuminated the quayside near the restaurant. She’d noticed the lanterns earlier when she and Malone first arrived, which was another reason why she’d asked Thorvaldsen for the bow. She’d then found some rags in a trash bin near a vendor stall. While the thieves tended to their mission inside the museum, she’d prepared four arrows, wrapping strips of cloth around the metal tips and soaking them with lamp oil.

Matches were obtained during dinner with Malone-a few books retrieved from a tray in the restroom.

She lit the flammable rags on two of the arrows, then carefully loaded the first flaming projectile onto the bow. Her aim was for the ground-floor windows that she’d just shattered with bullets. If Viktor wanted a fire, then that was precisely what he was going to get.

She’d learned archery as a child. Never had she hunted, she detested the thought, but she regularly enjoyed target practice at her French estate. She was good, especially at distances, so thirty meters to the window across the piazzetta was no problem. And the bars themselves should not be a deterrent. Far more air than iron.

She stretched the string.

“For Ely,” she whispered.

VIKTOR SAW FLAMES STREAK THROUGH THE OPEN WINDOW AND crash into a tall sheet of glass that backed one of the ground-floor exhibits. Whatever propelled the flames had pierced the glass, the sheet smashing to the hardwood and taking the fire down with it. The turtle had already made a pass of that part of the museum, which was confirmed by a roar, as Greek fire sprang to life.

Orange and yellow instantly evolved into a scorching blue and the floor consumed itself.

But the vacuum packs.

He saw that Rafael had realized the same thing. Four lay scattered. Two atop display cases, two on the floor, one of which announced its presence in a cascade of mushrooming flames.

Viktor dove under one of the remaining display cases, seeking shelter from the heat.

“Get back here,” he yelled to Rafael.

His partner retreated toward him. Half the ground floor was now ablaze. Floor, walls, ceilings, and fixtures all burned. Where he’d taken refuge had yet to catch, thanks to a lack of the potion, but he knew that would only last another precious few moments. The stairway leading up began to his right, the path toward it clear. But the top floor would provide little refuge considering the fire would shortly obliterate it from beneath.

Rafael came close. “The turtle. You see it?”

He realized the problem. The device was heat sensitive, programmed to explode when temperatures reached a predetermined level. “How high is it set?”

“Low. I wanted this place to burn fast.”

His eyes searched the flames. Then he spotted the turtle, still cruising across the blazing floor, each exhale from its funnel roaring like a fire-breathing dragon.

More glass shattered from the opposite side of the room.

Hard to tell if heat or bullets had been the culprit.

The turtle rolled straight for them, emerging from the fire and finding a part of the floor that had yet to catch. Rafael stood and, before Viktor could stop him, rushed toward the device. Deactivating it was the only way to shut off its program.

A flaming arrow pierced Rafael’s chest.

His clothes caught fire.

Viktor came to his feet and was about to dart to his partner’s aid when he saw the turtle’s funnel retract and the unit halt its advance.

He knew what was about to happen.

He dove for the stairway, lunging forward through the open doorway and scampering up the metal runners.

On hands and knees he climbed in a desperate retreat.

The turtle ignited.

CASSIOPEIA HAD NOT PLANNED ON SHOOTING ONE OF THE thieves, but the man had appeared just as she released the string. She watched as the flaming arrow slammed into his chest and his clothing ignited. Then a huge ball of flame consumed the museum’s interior, heat surging out the open window and exploding the remaining panes.

She leaped to the wet ground.

Fire licked the night through the shattered openings.

She’d left the basilica’s porch and assumed a position opposite the museum’s bell tower. At least one of the men was dead. Hard to tell which one, but it didn’t matter.

She came to her feet and shifted to the front of the building, watching the prison she’d fashioned burn.

One more flaming arrow ready to fire.

FORTY-TWO

VENICE

ZOVASTINA STOOD BESIDE THE PAPAL NUNCIO. SHE’D LANDED AN hour ago, Monsignor Michener waiting for her on the tarmac. She, Michener, and two of her guardsmen had traveled to central downtown from the airport via a private water taxi. They’d been unable to use the basilica’s north entrance, off the Piazzetta dei Leoncini, as first arranged. A sizable portion of San Marco had been cordoned off, some sort of shooting, the nuncio had told her. So they’d detoured down a side street, behind the basilica, and entered the church from the diocese offices.

The papal nuncio looked different from yesterday, his black robes and priest’s collar replaced with street clothes. The pope was apparently making good on his pledge that the visit be nondescript.

She now stood within the cavernous church, its ceiling and walls ablaze with golden mosaics. Clearly a Byzantine concoction, as if it had been erected in Constantinople instead of Italy. Five hemispherical cupolas vaulted overhead. The Domes of Pentecost, St. John, St. Leonard, the Prophets, and the one she was standing beneath, the Ascension. Thanks to a warm glow from strategically placed incandescent lights, she silently agreed that the church had earned its well-known label as the Golden Basilica.