People appeared. One man held a cell phone to his ear. No police occupied the island, which should give her time, and she doubted Viktor would enlist the help of any onlookers. Too many questions about the corpse on the ground floor.

So she decided to leave.

VIKTOR STARED ACROSS THE HARDWOOD PLANKS AT THE PACK OF Greek fire lying on the floor. He decided a quick assault was best, so he stepped lightly, grabbed the bag, and hopped straight toward the window he’d just shot out.

The floorboards held.

He laid the pack outside across the C-shaped wrought-iron bars.

The flooring in the center of the room moaned.

He recalled crossbeams below, but they were surely weakening by the second. A few more steps toward the arrow stuck into the wall and he yanked it free. Rags wrapped around its tip still burned. He rushed across to the stairway, then, with an underhanded toss, lobbed the arrow into the open window frame. It landed on top of the pack, the flames flickering a few inches away from the plastic wrap. He knew it would only take a few moments for the bag to melt.

He sought refuge inside the stairwell.

A woosh and another firestorm raged.

He glanced around the doorway and saw that the wrought iron was burning. Luckily, most of the firepower had stayed outside. The window frame had not joined the conflagration.

The second floor collapsed, swallowing the case with the other fuel pack downward. The remaining bag ignited, a cloud of heat floating upward. The Museo di Torcello would not stand much longer.

He hopped to the open windows.

He gripped the cornice that ran across the top of the frame and searched for a fingerhold, his body straining, feet powered outward, slamming into the burning bars.

Nothing moved.

Another chin-up and he kicked again, adrenaline powering each thrust as the heat began to affect his breathing.

The bars started to give.

More kicks and one corner broke free of its bolt to the exterior wall.

Two more slams and the entire assembly flew outward.

More flooring collapsed.

Another display case and pieces of a column crashed to the ground floor, churning in the fire like bits in a stew.

He stared out the window.

The drop down was three or four meters. Flames spat out the ground-floor windows.

He leaped.

MALONE KEPT THE BOAT ON A NORTHEAST HEADING, SPEEDING AS fast as the churning water would allow toward Torcello. He spotted a glow on the horizon flickering with regularity.

Fire.

Billows of smoke gushed upward, the moist air dissolving it into gray wisps. They were a good ten to fifteen minutes away.

“Looks like we’re late,” he said to Stephanie.

VIKTOR KEPT TO THE MUSEUM’S REAR. HE COULD HEAR SHOUTS and voices from beyond the hedge that separated the yard from the garden and orchard that lay between here and the canal, where his boat waited.

He plowed his way through the hedge and entered the garden.

Luckily, early springtime meant not much vegetation. He was able to find a path and weave his way straight toward the concrete dock.

There, he leaped into the boat.

He untied the mooring lines and pushed off from the dock. No one had seen or followed him. The boat drifted out into the riverlike waterway and the current drove it past where the basilica and museum stood, back toward the north entrance to the lagoon. He waited until he was well beyond the dock before cranking the engine. He kept the power low and brought the bow around, slowly cruising with no lights.

The shore on either side was a good fifty meters apart, mainly mud banks, shallows, and reeds. He checked his watch-11:20 P.M.

At the mouth of the canal he revved the engines and maneuvered out into turbulent water. He finally switched on the boat’s running lights and set a course around Torcello for the main channel that would lead to Venice and San Marco.

He heard a noise and turned.

Stepping from the aft cabin was a woman.

Gun in hand.

FORTY-FOUR

SAMARKAND

2:30 A.M.

VINCENTI SCOOTED THE CHAIR CLOSER TO THE TABLE AS THE waiter positioned his food before him. Most of the city’s hotels were bleak tombs, where little or nothing worked. The Intercontinental was different, offering five-star European-quality services with what the establishment advertised as Asian hospitality. After the long flight from Italy he was hungry, so he’d ordered a meal brought to the room for both himself and a guest.

“Tell Ormand,” he said to the waiter, “that I don’t appreciate it taking thirty minutes to prepare these entrées, especially after I called ahead. Better yet, have Ormand come up here after we’re finished and I’ll tell him myself.”

The waiter nodded his assent and retreated.

Arthur Benoit, sitting across from him, spread a cloth napkin onto his lap. “Do you have to be so hard on him?”

“It’s your hotel. Why weren’t you on his ass?”

“Because I wasn’t upset. They prepared the food as fast as they could.”

He could not care less. Shit was happening and he was testy. O’Conner had gone ahead to make sure things were ready. He’d decided to eat, rest a bit, and accomplish some business over a middle-of-the-night meal.

Benoit gripped a fork. “I assume the invitation to join you was not because you wanted the pleasure of my company. Why don’t we cut through the garbage, Enrico. What do you want?”

He started to eat. “I need money, Arthur. Or should I say, Philogen Pharmaceutique needs money.”

Benoit tabled the fork and sipped his wine. “Before my stomach becomes upset, how much do you need?”

“A billion euros. Maybe a billion and a half.”

“Is that all?”

He smiled at the sarcasm. Benoit made his fortune in banks, which he still controlled across Europe and Asia. He was a billionaire several times over and a longtime Venetian League member. Hotels were a hobby and he’d recently built the Intercontinental to cater to the influx of League members and other expected luxury travelers. He’d also relocated to the Federation, one of the first League members to do so. Through the years, Benoit had several times provided money to fund Philogen’s meteoric rise.

“I assume you’ll want the loan below international prime.”

“Nothing less.” He crammed a forkful of stuffed pheasant into his mouth, savoring the tang.

“How much below?”

He heard the skepticism. “Two points.”

“Why don’t I just give it to you.”

“Arthur, I’ve borrowed millions from you, every dime repaid on time, with interest. So yes, I expect preferential treatment.”

“At present, as I understand it, you have several outstanding loans with my banks. Quite sizable.”

“Every one of which is current.”

He saw that the banker knew that to be true.

“What would be the benefit of such an arrangement?”

Now they were getting somewhere. “How much Philogen stock do you own?”

“A hundred thousand shares. Bought on your recommendation.”

He speared another chunk of steaming bird. “You check yesterday’s quote?”

“Never bother.”

“Sixty-one and a quarter, up a half. It’s really a sound investment. I bought nearly five hundred thousand new shares last week myself.” He swirled pheasant into some smoked mozzarella stuffing. “In secret, of course.”

Benoit’s expression signaled that he got the message. “Something big?”