A slight nod. “She does.”

In her prime this woman would have been formidable-able to seduce both men and women-easy to see how Zovastina would have been attracted to her. But it was also easy to see how the two women would have clashed. Both alpha-females. Both accustomed to having their way.

“I’ve been watching you for some time,” he told her.

“There’s not much to see.”

“Tell me, if you could have anything in this world, what would it be?”

The gravely ill soul lying before him seemed to seriously consider his inquiry. He saw the words as they formed in her mind. He’d seen the same resolution before, in others long ago, facing similar dire consequences, clinging to little or no hope since neither science nor religion could save them.

Only a miracle.

So when she drew a breath and mouthed her answer, he was not disappointed.

“To live.”

FIFTY

VENICE

VIKTOR HUSTLED PAST THE BASILICA’S BRIGHTLY LIT WESTERN FACADE. High above, St. Mark himself stood guard in the black night above a golden lion with outstretched wings. The heart of the piazza spanned to his left, cordoned off, a multitude of police swarming the broad pavement. A crowd had gathered and he’d overheard from snippets of conversation that a shooting had occurred. He skirted the spectacle and headed for the church’s north entrance, the one Zovastina had told him to use.

He was unnerved by the appearance of the woman with the bow. She should have been dead in Denmark. And if she wasn’t dead, the other two problems were surely also still breathing. Things were gyrating out of control. He should have stayed and made sure she drowned in the lagoon, but Zovastina was waiting and he could not be late.

He kept seeing Rafael die.

Zovastina would not care beyond wanting to know if the death raised any suspicion. But how could it? There’d be no body to find. Just bone fragments and ashes.

Like when Ely Lund’s house burned.

“You’re going to kill me?” Ely asked. “What have I done?” The intruder brandished a gun. “How can I be a threat to anyone?”

Viktor stood out of sight, in an adjacent room, and listened.

“Why don’t you answer me?” Ely asked, his voice rising.

“I’m not here to talk,” the man said.

“Just here to shoot me?”

“I do as I’m ordered.”

“And you have no idea why?”

“I don’t care.”

Silence filled the room.

“I wish I could have done a few more things,” Ely finally said. The tone was melancholy, full of resignation, surprisingly calm. “I always thought my illness would kill me.”

Viktor listened with a renewed interest.

“You are infected?” the stranger asked, some suspicion in his voice. “You don’t look sick.”

“No reason I should. But it’s still there.”

Viktor heard the distinctive click of a gun slide.

He’d stood outside and watched the house burn. Samarkand ’s meager fire department had done little. Eventually, the walls collapsed onto themselves and Greek fire consumed everything.

Now he knew something else.

The woman from Copenhagen had cared enough for Ely Lund to avenge his death.

He rounded the basilica and spotted the north portal. A man waited inside the open bronze doors.

Viktor grabbed his composure.

The Supreme Minister would want him focused and controlled.

ZOVASTINA HANDED THE SIGNED CONCORDAT BACK TO MICHENER. “Now leave me be for my thirty minutes.”

The papal nuncio motioned and all the priests withdrew from the presbytery.

“You’ll regret pressuring me,” she made clear.

“You might find the Holy Father tough to challenge.”

“How many armies does your pope have?”

“Many have asked that question. But armies weren’t needed to bring communism to its knees. John Paul II did just fine, all by himself.”

“And your pope is equally astute?”

“Cross him and you’ll find out.”

Michener walked away, passing through the iconostasis into the nave, disappearing toward the basilica’s main entrance. “I’ll be back in a half hour,” he called out through the darkness.

She saw Viktor advancing through the dimness. He passed Michener, who acknowledged him with a nod. Her two other guardsmen stood off to the side.

Viktor entered the presbytery. His clothes were damp and dingy, his face smoke-streaked.

All she wanted to know was, “Do you have it?”

He handed her an elephant medallion.

“What do you think?” she asked.

“Looks authentic, but I haven’t had a chance to test it.”

She pocketed the coin. Later.

The open sarcophagus waited ten meters away.

That’s what mattered now.

MALONE WAS THE LAST TO HOP FROM THE BOAT ONTO THE CONCRETE quay. They were back downtown, in San Marco, where the famous square ended at the lagoon. Ripples slapped moving poles and jostled gondolas tied to the docks. Still lots of police around and a multitude more spectators than an hour ago.

Stephanie motioned toward Cassiopeia, who was already shouldering through a crowded row of street vendors, toward the basilica, the bow and quiver still draped across her shoulder. “Pocahontas there needs a leash.”

“Mr. Malone.”

Through the crowd, he spotted a man in his late forties dressed in chinos, a long-sleeve shirt, and a cotton jacket walking their way. Cassiopeia seemed to have heard the greeting, too, as she’d stopped her advance and was headed toward where Malone and Stephanie stood.

“I’m Monsignor Colin Michener,” the man said as he approached.

“You don’t look like a priest.”

“Not tonight. But I was told to expect you, and I must say the description they gave was dead on. Tall, light-haired, with another, older woman in tow.”

“Excuse me,” Stephanie said.

Michener grinned. “I was told you’re sensitive about your age.”

“And who told you that?” Malone wanted to know.

“Edwin Davis,” Stephanie said. “He mentioned he had an impeccable source. You, I assume?”

“I’ve known Edwin a long time.”

Cassiopeia pointed at the church. “Did another man go inside that basilica? Short, stocky, dressed in jeans?”

The priest nodded. “He’s there. With Minister Zovastina. His name is Viktor Tomas, the head of Zovastina’s personal guard.”

“You’re well-informed,” Malone said.

“I’d say Edwin is the one in the know. But he couldn’t tell me one thing. How did you get that name? Cotton.”

“Long story. Right now we need to get inside the basilica. And I’m sure you know why.”

Michener motioned and they retreated behind one of the street vendors, out of the pedestrian flow. “Yesterday we came across some information on Minister Zovastina that we passed on to Washington. She wanted a peek inside St. Mark’s tomb, so the Holy Father thought America might like a look at the same time.”

“Can we go?” Cassiopeia asked.

“You’re a nervous one, aren’t you?” Michener said.

“I just want to go.”

“You’re carrying a bow and arrows.”

“Can’t fool you.”

Michener ignored her quip and faced Malone. “Is this going to get out of hand?”

“No more than it already has.”

Michener motioned off toward the square. “Like the man killed here earlier.”

“And there’s a museum burning on Torcello,” Malone added, as he felt his cell phone vibrate.

He fished the unit from his pocket, checked the display-Henrik, again-and answered. “Sending her a bow and arrows was not smart.”