FIFTY-FIVE
VENICE
CASSIOPEIA’S ATTENTION WAS DRAWN FIRST ACROSS THE NAVE TO the north transept where somebody was shooting at Malone. Beyond the waist-high railing she’d seen the head and chest of one of the guards, but not Malone. Then she’d watched as Zovastina fired her weapon, the bullet careening off the marble floor inches from Thorvaldsen. The Dane had stood his ground, never moving.
Movement to her right drew her attention. A man appeared in the stairway arch, gun in hand. He spotted her and raised his weapon, but never gained the chance to fire.
She shot him in the chest.
He was thrown back, arms flailing. She finished the kill with one more well-placed shot. Across the nave, forty meters away, she saw the other guardsman advancing deeper into the museum’s exhibits. She unshouldered the bow and found an arrow, but kept a position back from the railing so as not to give Zovastina a chance at her.
She was concerned. Just before the attacker appeared, Viktor had disappeared below into the lower transept. Where had he gone?
She mated the arrow’s nock to the bowstring and gripped the bow’s handle.
She retracted the string.
The guard winked in and out through the dim light of the opposite transept.
MALONE WAITED. HIS GUN WAS DRAWN, ALL HE NEEDED WAS FOR the guardsman to advance a few feet closer. He’d managed to retreat to the end cap of one of the exhibits, using the shadows for protection, his steps light on the wood flooring, three gunshots from out in the nave masking his movements. Impossible to say where they’d originated since the resounding echoes camouflaged any sense of direction. He really didn’t want to shoot the guard.
Booksellers, generally, did not kill people.
But he doubted there was going to be much choice.
He drew a breath and made his move.
ZOVASTINA STARED AT HENRIK THORVALDSEN AS MORE GUNSHOTS erupted above. Her thirty minutes alone in the basilica had turned into a crowded mélange.
Thorvaldsen motioned to the wooden box on the floor. “Not what you expected, was it?”
She decided to be honest. “Worth a try.”
“Ptolemy’s riddle could be a hoax. People have searched for Alexander the Great’s remains for fifteen hundred years with no success.”
“And does anyone actually believe St. Mark was in that box?”
He shrugged. “An awful lot of Venetians certainly do.”
She needed to leave, so she called out, “Viktor.”
“Is there a problem, Minister?” a new voice asked.
Michener.
The priest stepped into the lighted presbytery.
She pointed her gun at him. “You lied to me.”
MALONE CREPT LEFT AS THE GUARDSMAN KEPT TO THE RAILING and moved right. He sidestepped a wooden lion attached to a carved ducal throne and crouched behind a waist-high exhibit of tapestries that separated him from his pursuer.
He scampered ahead, intent on doubling around before the man had a chance to react.
He found the end of the exhibit, turned, and prepared to move.
An arrow pierced the guardsman’s chest, sucking the breath away. He saw a shocked look sweep over the man’s face as he groped for the implanted shaft. Life left him as his body collapsed to the floor.
Malone’s head whirled left.
Across the nave Cassiopeia stood, bow in hand, her face frozen, bearing no emotion. Behind her, high in the outer wall loomed a darkened rose window. Below the window, Viktor emerged from the shadows and moved toward Cassiopeia, a gun coming shoulder high.
ZOVASTINA WAS ANGRY. “YOU KNEW THERE WAS NOTHING IN THAT tomb,” she said to Michener.
“How could I know that? It hasn’t been opened in over a hundred and seventy years.”
“You can tell your pope the Church will not be allowed within the Federation, concordat or no.”
“I’ll pass the message along.”
She faced Thorvaldsen. “You never said. What’s your interest in all this?”
“To stop you.”
“You’ll find that difficult.”
“I don’t know. You have to leave this basilica and the airport is a long boat ride away.”
She’d come to realize that they’d chosen their trap with care. Or, more accurately, they’d allowed her to choose it. Venice. Surrounded by water. No cars. Buses. Trains. Lots of slow-moving boats. Leaving could well pose a problem. What was it? An hour’s ride to the airport?
And the confident glare of the two staring at her from five meters away was no comfort.
VIKTOR APPROACHED THE WOMAN WITH THE BOW. RAFAEL’S killer. The woman who’d just speared another of his guardsmen in the opposite transept. She needed to die, but he realized that was foolish. He’d listened to Zovastina and knew that things were not going well. To leave, they’d need insurance. So he pressed the barrel of his gun into the nape of her neck.
The woman did not move.
“I should shoot you,” he spit out.
“What sport would that be?”
“Enough to even the score.”
“I’d say we’re even. Ely, for your partner.”
He fought a rising anger and forced his mind to think. Then an idea dawned. A way to bring the situation back under control. “Move to the railing. Slowly.”
She strode three steps forward.
“Minister,” he called out over the balustrade.
He glanced past his captive and saw Zovastina looking up, her gun still pointed at the two men.
“This one,” he said to her, “will be our pass out of here. A hostage.”
“Excellent idea, Viktor.”
“She doesn’t know what a mess you’ve made, does she?” the woman whispered to him.
“You’ll die before uttering the first word.”
“Not to worry. I won’t tell her.”
MALONE SAW CASSIOPEIA’S PREDICAMENT. HE SPRANG TO THE railing and aimed his gun across the nave.
“Toss it down,” Viktor called out.
He ignored the command.
“I’d do as he says,” Zovastina said from below. Her gun was still trained on Michener and Thorvaldsen. “Or I will shoot these two.”
“Supreme Minister of the Central Asian Federation committing murder in Italy? I doubt it.”
“True,” Zovastina said. “But Viktor can easily kill the woman, which should not be a problem for me.”
“Toss it,” Cassiopeia said to him.
He realized that to comply was foolish. Just retreat into the shadows and remain a threat.
“Cotton,” Thorvaldsen said from below, “do as Cassiopeia says.”
He had to trust that both his friends knew what they were doing. Wrong? Probably. But he’d done stupid things before.
He allowed the pistol to drop over the railing.
“BRING HER DOWN,” ZOVASTINA CALLED OUT TO VIKTOR. “YOU,” she said to the other man who’d just tossed away his gun. “Come here.”
He did not move from his perch.
“Please, Cotton,” Thorvaldsen said. “Do as she says.”
A hesitation and the man disappeared from the railing.
“You control him?” she asked.
“No one does.”
Viktor and his female captive entered the presbytery. The other man, the one Thorvaldsen commanded, followed them a moment later.