“No. It’s actually your greatest desire. What you told me in Samarkand you wanted more than anything.”

He paused.

“Life.”

FIFTY-EIGHT

VENICE

2:55 A.M.

MALONE SHOOK HIS HEAD. “ELY LUND IS ALIVE?”

“We don’t know,” Edwin Davis said. “But we’ve suspected Zovastina was being schooled by somebody. Yesterday we learned that Lund was her initial source of information-Henrik told us about him-and the circumstances of his death are certainly suspect.”

“Why does Cassiopeia believe he’s dead?”

“Because she had to believe that,” Thorvaldsen said. “There was no way to prove otherwise. But I suspect a part of her has doubted whether his death was real.”

“Henrik thinks, and I have to agree with him,” Stephanie said, “that Zovastina will try and use the link between Ely and Cassiopeia to her advantage. All of what happened here has to be a shock for her, and paranoia is one of her occupational hazards. Cassiopeia can play off that.”

“This woman is planning a war. She’s not going to worry about Cassiopeia. She needed her to get to the airport. After that, Cassiopeia is nothing but baggage. This is crazy.”

“Cotton,” Stephanie said. “There’s more.”

He waited.

“Naomi’s dead.”

He ran a hand through his hair. “I’m sick and tired of friends dying.”

“I want Enrico Vincenti,” she said.

So did he.

He started thinking like a field agent again, fighting hard the desire for quick revenge. “You said there’s something in the treasury. Okay. Show me.”

ZOVASTINA WATCHED THE WOMAN SITTING ACROSS FROM HER IN the jet’s luxury cabin. A personality of courage, no doubt. And like the prisoner from the laboratory in China, this beauty knew fear, yet unlike that weak soul, she also knew how to control it.

They’d not spoken since leaving the basilica, and she’d used the time to gauge her hostage. She was still unsure if the woman’s presence was planned or happenstance. Too much happened too fast.

And the bones.

She’d been certain there’d be something to find, sure enough to risk the journey. Everything had pointed to success. But over two thousand years had passed. Thorvaldsen may have been right. What realistically could remain?

“Why were you in the basilica?” she asked.

“Did you bring me along to chitchat?”

“I brought you to find out what you know.”

This woman reminded her too much of Karyn. That damnable self-confidence, worn like a badge. And a peculiar expression of wariness, which strangely kept Zovastina both interested and off balance.

“Your clothes. Your hair. You look like you’ve been swimming.”

“Your guardsman shoved me into the lagoon.”

That was news. “My guardsman?”

“Viktor. He didn’t tell you? I killed his partner in the museum on Torcello. I wanted to kill him, too.”

“That could prove a challenge.”

“I don’t think so.” The voice was cold, acid, and superior.

“You knew Ely Lund?”

Vitt said nothing.

“You think I killed him?”

“I know you did. He told you about Ptolemy’s riddle. He taught you about Alexander and how the body in the Soma was never Alexander’s. He connected that body to the theft of St. Mark by the Venetians and that’s how you knew to go to Venice. You killed him to make sure he told no one else. Yet he did tell someone. Me.”

“And you told Henrik Thorvaldsen.”

“Among others.”

That was a problem, and Zovastina wondered if there was any connection between this woman and the failed assassination attempt. And Vincenti? Henrik Thorvaldsen was certainly the kind of man who could be a member of the Venetian League. But since the membership roster was highly confidential she had no way of confirming his status. “Ely never mentioned you.”

“He mentioned you.”

This woman was indeed like Karyn. Same haunting allure and frank manner. Defiance attracted Zovastina. Something that took patience and determination to tame.

But it could be done.

“What if Ely isn’t dead?”

FIFTY-NINE

VENICE

MALONE FOLLOWED THE OTHERS INTO THE BASILICA’S SOUTH transept, stopping at a dimly lit doorway surmounted by an elaborate Moorish-style arch. Thorvaldsen produced a key and opened the bronze doors.

Inside, a vaulted vestibule led into a sanctuary. To the left, wall niches held icons and reliquaries. To the right was the treasury, where more fragile and precious symbols of a vanished republic rested against the walls or lay gathered in showcases.

“Most of this came from Constantinople,” Thorvaldsen said, “when Venice sacked the city in 1204. But restorations, fires, and robberies have taken their toll. When the Venetian republic fell, much of the collection was melted down for its gold, silver, and precious stones. Only two hundred and eighty-three items managed to survive.”

Malone admired the shiny chalices, reliquaries, caskets, crosses, bowls, and icons, fashioned of rock, wood, crystal, glass, silver, or gold. He also noticed amphorae, ampullae, manuscript covers, and elaborate incense burners, each an ancient trophy from Egypt, Rome, or Byzantium.

“Quite a collection,” he said.

“One of the finest on the planet,” Thorvaldsen declared.

“What are we looking for?”

Stephanie pointed. “Michener said it was over here.”

They approached a glass case that exhibited a sword, a bishop’s crozier, a few hexagonal bowls, and several gilt relic boxes. Thorvaldsen used another of the keys and unlocked the case. He then hinged open one of the relic boxes. “They keep it in here. Out of sight.”

Malone recognized the object lying inside. “A scarab.”

During the mummification process, Egyptian embalmers routinely adorned the purified body with hundreds of amulets. Many were simply for decoration, others were positioned to strengthen dead limbs. The one he was staring at was named for the insect that adorned the top-Scarabæidæ-a dung beetle. He’d always thought the association odd, but ancient Egyptians had noticed how the bugs seemed to spring from the dung, so they identified the insect with Chepera, the creator of all things, father of the gods, who made himself out of the matter he produced.

“This one’s a heart amulet,” he said.

Stephanie nodded. “That’s what Michener said.”

He knew that all bodily organs were removed during mummification, save for the heart. A scarab was always laid atop the heart to symbolize everlasting life. This one was typical. Made of stone. Green. Probably carnelian. But one thing he noticed. “No gold. Usually they were either made of or decorated with it.”

“Which is probably how it survived,” Thorvaldsen said. “History notes that the Soma, in Alexandria, was raided by the later Ptolemies. All of the gold was stripped away, the golden sarcophagus melted down, everything of value taken. That chunk of rock would have meant nothing to them.”

Malone reached down and lifted the amulet. Maybe four inches long by two inches wide. “It’s larger than normal. These things are usually about half this size.”

“You know a lot about them,” Davis said.

Stephanie grinned. “The man reads. After all, he is a bookseller.”

Malone smiled but continued to admire the amulet and noticed, in the beetle’s wings, three carved hieroglyphs.

“What are they?” he asked.

“Michener said they mean life, stability, and protection,” Thorvaldsen answered.

He turned the amulet over. The bottom was dominated by the image of a bird.