“Like you said about the sprinklers,” the chief said in Danish. “Our water only seemed to spark it up.”

“How’d you finally control it?” Malone asked.

“When the tanker ran out of juice, we dipped our hoses into the canal and pumped straight from it. That worked.”

“Salt water?” All of Copenhagen ’s canals connected to the sea.

The chief nodded. “Stops it cold.”

He wanted to know, “Find anything in the building?”

“No little machines, like you told the police. But that place was so hot it melted the marble statues.” The chief ran a hand through his wet hair. “That’s a powerful fuel. We’ll need your clothes. May be the only way to determine its composition.”

“Maybe not,” he said. “I took a dip in that canal, too.”

“Good point.” The chief shook his head. “The arson investigators are going to love this one.”

As the fireman lumbered off, Malone faced Cassiopeia and plunged into an interrogation. “You want to tell me what’s going on?”

“You weren’t supposed to be here till tomorrow morning.”

“That’s not an answer to my question.”

Wet tangles of thick dark hair hung past her shoulders and roughly framed her alluring face. She was a Spanish Muslim, living in southern France. Bright, rich, and cocky-an engineer and a historian. But her presence in Copenhagen, a day earlier than she’d told him, meant something. Also, she’d come armed and dressed for battle-dark leather pants and a tight-fitting leather jacket. He wondered if she was going to be difficult or cooperative.

“Lucky I was here to save your hide,” she said to him.

He couldn’t decide if she was serious or teasing him. “How did you know my hide needing saving?”

“Long story, Cotton.”

“I’ve got the time. I’m retired.”

“I’m not.”

He heard the bitter edge in her voice and sensed something. “You knew that building was going to burn, didn’t you?”

She did not look at him, just stared off across the canal. “I actually wanted it to burn.”

“Care to explain that one?”

She sat silently, absorbed in thought. “I was here. Earlier. I watched while two men broke into the museum. I saw them grab you. I needed to follow them, but couldn’t.” She paused. “Because of you.”

“Who were they?”

“The men who left those machines.”

She’d listened as he’d given his statement to the police, but he’d sensed the whole time that she already knew the story. “How about we cut the crap and you tell me what’s going on. I almost got killed over whatever it is you’re doing.”

“You should ignore open doors in the night.”

“Old habits are hard to break. What’s going on?”

“You saw the flames. Felt the heat. Unusual, wouldn’t you say?”

He recalled how the fire had descended the stairs then stopped, as if waiting to be invited further. “You could say that.”

“In the seventh century, when the Muslim fleets attacked Constantinople, they should have easily routed the city. Better weapons. A mass of forces. But the Byzantines had a surprise. They called it liquid fire, or wild fire, and they unleashed it on the ships, totally destroying the invading fleet.” Cassiopeia still wasn’t looking at him. “The weapon survived in various forms to the time of the Crusades, and eventually acquired the name Greek fire. The original formula was so secret that it was held personally by each Byzantine emperor. They guarded it so well that, when the empire finally fell, the formula was lost.” She breathed deeply as she continued to clutch the blanket. “It’s been found.”

“You’re telling me that I just saw Greek fire?”

“With a twist. This kind hates salt water.”

“So why didn’t you tell the firemen that when they arrived?”

“I don’t want to answer any more questions than I have to.”

But he wanted to know. “Why let this museum burn? There’s nothing of any consequence there?”

He stared back toward the burned hulk and spotted the charred remains of his bicycle. He sensed something more from Cassiopeia, as she continued to avoid his gaze. Never in all the time he’d known her had he seen any sign of misgiving, nervousness, or dejection. She was tough, eager, disciplined, and smart. But at the moment she seemed troubled.

A car appeared at the far end of the cordoned-off street. He recognized the expensive British sedan and the hunched figure that emerged from its rear seat.

Henrik Thorvaldsen.

Cassiopeia stood. “He’s here to talk with us.”

“And how did he know we were here?”

“Something’s happening, Cotton.”

SIX

VENICE

2:30 A.M.

VINCENTI WAS GLAD THE POTENTIAL DISASTER WITH THE FLORENTINE had been averted. He’d made a mistake. Time was short and he was playing a dangerous game, but it seemed fate had dealt him another chance.

“Is the situation in central Asia under control?” one of the Council of Ten asked him. “Did we halt whatever that fool had tried to do?”

All of the men and women had lingered in the meeting hall after the Florentine, struggling within his coffin, was wheeled away. A bullet to the head should have, by now, ended further resistance.

“We’re okay,” he said. “I personally handled the matter, but Supreme Minister Zovastina is quite the showgirl. I assume she’ll make a spectacle of things.”

“She’s not to be trusted,” another said.

He wondered about the declaration’s vehemence considering Zovastina was their ally, but he nonetheless agreed. “Despots are always a problem.” He stood and approached a map that hung from one wall. “Damn if she hasn’t accomplished a lot, though.”

“She managed to merge six corrupt Asian states into a federation that might actually succeed.” He pointed. “She’s essentially redrawn the world map.”

“And how did she do it?” came a question. “Certainly not by diplomacy.”

Vincenti knew the official account. After the Soviet Union fell, central Asia suffered civil wars and strife, as each of the emerging “nation-stans” struggled with independence. The so-called Commonwealth of Independent States, which succeeded the USSR, existed in name only. Corruption and incompetence ran rampant. Irina Zovastina had headed local reforms under Gorbachev, championing perestroika and glasnost, spearheading the prosecution of many corrupt bureaucrats. Eventually, though, she led the charge to expel the Russians, reminding the people of Russia ’s colonial conquest and sounding an environmental alarm, noting that Asians were dying by the thousands from Russian pollution. Ultimately, she stood before Kazakhstan ’s Assembly of Representatives and helped proclaim the republic.

A year later, she was elected president.

The West welcomed her. She seemed a reformer in a region that rarely reformed. Then, fifteen years ago, she stunned the world with the announcement of the Central Asian Federation.

Six nations, now one.

Yet Vincenti’s colleague was right. Not a miracle. More a manipulation. So he answered the inquiry with the obvious. “She achieved it with power.”

“And the fortunate demise of political opponents.”

“That’s always been a way to power,” he said. “We can’t fault her for that. We do the same.” He stared at another of the Council members. “Are the funds in place?”

The treasurer nodded. “Three point six billion, scattered at a variety of banks around the globe, access clean, straight to Samarkand.”

“I assume our members are ready?”

“A renewed influx of investment will start immediately. Most of the members are planning major expansions. They’ve been careful, per our directive, to this point.”

Time was short. Just as with the original Council of Ten, half of the current Council would soon rotate off. League bylaws mandated that five members changed every two years. Vincenti’s term would expire in less than thirty days.