She moved toward the exit, suspicious, and examined its top. Electric bolts-connected to the alarm. Had to be. Beyond was a passageway lit by bulbs.
The alarm stopped.
They all stood in contemplative silence.
“What are we waiting for?” Thorvaldsen asked.
She stepped through the portal.
EIGHTY-SEVEN
MALONE LED CASSIOPEIA THROUGH THE DOORWAY AND WATCHED as she gazed in wonder. His light revealed carvings that sprang with life from the rock walls. Most of the images were of a warrior in his prime-young, vigorous, a spear in hand, a wreath in his hair. One frieze showed what appeared to be kings paying homage. Another a lion hunt. Still another a fierce battle. In each, the human element-muscles, hands, face, legs, feet, toes-were all depicted with painstaking care. Not a hint of color. Only a silvery monochrome.
He focused the beam on the center of the wigwam-shaped chamber and two stone plinths that each supported a stone sarcophagus. The exterior of both were adorned with lotus and palmetto patterns, rosettes, tendrils, flowers, and leaves. He pointed to the coffin lids. “That’s a Macedonian star on each.”
Cassiopeia bent down before the tombs and examined the lettering. Her fingers traced the words on each with a gentle touch… “I can’t read this, but it has to be Alexander and Hephaestion.”
He understood her awe. But there was a more pressing matter. “That’ll have to wait. We have a bigger problem.”
She stood upright.
“What is it?” she asked.
“Take off those wet clothes and I’ll explain.”
ZOVASTINA LEAPED INTO THE POOL, FOLLOWED BY VIKTOR, AND swam through the opening that looked so similar to the symbol on the elephant medallion. She’d noticed the resemblance immediately.
Easy strokes propelled her forward. The water was soothing, like a dip in one of the saunas at her palace.
Ahead, the overhead rock wall gave way.
She surfaced.
She’d been correct. Another chamber. Smaller than the one on the other side. She shook the water from her eyes and saw that the high ceiling seemed backlit by ambient light that leaked in from openings high in the rock. Viktor emerged beside her and they both climbed out. She surveyed the room. Faded murals decorated the walls. Two portals opened into more darkness.
No one in sight.
No other beams of light.
Apparently, Cotton Malone was not as naive as she’d thought.
“All right, Malone,” she called out. “You have the advantage. But could I have a look first?”
Silence.
“I’ll take that as a yes.”
Her light studied the sandy floor, spangled with mica, and she spotted a moisture trail through the doorway to her right.
She entered the next chamber and spotted two funerary plinths. Both exteriors were adorned with carvings and letters, but she wasn’t fluent in Old Greek. That was why she’d recruited Ely Lund. One image caught her eye and she stepped close and gently blew away debris that clogged its outline. Bit by bit a horse was revealed. Maybe five centimeters long, with an upstanding mane and a lifted tail.
“Bucephalas,” she whispered.
She needed to see more so she said to the darkness, “Malone. I came here unarmed because I didn’t need a gun. Viktor was mine, as you apparently know. But I have your three friends. I was there when you called on the phone. They’re in the house, sealed away, about to be consumed by Greek fire. Just thought you’d like to know.”
Still silence.
“Keep an eye out,” she whispered to Viktor.
She’d come this far, wished too long, fought too hard, not to see. She laid her light atop one of the sarcophagi’s lid, the one with the horse, and pushed. After a moment of valiant tugging, the thick slab moved. A few more shoves and she cleared a pie-shaped opening.
She grabbed the light and, unlike in Venice, hoped she would not be disappointed.
A mummy lay inside.
Sheathed and masked in gold.
She wanted to touch it, to lift the mask away, but thought better. She did not want to do anything that might damage the remains.
But she wondered.
Was she the first in over twenty-three hundred years to gaze upon the remains of Alexander the Great? Had she found the conqueror, along with his draught? Seems she had. Best of all, she knew precisely what to do with both. The draught would be used to fulfill her conquests and, as she now knew, make her an unexpected windfall of profit. The mummy, from whom she could not remove her eyes, would symbolize all that she did. The possibilities seemed endless, but the danger that surrounded her brought her thoughts back to the reality.
Malone was playing his hand quite carefully.
She needed to do the same.
MALONE SAW THE ANTICIPATION ON CASSIOPEIA’S FACE. ELY, Stephanie, and Henrik were in trouble. They’d watched from the other doorway, the one Zovastina had avoided, as she and Viktor followed the water trail and entered the funerary chamber.
“How did you know Viktor was lying to us?” she whispered.
“Twelve years of dealing with random assets. That whole thing with you at the palace? Too easy. And something Stephanie told me. Viktor’s the one who fed them Vincenti. Why? Makes no sense. Except if Viktor was playing both sides.”
“I should have seen that.”
“How? You didn’t hear what Stephanie told me in Venice.”
They stood with bare shoulders scraping against oblique walls. They’d removed their pants and wrung the water from them so as not to leave any further trail. Once through the tomb’s other two rooms, filled with artifacts, they had quickly re-dressed and waited. The tomb consisted of only four interconnected rooms, none of which were large, two of which opened to the pool. Zovastina was most likely enjoying a moment of triumph. But the information about Stephanie, Ely, and Henrik had changed things. True or not, the possibility had grabbed his attention. Which was surely the idea.
He glanced out toward the pool. Light danced in the funerary room. He hoped the sight of Alexander the Great’s grave might buy them a few moments.
“You ready?” he asked Cassiopeia.
She nodded.
He led the way.
Viktor stepped from the other doorway.
EIGHTY-EIGHT
STEPHANIE NOTICED THAT THE SICKENINGLY SWEET AROMA WAS not as strong in the back passages, but nonetheless lingered. At least they weren’t trapped any longer. Several turns had led them deeper into the house and she’d yet to see another open exit.
“I’ve seen how this concoction works,” Thorvaldsen said. “Once Greek fire ignites, these walls will burn quickly. We need to be out of here before that happens.”
She was aware of their dilemma, but their choices were limited. Lyndsey was still anxious, Ely amazingly calm. He had the countenance of an agent, not an academician, a coolness she admired considering their predicament. She wished she possessed more of his nerve.
“What do you mean by quickly?” Lyndsey asked Thorvaldsen. “How fast will this place burn?”
“Fast enough that we’ll be trapped.”
“So what are we doing in here?”
“You want to go back to that storage closet?” she asked.
They turned another corner, the dark hall reminding her of a corridor in a train. The path ended just ahead at the base of a steep stairway, leading up.
No choice.
They climbed.
