“They’re ours,” Malone said. “Apache AH64s and a Blackhawk.”
The American gunships swooped in. One of the Apache’s compartment doors swung open and Malone spotted a familiar face.
Edwin Davis.
“Troops from Afghanistan,” Viktor said. “Davis told me they’d be nearby, monitoring things, ready when needed.”
“You know,” Stephanie said to them. “Killing Zovastina that way may not have been smart.”
Cassiopeia sensed the resignation in her friend’s tone. “What is it?”
Thorvaldsen stepped forward. “Vincenti’s computers and Lyndsey were on that chopper. You don’t know this, but Vincenti found the cure for AIDS. He and Lyndsey developed it, and all of the data was on those computers. There was a flash drive, which Vincenti had when he died. But, unfortunately”—the Dane motioned to the burning house—“that’s surely gone.”
Cassiopeia saw a wicked look form on Malone’s dirty face. She also noticed Ely smiling. Both men looked exhausted, but their feeling of triumph seemed infectious.
Ely reached into his pocket and held out his open palm.
A flash drive.
“What’s that?” she asked, hoping.
“Life,” Malone said.
Malone 3 - The Venetian Betrayal
NINETY-FOUR
MALONE ADMIRED ALEXANDER THE GREAT’S TOMB. AFTER EDWIN Davis arrived, an army special forces unit had quickly taken control of the estate, disarming the four remaining troops without a fight. President Daniels authorized the incursion, Davis saying he doubted there’d be any official resistance from the Federation.
Zovastina was dead. A new day was coming.
Once the estate was secure, as darkness began to claim the mountains, they’d all climbed to the pools and dove into the tawny eye. Even Thorvaldsen, who wanted desperately to see the grave. Malone had helped him through the tunnel and the Dane, for his age and deformity, was a surprisingly strong swimmer.
They brought flashlights and additional lights from the Apaches, the tomb now ablaze with electric illumination. He stared in wonder at a wall of glazed bricks, their blues, yellows, oranges, and blacks still vibrant after two millennia.
Ely was examining three lion motifs formed with great skill from the colorful tiles. “Something similar to this lined the ancient Babylon’s processional way. We have remnants. But here’s one totally intact.”
Edwin Davis had swum through with them. He, too, had wanted to see what Zovastina had coveted. Malone felt better knowing that the other side of the pool was being guarded by a team operations sergeant and three U.S. Army soldiers armed with M-4 carbines. He and Stephanie had briefed Davis on what happened and he was beginning to warm to the deputy national security adviser, especially after he’d anticipated their need for backup and had been ready to move.
Ely stood beside the two sarcophagi. On the side of one was chiseled a single word. . More letters adorned its other side.
“This one is Alexander’s,” Ely said. “The longer inscription is from the Iliad. Always to be the best and to be superior to the rest. Homer’s expression of the heroic ideal. Alexander would have lived by that. Zovastina loved that quote, too. She used it many times. The people who put him here chose his epitaph well.”
Ely motioned to the other coffin, its inscription simpler.
“‘Hephaestion. Friend of Alexander.’ Lover did not do justice to their relationship. To be called ‘friend’ was the supreme compliment of a Greek, reserved for only the most dear.”
Malone noticed how dust and debris had been cleared from the image of a horse on Alexander’s coffin.
“Zovastina did that when she and I were here,” Viktor said. “She was mesmerized by the image.”
“It’s Bucephalas,” Ely said. “Has to be. Alexander’s horse. He worshipped the animal. The horse died during the Asian campaign and was buried somewhere in the mountains, not far from here.”
“Zovastina named her favorite horse that, too,” Viktor noted.
Malone scanned the room. Ely pointed out ritual buckets, a silver perfume container, a drinking horn shaped as a deer’s head, even gilded bronze greaves with bits of leather still remaining that once protected a warrior’s calves. “It’s breathtaking,” Stephanie said.
He agreed.
Cassiopeia stood near one of the coffins, its lid slid open.
“Zovastina snuck a look,” Viktor said.
Their lights shone inside at a mummy.
“Unusual that it’s not in a cartonnage,” Ely said. “But they may not have had the skill or time to make one.”
Gold sheets covered the body from neck to feet, each the size of a sheet of paper, more lay scattered inside the coffin. The right arm was bent at the elbow and lay across the abdomen. The left arm stretched straight, the forearm detached from the upper. Bandages wrapped most of the corpse in a tight embrace and on the partially exposed chest lay three gold disks.
“The Macedonian star,” Ely said. “Alexander’s coat of arms. Impressive ones, too. Beautiful specimens.”
“How did they get all of this in here?” Stephanie asked. “These coffins are huge.”
Ely motioned at the room. “Twenty-three hundred years ago, the topography was surely different. I’d wager there was another way in. Maybe the pools were not as high, the tunnel more accessible and not underwater. Who knows?”
“But the letters in the pool,” Malone said. “How did they get there? Surely the people who fashioned this tomb didn’t do it. That’s like a neon sign to alert people.”
“My guess is Ptolemy did that. Part of his riddle. Two Greek letters at the bottom of two dark pools. His way, I assume, of marking the spot.”