“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.”
Malone 3 - The Venetian Betrayal
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 Asiaunder 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 Unionfell, central Asiasuffered 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.
A blessing and a problem.
Six hundred years ago Venice had been an oligarchical republic, governed by merchants through a complicated political system designed to prevent despotism. Faction and intrigue were thought foiled by processes that relied heavily on chance. No one person ever held sole authority. Always groups advising, deciding, and acting. Groups that changed at regular intervals.
But corruption still crept in. Plots and pet projects flourished. Webs of conspiracy were woven.
Men always found a way.
And so had he.
Thirty days.
More than enough time.