He gently laid a hand on his partner’s arm. “Not yet.”
The woman stopped and examined the tires, then trotted toward the front door.
“Give her time.”
Three hours ago, after arranging the meeting, they’d driven straight here. A thorough reconnaissance had confirmed that the house stood empty, so they’d stashed packs of Greek fire beneath the raised foundation and inside the attic. Instead of one of the turtles igniting this mixture, they’d rigged a radio charge.
The woman disappeared inside the house.
Viktor silently counted to ten and prepared to lift his hand from Rafael’s arm.
MALONE STOOD IN THE BOAT. THORVALDSEN BESIDE HIM.
“What did you mean Cassiopeia is in trouble?”
“The house is loaded with Greek fire. They came before us and prepared. Now that he has the medallion, Viktor doesn’t intend for us to survive the meeting.”
“And they’re waiting to make sure Cassiopeia is in there.”
“That’s my estimate. But we’re about to see if it’s also theirs.”
CASSIOPEIA ALLOWED THE FRONT DOOR TO CLOSE, THEN RACED through the house. This was chancy. She could only hope that the thieves gave her a few seconds before they detonated the mixture. Her nerves were tingling, her mind surging, her melancholy replaced with an adrenaline-driven rush.
At the museum, Malone had sensed her anxiety, seemingly knowing that something was wrong.
And there was.
But at the moment she couldn’t worry about it. Enough emotion had been expended on things she could not change. Right now, finding the rear door was all that mattered.
She burst out into dull daylight.
Malone and Thorvaldsen waited in the boat.
The house blocked any view of their escape from down the lane in front. She still held the compact LCD monitor.
Sixty meters to the water.
She leaped from the wooden deck.
MALONE SPOTTED CASSIOPEIA AS SHE FLED FROM THE HOUSE AND ran straight for them.
Fifty feet.
Thirty.
A massive swoosh and the house suddenly caught fire. One second it stood intact, the next flames poured from the windows, out from beneath, and stretched skyward through the roof. Like magician’s flash paper, he thought. No explosion. Instant combustion. Total. Complete. And, in the absence of salt water, unstoppable.
Cassiopeia found the dock and leaped into the boat.
“You cut that close,” he said.
“Get down,” she urged.
They crouched in the boat and he watched as she adjusted a video receiver and the image of a car appeared.
Two men climbed inside. He recognized Viktor. The car drove away, disappearing from the screen. She flicked a switch and another image showed the car turning onto the highway.
Thorvaldsen seemed pleased. “Apparently, our ruse worked.”
“Don’t you think you could have told me what was happening?” Malone asked.
Cassiopeia threw him a mischievous grin. “Now what fun would that have been?”
“He has the medallion.”
“Which is precisely what we wanted him to have,” Thorvaldsen said.
The house continued to consume itself. Smoke billowed into the sky. Cassiopeia cranked the outboard and steered the boat out into open water. Thorvaldsen’s seaside estate lay only a few miles to the north.
“I had the boat delivered just after we arrived,” Thorvaldsen said, as he grabbed Malone by the arm and led him to the stern. Cold salt spray misted over the bow. “I appreciate you being here. We were going to ask for your help today, after the museum was destroyed. That’s why she wanted to meet with you. She needs your help, but I doubt she’ll ask now.”
He wanted to inquire further, but knew now was not the time. His answer, though, was never in doubt. “She’s got it.” He paused. “You’ve both got it.”
Thorvaldsen squeezed his arm in appreciation. Cassiopeia kept her attention ahead, navigating the boat through the swells.
“How bad is it?” he asked.
The roar of the engine and the wind masked his question so that only Thorvaldsen heard him.
“Bad enough. But now we have hope.”
Malone 3 - The Venetian Betrayal
TWENTY
XINYANG PROVINCE , CHINA
3:30 P.M.
ZOVASTINA SAT STRAPPED INTO HER SEAT IN THE HELICOPTER’S rear compartment. Usually she traveled by a more luxurious method, but today she’d used the faster, military-issue chopper. One of her Sacred Band piloted the craft. Half of her personal guard, including Viktor, were licensed pilots. She sat across from the female prisoner from the laboratory, another of her guard beside the woman. She’d been brought aboard handcuffed, but Zovastina had ordered them removed.
“What’s your name?” she asked the woman.
“Does it matter?”
They spoke through headsets in Khask, which she knew none of the foreigners aboard understood.
“How do you feel?”
The woman hesitated before answering, as if debating whether to lie. “The best I’ve felt in years.”
“I’m glad. It’s our goal to improve the lives of all our citizens. Perhaps when you’re released from prison, you’ll have a greater appreciation for our new society.”
A look of contempt formed on the woman’s pitted face. Nothing about her was attractive, and Zovastina wondered how many defeats had been needed to strip her of all self-respect.
“I doubt I’ll be a part of your new society, Minister. My sentence is long.”
“I’m told you were involved in the trafficking of cocaine. If the Soviets were still here, you would have been executed.”
“The Russians?” She laughed. “They were the ones who bought the drugs.”
She wasn’t surprised. “The way of our new world.”
“What happened to the others who came with me?”