“What was it,” Malone asked, “six years later when the half brother was murdered by Olympias, Alexander’s mother? She’d hated that child from birth, since Philip of Macedonia had divorced her to marry the mother. Then, a few years later, Roxane and Alexander IV were both poisoned. None of them ever ruled anything.”
“Eventually, Alexander’s sister was murdered, too,” Thorvaldsen said. “His entire bloodline eradicated. Not a single legitimate heir survived. And the greatest empire in the world crumbled away.”
“So what does all that have to do with elephant medallions? And what possible relevance could that have today?”
“Ely believed a great deal,” she said.
He saw there was more. “And what do you believe?”
She sat silent, as if unsure, but not wanting to voice her reservations.
“It’s all right,” he said. “You tell me when you’re ready.”
Then something else occurred to him and he said to Thorvaldsen, “What about the last two medallions here in Europe ? I heard you ask Viktor about them. He’s probably headed after those next.”
“We’re ahead of him there.”
“Someone’s already got them?”
Thorvaldsen glanced at his watch. “At least one, I hope, by now.”
Malone 3 - The Venetian Betrayal
TWENTY-THREE
AMSTERDAM
STEPHANIE STEPPED FROM THE CAFé BACK INTO THE RAIN. AS SHE yanked the hood over her head she found her earpiece and spoke into the mike hidden beneath her jacket.
“Two men just left here. They have what I want.”
“Fifty meters ahead, heading for the bridge,” came a reply.
“Stop them.”
She hustled into the night.
She’d brought two Secret Service agents, requisitioned from President Danny Daniels’ overseas detail. A month ago the president had requested that she accompany him to the annual European economic summit. National leaders had gathered forty miles south of Amsterdam. Tonight Daniels was attending a formal dinner, secure within The Hague, so she’d managed to corral two helpers. Just insurance, she’d told them, promising dinner afterward wherever they’d like.
“They’re armed,” one of the agents said in her ear.
“Knives in the café,” she said.
“Guns out here.”
Her spine stiffened. This was turning nasty. “Where are they?”
“At the pedestrian bridge.”
She heard shots and removed a Magellan Billet–issue Beretta from beneath her jacket.
More shots.
She rounded a corner.
People were scattering. Tan and Fair were huddled on a bridge behind a chest-high iron railing, shooting at the two Secret Servicemen, one on either side of the canal.
Glass shattered, as a bullet found one of the brothels.
A woman screamed.
More frightened people rushed by Stephanie. She lowered her gun, concealing it by her side. “Let’s contain this,” she said into the mike.
“Tell it to them,” one of the agents answered.
Last week, when she’d agreed to do Cassiopeia the favor, she’d not seen the harm, but yesterday something had told her to come prepared, especially when she remembered that Cassiopeia had said she and Henrik Thorvaldsen appreciated the gesture. Anything Thorvaldsen was involved with signaled trouble.
More shots from the bridge.
“You’re not getting out of here,” she yelled out.
Fair whirled and aimed a gun her way.
She dove into a sunken alcove. A bullet pinged off the bricks a few feet away. She hugged the stairs and eased herself back up. Rain gushed down each runner and soaked her clothes.
She fired two shots.
Now the two men lay in the center of a triangle. No way out.
Tan shifted position, trying to lessen his exposure, but one of the agents shot him in the chest. He staggered until another round sent him teetering onto the bridge railing, his frame folding over the side and splashing into the canal.
Wonderful. Now there were bodies.
Fair scampered to the railing and tried to look over. He seemed as if he wanted to jump, but more shots kept him pinned. Fair straightened, then ran forward, charging the far side of the bridge, shooting indiscriminately. The Secret Service agent ahead of him returned fire, while the one on her side rushed forward and brought the man down, from behind, with three shots.
Sirens could be heard.
She sprang from her position and trotted onto the bridge. Fair lay on the cobbles, rain ushering away the blood that poured from his body. She waved with her arms for the agents to come.
Both men raced over.
Tan floated facedown in the canal.
Red and blue lights appeared fifty yards away, speeding toward the bridge. Three police cars.
She pointed at one of the agents. “I need you in the water getting a medallion from that man’s pocket. It’s in a plastic sleeve and has an elephant on it. Once you get it, swim out of here and don’t get caught.”
The man holstered his gun and leaped over the railing. She liked that about the Secret Service. No questions, just action.
The police cars skidded to a stop.
She shook rain from her face and glanced at the other agent. “Get out of here and get me some diplomatic help.”
“Where will you be?”
Her mind flashed back to last summer. Roskilde. She and Malone.
“Under arrest.”
Malone 3 - The Venetian Betrayal
TWENTY-FOUR
COPENHAGEN
CASSIOPEIA SIPPED A GLASS OF WINE AND WATCHED AS MALONE digested what she and Thorvaldsen were telling him.
“Cotton,” she said, “let me explain about the connection that sparked our interest. We told you some earlier, about X-ray fluorescence. A researcher at the cultural museum in Samarkand pioneered the technique, but Ely came up with the idea of examining medieval Byzantine texts. That’s where he found the writing at a molecular level.”