“I served as papal secretary to Clement XV. I’m aware of those discussions.”
She’d long suspected this man was more than a nuncio. The new pope apparently chose his envoys with care. “Then you’re aware the Church would never surrender that body. But the patriarch in Venice, with Rome’s approval, has agreed to a compromise—part of your African pope’s reconciliation with the world. Some of the relic, from the tomb, will be returned. That way, both sides are satisfied. But this is a delicate matter, especially for Venetians. Their saint disturbed.” She shook her head. “That’s why the tomb will be opened tomorrow night, in secret. Part of the remains will be removed, then the sepulcher closed. No one the wiser until an announcement of the gift is made in a few days.”
“You have excellent information.”
“It’s a subject in which I have an interest. The body in that tomb is not St. Mark’s.”
“Then who is it?”
“Let’s just say that the body of Alexander the Great disappeared from Alexandria in the fourth century, at nearly the exact time the body of St. Mark reappeared. Mark was enshrined in his own version of Alexander’s Soma, which was venerated, just as Alexander’s had been for six hundred years prior. My scholars have studied a variety of ancient texts, some the world has never seen—”
“And you think the body in the Venetian basilica is actually that of Alexander the Great?”
“I’m not saying anything, only that DNA analysis can now determine race. Mark was born in Libya to Arab parents. Alexander was Greek. There would be noticeable chromosomal differences. I’m also told there are dentine isotope studies, tomography, and carbon dating that could tell us a lot. Alexander died in 323 BCE. Mark in the first century after Christ. Again, there would be scientific differences in the remains.”
“Do you plan to defile the corpse?”
“No more than you plan to. Tell me, what will they cut away?”
The American considered her statement. She’d sensed, early on, that he’d returned to Samarkand with far more authority than before. Time to see if that were true. “All I want is a few minutes alone with the open sarcophagus. If I remove anything, it will not be noticed. In return, the Church may move freely through the Federation and see how many Christians take to its message. But the construction of any buildings would have to be government approved. That’s as much for your protection as ours. There’d be violence if church construction wasn’t handled carefully.”
“Do you plan to travel to Venice yourself?”
She nodded. “I’d like a low-profile visit, arranged by your Holy Father. I’m told the Church has many connections in the Italian government.”
“You realize that, at best, Minister, anything you find there would be like the Shroud of Turin or Marian visions. A matter of faith.”
But she knew that there could well be something conclusive. What had Ptolemy written in his riddle? Touch the innermost being of the golden illusion.
“Just a few minutes alone. That’s all I ask.”
The papal nuncio sat silent.
She waited.
“I’ll instruct the patriarch in Venice to grant you the time.”
She was right. He’d not returned empty-handed. “Lots of authority for a mere nuncio.”
“Thirty minutes. Beginning at one A.M., Wednesday. We’ll inform the Italian authorities that you’re coming to attend a private function, at the invitation of the Church.”
She nodded.
“I’ll arrange for you to enter the cathedral through the Porta dei Fiori in the west atrium. At that hour, few people will be in the main square. Will you be alone?”
She was tired of this officious priest. “If it matters, maybe we should forget about this.”
She saw that Michener caught her irritation.
“Minister, bring whoever you want. The Holy Father simply wants to make you happy.”
Malone 3 - The Venetian Betrayal
THIRTY
HAMBURG , GERMANY
1:15 A.M.
VIKTOR SAT IN THE HOTEL BAR. RAFAEL WAS UPSTAIRS, ASLEEP. They’d driven south from Copenhagen, through Denmark, into northern Germany. Hamburg was the prearranged rendezvous point with the two members of the Sacred Band sent to Amsterdam to retrieve the sixth medallion. They should arrive sometime during the night. He and Rafael had handled the other thefts, but a deadline was looming, so Zovastina had ordered a second team into the field.
He nursed a beer and enjoyed the quiet. Few patrons occupied the dimly lit booths.
Zovastina thrived on tension. She liked to keep people on edge. Compliments were few, criticisms common. The palace staff. The Sacred Band. Her ministers. No one wanted to disappoint her. But he’d heard the talk behind her back. Interesting that a woman so attuned to power could become so oblivious to its resentment. Shallow loyalty was a dangerous illusion. Rafael was right, something was about to happen. As head of the Sacred Band he’d many times accompanied Zovastina to the laboratory in the mountains, east of Samarkand—this one on her side of the Chinese border, staffed with her people, where she kept her germs. He’d seen the test subjects, requisitioned from jails, and the horrible deaths. He’d also stood outside conference rooms while she plotted with her generals. The Federation possessed an impressive army, a reasonable air force, and a limited short-range missile capability. Most provided, and funded, by the West for defensive purposes since Iran, China, and Afghanistan all bordered the Federation.
He’d not told Rafael, but he knew what she was planning. He’d heard her speak of the chaos in Afghanistan, where the Taliban still clung to fleeting power. Of Iran, whose radical president constantly rattled sabers. And Pakistan, a place that exported violence with blinded eyes.
Those nations were her initial goal.
And millions would die.
A vibration in his pocket startled him.