She glanced through the concordat. The language detailed a cooperative effort between the Roman Church and the Central Asia Federation to “jointly promote and encourage the free exercise of religion through unrestricted allowance of missionary work.” The paragraphs went on to assure that violence against the Church would not be tolerated and offenders would be punished. More provisions guaranteed that visas would be liberally granted to Church personnel and no reprisals would be tolerated against any converts.
She stared back at the altar. The lower half of the sarcophagus remained in shadow. Even from ten meters away she could see nothing inside.
“You’d be a good one to have on my team,” she said.
“I like serving the Church.”
She glanced at her watch—12:50 A.M.Viktor should already be here. He was never late. So dependable. She stared out into the nave, back toward the upper portions of the west atrium where only the golden ceilings were illuminated. Lots of dark places to hide. She wondered, when one A.M.came and she was granted her thirty minutes, if she’d really be alone.
“If signing the concordat is a problem,” Michener said, “we could just forget the whole thing.”
Her words from yesterday when she’d challenged him.
She called his bluff.
“You have a pen?”
Malone 3 - The Venetian Betrayal
FORTY-EIGHT
MALONE SPOTTED A PAIR OF RED RUNNING LIGHTS A QUARTER mile away, flitting erratically across the black water, as if the boat was without a pilot.
“You see that out there?” he asked Stephanie, pointing.
She stood on the other side of the helm. “It’s beyond the marked channel.”
He’d thought the same thing. He kept the boat churning forward. They were closer now to the drifting craft, maybe a couple hundred yards off. No question, the other boat, about the same shape and size as his, was near the shallows. Then, in the ambient glow from its helm, he saw someone plunge into the water.
Another figure appeared and three shots banged in the night.
“Cotton,” Stephanie said.
“Already on it.”
He whirled the wheel left and headed straight for the lights. The other boat seemed to spring to life and motored away. He cut a swath through the water and sent swells heading toward the other low-riding craft. Water slashed into the hull. Malone was still fifty feet away, the other craft passing them now. The shadowy outline of its pilot appeared at the helm, a gun at the end of an outstretched arm.
“Down,” he screamed to Stephanie.
She’d apparently spotted the danger, too, and was already leaping to the wet deck. He dove with her as two bullets whizzed past, one shattering a window in the aft cabin.
He sprang to his feet and regained control of the helm. The other boat was speeding away toward Venice. He needed to pursue, but now wondered about the person in the water.
“Find a flashlight,” he said, as he slowed the boat and maneuvered toward the spot where they’d initially seen the other vessel.
Stephanie scampered into the forward cabin and he heard her rummaging through the compartments. She reappeared with a light in hand.
He shifted the throttle to idle.
Stephanie raked the water with the flashlight’s beam. He heard sirens in the distance and spotted three boats with flashing emergency lights rounding the shore of one of the islands, heading for Torcello.
Busy night for the Italian police.
“See anything?” he asked. “Somebody hit the water.”
And he had to be careful not to plow over them, but that was going to be difficult in the pitch darkness.
“There,” Stephanie hollered.
He rushed to her side and spotted a figure struggling. Only a second was needed for him to know that it was Cassiopeia. Before he could react, Stephanie tossed the flashlight aside and leaped into the water.
He bolted back to the helm and maneuvered the boat.
He returned to the other side of the deck just as Stephanie and Cassiopeia waded close. He reached down and grabbed hold of Cassiopeia, yanking her out of the water.
He laid her limp body on the deck.
She was unconscious.
A stringed bow and arrow quiver was strapped to her shoulder. Certainly a story unto itself, he thought. He rolled Cassiopeia onto her side. “Cough it all out.”
She seemed to ignore him.
He popped her on the back. “Cough.”
She started to spit out water, gagging on each exhale, but at least she was breathing.
Stephanie climbed out of the lagoon.
“She’s woozy. But she wasn’t hit by any bullets.”
“Tough shot in the dark from a wobbly deck.”
He kept lightly pounding her spine and more water sprayed from her lungs. She seemed to be coming around.
“You all right?” he asked.
Her eyes seemed to reacquire their focus. He knew the look. She’d been popped on the head.
“Cotton?” she asked.
“I guess it would be pointless to ask why you have a bow and arrows?”
She rubbed her head. “That piece of—”
“Who was he?” Stephanie asked.
“Stephanie? What are you doing here?” Cassiopeia reached out and touched Stephanie’s wet clothes. “You pulled me out?”
“I owed you that one.”
Malone had only been told some of what had happened last fall in Washington while he was under siege in the Sinai, but apparently these two had bonded. At the moment, though, he needed to know, “How many are dead inside the Museo di Torcello?”
Cassiopeia ignored him and reached back, searching for something. Her hand reappeared with a Glock. She shook the water from it, drying the barrel. Great selling point about Glocks, which he knew from firsthand experience—the damn things were nearly waterproof.
She rose to her feet. “We need to go.”
“Was that Viktor in the boat with you?” he asked, irritation now in his voice.
But Cassiopeia had recovered her wits and he saw anger again in her eyes. “I told you earlier this doesn’t concern you. Not your fight.”
“Yeah, right. There’s all kinds of crap swirling here that you don’t know a thing about.”
“I know the bastards in Asia killed Ely, on orders of Irina Zovastina.”
“Who’s Ely?” Stephanie asked.
“Long story,” he said. “One that’s causing us a lot of problems at the moment.”
Cassiopeia continued to shake the fog from her brain and water from her gun. “We need to go.”
“You kill anybody?” he asked.
“Roasted one of them like a marshmallow.”
“You’ll regret that later.”