“Thanks for the counseling. Let’s go.”
He decided to delay her and tried, “Where was Viktor headed?”
She swung the bow off her shoulder.
“Henrik sent you that thing?” he asked, recalling the cloth bag from the restaurant.
“Like I said, Cotton, this isn’t your affair.”
Stephanie stepped forward. “Cassiopeia. I don’t know half of what’s happening here, but I know enough to see that you’re not thinking. Like you told me last fall, use your head. Let us help. What happened?”
“You, too, Stephanie. Back off. I’ve been waiting for these men for months. Finally, tonight, I had them in my sights. I got one. I want the other. And yes, it’s Viktor. He was there when Ely died. They burned him to death. For what?” Her voice had steadily risen. “I want to know why he died.”
“Then let’s find out,” Malone said.
Cassiopeia paced with an unsteady gait. At the moment she was trapped, nowhere to go, and she was apparently smart enough to know that neither of them was going to back off. She rested the palms of her hands on the deck rail and gathered her breath. Finally, she said, “Okay. Okay. You’re right.”
He wondered if they were being placated.
Cassiopeia stood still. “This one’s personal. More than either of you realize.” She hesitated. “It’s more than Ely.”
That was the second time she’d insinuated as much. “How about you tell us what’s at stake?”
“How about I don’t.”
He wanted desperately to help her and arguing seemed pointless. So he glanced at Stephanie, who knew what his eyes were asking.
She nodded her approval.
He stepped toward the helm and powered up the engines. More police cruisers passed, heading for Torcello. He aimed the boat for Venice and the distant lights of Viktor’s retreating craft.
“Don’t worry about a corpse,” Cassiopeia said. “There’ll be nothing left of the body or that museum.”
He wanted to know something. “Stephanie, any word on Naomi?”
“Nothing since yesterday. That’s why I came.”
“Who’s Naomi?” Cassiopeia asked.
“That’s my business,” he said.
Cassiopeia did not challenge him. Instead she said, “Where are we going?”
He glanced at his watch. The luminous dial read 12:45 A.M.“Like I told you. Lots going on here, and we know exactly where Viktor’s headed.”
Malone 3 - The Venetian Betrayal
FORTY-NINE
SAMARKAND
4:50 A.M.
VINCENTI’S SPINE TINGLED. TRUE, HE’D ORDERED PEOPLE KILLED, one just yesterday, but this was different. He was about to embark on a bold path. One that would not only make him the wealthiest person on the planet, but also secure him a place in history.
Dawn lay a little over an hour away. He sat in the rear of the car while O’Conner and two other men approached a house shielded behind a thicket of blooming chestnut trees and a tall iron fence, everything owned by Irina Zovastina.
O’Conner drew near to the car and Vincenti lowered the window.
“The two guards are dead. We took them out with no trouble.”
“Any other security?”
“That’s it. Zovastina had this place on a loose leash.”
Because she thought no one cared. “Are we ready?”
“Only the woman who watches over her is inside.”
“Then let’s see how agreeable they are.”
Vincenti entered through the front door. The two other men they’d hired for tonight held Karyn Walde’s nurse, an older woman with a stern face, wearing a bathrobe and slippers. A frightened look filled her Asian features.
“I understand,” he said to her, “that you care for Ms. Walde.”
The woman nodded.
“And that you resent how the Supreme Minister treats her.”
“She’s terrible to her.”
He was pleased their intelligence had been accurate. “I understand that Karyn is suffering. Her illness is progressing.”
“And the minister won’t let her rest.”
He signaled and the two men released their hold. He stepped close and said, “I’m here to relieve her suffering. But I need your help.”
Her gaze carried suspicion. “Where are the guards?”
“Dead. Wait here while I go see her.” He motioned. “Down the hall?”
She nodded again.
He switched on one of the bedside lamps and gazed at the pathetic sight lying prone beneath a pale pink comforter.
Karyn Walde breathed with the help of bottled oxygen and a respirator. An intravenous bag fed one arm. He removed a hypodermic, inserted the needle into one of its IV ports, and let it dangle.
The woman’s eyes opened.
“You need to wake up,” he said.
She blinked a few times, trying to register what was happening. She then pushed herself up from the pillow. “Who are you?”
“I know they’ve been in short supply lately, but I’m a friend.”
“Do I know you?”
He shook his head. “No reason why you would. But I know you. Tell me, what was it like to love Irina Zovastina?”
Surely an odd question from a stranger in the middle of the night, but she only shrugged. “Why would you care?”
“I’ve dealt with her many years. Never once have I ever felt any affection either from or toward her. How did you?”
“It’s a question I’ve asked myself many times.”
He glanced around at the room’s decor. Elegant and expensive, like the rest of the house. “You live well.”
“Small comfort.”
“Yet when you became ill, knew you were HIV positive, you returned to her. Came back after several years of estrangement.”
“You know a lot about me.”
“To come back you must have felt something for her.”
She laid herself back on the pillow. “In some ways, she’s foolish.”
He listened closely.
“She fashions herself Achilles to my Patroclus. Or worse, she’s Alexander and thinks of me as Hephaestion. I’ve listened to those stories many times. You know the Iliad?”
He shook his head.