She pocketed the coin. Later.
The open sarcophagus waited ten meters away.
That’s what mattered now.
MALONE WAS THE LAST TO HOP FROM THE BOAT ONTO THE CONCRETE quay. They were back downtown, in San Marco, where the famous square ended at the lagoon. Ripples slapped moving poles and jostled gondolas tied to the docks. Still lots of police around and a multitude more spectators than an hour ago.
Stephanie motioned toward Cassiopeia, who was already shouldering through a crowded row of street vendors, toward the basilica, the bow and quiver still draped across her shoulder. “Pocahontas there needs a leash.”
“Mr. Malone.”
Through the crowd, he spotted a man in his late forties dressed in chinos, a long-sleeve shirt, and a cotton jacket walking their way. Cassiopeia seemed to have heard the greeting, too, as she’d stopped her advance and was headed toward where Malone and Stephanie stood.
“I’m Monsignor Colin Michener,” the man said as he approached.
“You don’t look like a priest.”
“Not tonight. But I was told to expect you, and I must say the description they gave was dead on. Tall, light-haired, with another, older woman in tow.”
“Excuse me,” Stephanie said.
Michener grinned. “I was told you’re sensitive about your age.”
“And who told you that?” Malone wanted to know.
“Edwin Davis,” Stephanie said. “He mentioned he had an impeccable source. You, I assume?”
“I’ve known Edwin a long time.”
Cassiopeia pointed at the church. “Did another man go inside that basilica? Short, stocky, dressed in jeans?”
The priest nodded. “He’s there. With Minister Zovastina. His name is Viktor Tomas, the head of Zovastina’s personal guard.”
“You’re well-informed,” Malone said.
“I’d say Edwin is the one in the know. But he couldn’t tell me one thing. How did you get that name? Cotton.”
“Long story. Right now we need to get inside the basilica. And I’m sure you know why.”
Michener motioned and they retreated behind one of the street vendors, out of the pedestrian flow. “Yesterday we came across some information on Minister Zovastina that we passed on to Washington. She wanted a peek inside St. Mark’s tomb, so the Holy Father thought America might like a look at the same time.”
“Can we go?” Cassiopeia asked.
“You’re a nervous one, aren’t you?” Michener said.
“I just want to go.”
“You’re carrying a bow and arrows.”
“Can’t fool you.”
Michener ignored her quip and faced Malone. “Is this going to get out of hand?”
“No more than it already has.”
Michener motioned off toward the square. “Like the man killed here earlier.”
“And there’s a museum burning on Torcello,” Malone added, as he felt his cell phone vibrate.
He fished the unit from his pocket, checked the display—Henrik, again—and answered. “Sending her a bow and arrows was not smart.”
“I had no choice,” Thorvaldsen said through the phone. “I must speak with her. Is she with you?”
“Oh, yes.”
He handed the phone to Cassiopeia and she walked away.
CASSIOPEIA HELD THE PHONE CLOSE, HER HAND TREMBLING.
“Listen well,” Thorvaldsen said in her ear. “There are things you must know.”
“THIS IS CHAOS,” MALONE SAID TO STEPHANIE.
“And getting worse by the moment.”
He watched Cassiopeia, her back to them, phone held close.
“She’s messed up,” he made clear.
“A state, I believe, we’ve all experienced.”
He smiled at that truth.
Cassiopeia ended the call and walked back, handing him the phone.
“You have your marching orders?” he asked.
“Something like that.”
He faced Michener. “You can see what I have to work with, so I hope you’re going to tell me something productive.”
“Zovastina and Viktor are in the basilica’s presbytery.”
“Works for me.”
“But I need to speak with you privately,” Michener said to Stephanie. “Information Edwin asked me to pass along.”
“I’d rather go with them.”
“He said it was critical.”
“Do it,” Malone said. “We’ll handle things inside.”
ZOVASTINA APPROACHED THE ALTAR TABLE AND BENT DOWN.
One of the priests had left a light bar on the floor. She motioned for Viktor to kneel beside her. “Send the other two out into the church. Tell them to wander, especially upstairs. I want to make sure we have no watching eyes.”
Viktor dispatched the guards, then returned.
She lifted the light bar and, with breath held, illuminated the interior of the stone sarcophagus. She’d imagined this moment ever since Ely Lund had first told her of the possibility. Was this the imposter? Could Ptolemy have left a clue that would lead to where Alexander the Great rested? That place far away, in the mountains, where the Scythians taught Alexander about life. Life in the form of the draught. She recalled what Alexander’s court historian had written in one of the manuscripts Ely discovered. The man’s neck had swollen with lumps so bad he could hardly swallow, as if pebbles filled his throat, and fluid spewed forth from his mouth with each exhale. Lesions covered his body. No strength remained within any of his muscles. Each breath was a labor. Yet in one day the draught cured him. The scientists at her biological lab believed the symptoms were viral. Was it possible that nature, which created so many assailants, had also spawned a way to stop them?
But no mummified remains lay within the stone coffin.
Instead, she saw a thin wooden box, half a meter square, richly decorated, with two brass handles. Disappointment squeezed her stomach. She instantly masked that emotion and ordered, “Remove it.”