A shot echoed across the field.
The man with the gun teetered, then collapsed to the wet ground. His horse, spooked by the retort, raced away riderless.
She trampled the corpse, Bucephalas’ hooves digging into the still-warm flesh, the body swept away in their wake.
She kept riding until the circle of justice came into view. She rode past and tossed the boz into its center, then brought Bucephalas to a stop.
The other riders had all halted where the dead man lay.
Shooting a player was absolutely against the rules. But this was not part of any game. Or maybe it was? Just a different contest. With different players and different rules. One none of the men here today would either understand or appreciate.
She yanked on the reins and straightened herself in the saddle, casting a glance toward the palace roof. Inside one of the old Soviet gun stations, her sharpshooter signaled success by waving his rifle.
She returned the gesture by rearing Bucephalas onto his hind legs and the horse whinnied his approval of the kill.
Malone 3 - The Venetian Betrayal
EIGHT
COPENHAGEN
3:10 A.M.
CASSIOPEIA FOLLOWED MALONE AND HENRIK THORVALDSEN into Malone’s bookshop. She was tired. Even though she’d expected a long night, the past few months had taken a toll, especially the last few weeks, and the ordeal seemed far from over.
Malone switched on the lights.
She’d been told about what had happened the previous fall—when Malone’s ex-wife had appeared…and the firebombing—but the restorers had done a terrific job. She noted the workmanship. New, yet made to appear old. “My compliments to the craftsmen.”
Thorvaldsen nodded. “I wanted it to look like it once did. Too much history in this building to be blown away by fanatics.”
“Want to get out of those damp clothes?” Malone asked her.
“Shouldn’t we send Henrik home first?”
Malone grinned. “I hear he likes to watch.”
“Sounds intriguing,” Thorvaldsen said. “But tonight I’m not in the mood.”
Neither was she. “I’m fine. Leather dries quickly. One reason I wear it when I’m working.”
“And what were you working on tonight?”
“You sure you want to hear this? Like you say all the time, you’re a bookseller, not an operative. Retired, and all those other excuses.”
“You sent me an e-mail telling me to meet you at that museum in the morning. With what you said back at the fire, there wouldn’t have been any museum there tomorrow.”
She sat in one of the club chairs. “Which is why we were going to meet there. Tell him, Henrik.”
She liked Malone. He was a smart, confident, handsome man—she’d thought that when they first met last year in France. A uniquely trained lawyer. Twelve years he worked for the U.S. Justice Department in a covert unit known as the Magellan Billet. Then, two years ago, he opted out and bought a bookshop from Thorvaldsen in Copenhagen. He was plain spoken and sometimes rough in manner, just like her, so she couldn’t complain. She liked his animated face, that malicious twinkle in his bright green eyes, his sandy-colored hair, and the always-swarthy complexion. She knew his age, mid-forties, and realized that, thanks to a bloom of youth that had yet to fade, he was at the zenith of his charms.
She envied him.
Time.
For her, it seemed in such short supply.
“Cotton,” Thorvaldsen said, “across Europe there have been other fires. They started in France, then in Spain, Belgium, and Switzerland. Similar to what you just experienced. The police in each location realized arson but, so far, none of them have been connected. Two of the buildings burned to ash. They were in rural locations and nobody seemed to care. All four were unoccupied private residences. The one here was the first commercial establishment.”
“And how did you connect the dots?” Malone asked.
“We know what they’re after,” she said. “Elephant medallions.”
“You know,” Malone said, “that’s exactly what I was thinking. Five arsons. All across Europe. Has to be elephant medallions. What else could it be?”
“They’re real,” she said.
“Nice to know, but what the hell is an elephant medallion?”
“Twenty-three hundred years ago,” Thorvaldsen said, “after Alexander the Great conquered Asia Minor and Persia, he set his sights on India. But his army quit him before he could take much of that land. He fought several battles in India and, for the first time, encountered war elephants. They crushed the Macedonian lines, wreaked havoc. Alexander’s men were terrified of them. Medallions were later struck to commemorate the event, which depicted Alexander facing off with the elephants.”
“The medallions,” she said, “were minted after Alexander’s death. We have no idea how many, but today only eight are known. The four already taken, the one from tonight, two more in private hands, and one on display in the Museum of Cultural History in Samarkand.”
“The capital of the Central Asian Federation?” Malone said. “Part of the region Alexander conquered.”
Thorvaldsen slouched in one of the club chairs, his crooked spine cocking his neck forward and settling his fleshy chin onto a thin chest. Cassiopeia noticed that her old friend looked worn. He wore his customary baggy sweater and oversized corduroy trousers. A uniform he used, she knew, to conceal the deformity. She regretted involving him, but he’d insisted. He was a good friend. Time to see how good a friend Malone was. “What do you know about the death of Alexander the Great?”
“I’ve read about it. Lots of myth mixed with conflicting facts.”
“That eidetic memory of yours?”
He shrugged. “It came with me out of the womb.”
She smiled. “What happened in June 323 BCE made a great deal of difference to the world.”
Thorvaldsen gestured with his arm. “Go ahead. Tell him. He needs to know.”
So she did.