“Soldiers first. Always.”
“So how do we stop running?”
Russo’s gaze shimmered with alarm. He didn’t move his head, but his next words were clearly carefully chosen. “We make the decision to. And stick by that decision no matter what happens.”
“That’s it?”
“Yup.”
“You make it sound easy, Russo. I’ve been skirting that easiness my entire adult life.”
“Myles,” Russo shot a fast glance her way, “is anything with you ever easy? No. Expect the worse.”
“Will do, Cap’n.” She gave the soldier a mock salute and went back to nursing her macchiato. Crowds drifted past the finger-stained glass, many with cameras swinging from their necks or fingers. More tapped on cellphones as they walked, uncaring about who they agitated. Several sat or crouched against a far concrete wall, taking a break from the dog-eat-dog world of exploration. The crowds inside the coffee shop ebbed and waned, first full to standing room only and then emptying out before another onslaught. As the day wore on the masses thinned and the light faded. Crouch and Caitlyn gave up more than once.
“All right, here’s another idea,” Caitlyn said for the fourth time that hour. “How about we take it back to the beginning. Lysippos. Then Alexandria and Constantinople. What’s our only other constant until then?”
Crouch shook his head. “I already mentioned this. It’s the Horses, of course. The bloody, silly Horses.”
“Calm down, boss,” Russo rumbled. “Won’t get anywhere with a grump on.”
Alicia took her seat again at that point, having visited the food counter, and unwrapped a roast chicken sandwich.
Caitlyn nodded, eyeing the meal hungrily. “Yes, but beyond that we know nothing. Well, here’s an interesting fact. They’re one of the most often stolen and recovered treasures in history.”
“What? Are you kidding? You mean they were stolen again? After Dandolo?”
“Well, for a brief period, yes. First stolen by Constantine, then Dandolo. And then once more — they were also stolen by Napoleon.”
SIXTEEN
“Napoleon?” Crouch echoed. “Are you kidding? That means—”
Caitlyn nodded, interrupting in her eagerness. “Yes, they were taken from St. Mark’s Basilica in 1797 and installed in Paris.”
Russo turned with a raised eyebrow. “So how’d they get back here? Galloped, did they?”
“When Napoleon was defeated in 1815 the conquering allies returned them to Venice.”
Alicia grunted. “Not Constantinople? I bet that irked.”
“No doubt, but here they stand. And the good news is they’ve not been stolen since.”
Crouch looked over at her. “Are you suggesting that Napoleon, enamored enough to dismantle and remove the Horses, might also have found the Hercules and stolen that too?”
“Why not? If he knew the provenance of one he’d have known the other. If the Hercules was hidden he’d have grasped its importance pretty quick. He spent time in Venice and he was a bona fide conquering hero like Dandolo and the Roman Emperors before him.”
“But we have no proof,” Crouch stressed. “The trail is still cold. What we need to find is something tangible.”
“Well, history states that Napoleon captured Venice and took plunder. He kept the Horses for eighteen years until Wellington defeated him. France then ceded the Horses back to the Venetians. So, did Napoleon originally keep the statue for his private collection as Dandolo no doubt did?”
“That’s not proof,” Healey pointed out.
“No, but the statue has now hit its own quiet point in history. The trail is cold. We have to somehow prove Napoleon took it to Paris.”
Crouch rose and wandered over to the food counter as Alicia finished her sandwich. “Hate to say this, guys,” she said. “But you’re grasping now.”
Caitlyn shrugged. “Hey, we failed at the basilica. Where else do we go from here?”
“Their reasoning is true,” Russo said unexpectedly. “It must have cost Napoleon enormous effort to remove those Horses. He would have taken the superior treasure too.”
Alicia spotted the man moving toward Crouch immediately. She rose quickly even as Crouch wheeled toward him, and then they both paused.
“Ah.” Alicia said. “This could be awkward.”
Crouch smiled as the man approached.
“Beware of false prophets,” he said.
Crouch nodded. “Always am. Thanks.” And turned away.
The man pointed to the board that hung around his neck. I am the way, the truth, and the life, it said. The words of Jesus Christ.
Alicia had no problem with religious views so long as they stayed below the level of fanatical. She nodded at Caitlyn to pass Crouch’s tablet across. “I think the boss is gonna be a while.”
“Beware of false prophets,” the man reiterated, turning to address the entire café now. “Which come to you in sheep’s clothing, but inwardly they are ravening wolves.”
Alicia knitted her brows. Russo glanced away from the window. “Is he talking about us?”
“Why, Rob? Are you false?” Alicia’s comment was off-the-cuff, because she was actually thinking about Crouch and his previous statement concerning Beauregard. False prophet? Never.
Russo tapped the table, drawing the man’s attention. “The only thing necessary for evil to triumph is for good men to do nothing.”
“Good quote,” Alicia said, wondering if there was more to Russo than she had previously thought.
“Old quote,” Russo said. “Not mine. And one of the best.”
Crouch turned to them just as the man grinned; just as the café door swung open so violently its glass smashed; just as windows on all sides shattered; just as all hell broke loose in the city of heaven.
War had come to Venice.
SEVENTEEN
Alicia reacted with pure animal instinct. As a razor-edged waterfall rained down to her left, she upended the table and shoved it through the new gap. Two men, already leaping through, smashed head-first into the makeshift weapon, instantly collapsing. Alicia reached down for one of their discarded weapons; Russo scooped up the other. Behind them, Crouch shoved the false street preacher backwards so that he fell over a table. Tourists scrambled aside as he fell, arms and legs pinwheeling. Through the ruined front door came a swarm of operatives, all carrying weapons with barrels aimed at the floor.
Alicia knew that wouldn’t last.
“Down!” she yelled. “Get the fuck down!”
Most of the café’s patrons were already scrambling to the floor. Those who couldn’t or wouldn’t, gawped. Alicia snatched a fleeting glimpse of a man calmly starting to raise his ceramic cup to his lips as the bullets started to fly. Crouch flung himself head-first, becoming tangled among a nest of tables.
Behind the bar, shelves crammed full of cups and saucers, flavored syrups and cafetiéres, all set against a mirrored background for effect, started to bounce and shatter and break. A gleaming, expensive-looking coffee machine fractured down the middle, perforated with bullets. Staff screamed, ducking fast.
Alicia was aware that the assault was happening on three sides, but still the hardest problem here was avoiding civilian casualties. As a third man stepped through the window to her left she put a bullet into his stomach, then grabbed him and spun him around. Bullets thwacked into his body without ceremony, answering her first question. Russo was down on one knee, aiming high, showering their attackers with chunks of falling ceiling. Alicia used the dead merc as body armor to glance around the corner of the devastated window. Outside, a narrow street was bordered by a small diameter railing with one of Venice’s signature canals lying beyond, the gilded end of a gondola just passing beyond sight. There was a gap of roughly twelve feet to the sheer stone façade of the building on the other side of the canal.