“What do you know of us?” Vincenti asked.
The Italian shrugged. “A bunch of rich people who like to play.”
The bravado amused Vincenti. Four men stood behind the Florentine, each armed, which explained why the ingrate thought himself safe. As a condition to his appearing, he’d insisted on them coming.
“Seven hundred years ago,” Vincenti said, “a Council of Ten oversaw Venice. They were men supposedly too mature to be swayed by passion or temptation, charged with maintaining public safety and quelling political opposition. And that’s precisely what they did. For centuries. They took evidence in secret, pronounced sentences, and carried out executions, all in the name of the Venetian state.”
“You think I care about this history lesson?”
Vincenti folded his hands in his lap. “You should care.”
“This mausoleum is depressing. It belong to you?”
True, the villa lacked the charm of a house that had once been a family home, but tsars, emperors, archdukes, and crowned heads had all stayed under its roof. Even Napoleon had occupied one of the bedrooms. So he said with pride, “It belongs to us.”
“You need a decorator. Are we through here?”
“I’d like to finish what I was explaining.”
The Italian gestured with his hands. “Get on with it. I want some sleep.”
“We, too, are a Council of Ten. Like the original, we employ Inquisitors to enforce our decisions.” He gestured and three men stepped forward from the far side of the salon. “Like the originals, our rule is absolute.”
“You’re not the government.”
“No. We’re something else altogether.”
Still the Florentine seemed unimpressed. “I came here in the middle of the night because I was ordered to by my associates. Not because I’m impressed. I brought these four to protect me. So your Inquisitors might find it difficult to enforce anything.”
Vincenti pushed himself up from the chair. “I think something needs to be made clear. You were hired to handle a task. You decided to change that assignment to suit your own purpose.”
“Unless all of you intend on leaving here in a box. I’d say we just forget about it.”
Vincenti’s patience had worn thin. He genuinely disliked this part of his official duties. He gestured and the four men who’d come with the Florentine grabbed the idiot.
A smug look evolved into one of surprise.
The Florentine was disarmed while three of the men restrained him. An Inquisitor approached and, with a roll of thick tape, bound the accused’s struggling arms behind his back, his legs and knees together, and wrapped his face, sealing his mouth. The three then released their grip and the Florentine’s thick frame thudded to the rug.
“This Council has found you guilty of treason to our League,” Vincenti said. He gestured again and a set of double doors swung open. A casket of rich lacquered wood was wheeled in, its lid hinged open. The Florentine’s eyes went wide as he apparently realized his fate.
Vincenti stepped close.
“Five hundred years ago traitors to the state were sealed into rooms above the Doge’s palace, built of wood and lead, exposed to the elements-they became known as the coffins.” He paused and allowed his words to take hold. “Horrible places. Most who entered died. You took our money while, at the same time, trying to make more for yourself.” He shook his head. “Not to be. And, by the way, your associates decided you were the price they would pay to keep peace with us.”
The Florentine fought his restraints with a renewed vigor, his protests stifled by the tape across his mouth. One of the Inquisitors led the four men who’d come with the Florentine from the room. Their job was done. The other two Inquisitors lifted the struggling problem and tossed him into the coffin.
Vincenti stared down into the box and read exactly what the Florentine’s eyes were saying. No question he’d betrayed the Council, but he’d only done what Vincenti, not those associates, had ordered him to do. Vincenti was the one who changed the assignment, and the Florentine had only appeared before the Council because Vincenti had privately told him not to worry. Just a dog and pony show. No problem. Play along. It would all be resolved in an hour.
“Fat man?” Vincenti asked. “Arrivederci.”
And he slammed the lid shut.
THREE
COPENHAGEN
MALONE WATCHED AS THE FLAMES DESCENDING THE STAIRCASE stopped three quarters of the way down, showing no signs of advancing farther. He stood before one of the windows and searched for something to hurl through the plate glass. The only chairs he spotted were too close to the fire. The second mechanism continued to prowl the ground floor, exhaling mist. He was hesitant to move. Stripping off his clothes was an option, but his hair and skin also stank with the chemical.
Three thuds on the plate-glass window startled him.
He whirled and, a foot away, a familiar face stared back.
Cassiopeia Vitt.
What was she doing here? His eyes surely betrayed his surprise, but he came straight to the point and yelled, “I need to get out of here.”
She pointed to the door.
He intertwined his fingers and signaled that it was locked.
She motioned for him to stand back.
As he did, sparks popped from the underside of the roaming gizmo. He darted straight for the thing and kicked it over. Beneath he spotted wheels and mechanical works.
He heard a pop, then another, and realized what Cassiopeia was doing.
Shooting the window.
Then he saw something he’d not noticed before. Atop the museum’s display cases lay sealed plastic bags filled with a clear liquid.
The window fractured.
No choice.
He risked the flames and grabbed one of the chairs he’d earlier noticed, slinging it into the damaged glass. The window shattered as the chair found the street beyond.
The roving mechanism righted itself.
One of the sparks caught and blue flames began to consume the ground floor, advancing in every direction, including straight for him.
He bolted forward and leaped out the open window, landing on his feet.
Cassiopeia stood three feet away.
He’d felt the change in pressure when the window shattered. He knew a little about fires. Right now flames were being supercharged by a rush of new oxygen. Pressure differences were also having an effect. Firefighters called it flashover.
And those plastic bags atop the cases.
He knew what they contained.
He grabbed Cassiopeia’s hand and yanked her across the street.
“What are you doing?” she asked.
“Time for a swim.”
They leaped from the brick parapet, just as a fireball surged from the museum.
FOUR
SAMARKAND
CENTRAL ASIAN FEDERATION
5:45 A.M.
SUPREME MINISTER IRINA ZOVASTINA STROKED THE HORSE AND prepared herself for the game. She loved to play, just after dawn, in the breaking light of early morning, on a grassy field damp with dew. She also loved the famed, blood-sweating stallions of Fergana, first prized over a millennia ago when they were traded to the Chinese for silk. Her stables contained over a hundred steeds bred both for pleasure and politics.
“Are the other riders ready?” she asked the attendant.
“Yes, Minister. They await you on the field.”
She wore high leather boots and a quilted leather jacket over a long chapan. Her short, silver-blond hair was topped by a fur hat fashioned from a wolf she’d taken great pride in killing. “Let’s not keep them waiting.”