Her nerves were still on edge. Trampling the would-be assassin had vented some of her frustration, but unanswered questions remained about the murder attempt. How had Vincenti known? Perhaps because he’d ordered it? Hard to say. But she’d been caught off guard. Vincenti had been a step ahead of her. And that she did not like.
Nor did she like Lindsey.
She pointed at the screen. “Have her ready to leave, too. Immediately.”
“Is that wise?”
“That’s my concern.”
He grinned. “Some amusement?”
“Would you like to come along and see?”
“No, thanks. I like it here, on the Chinese side of the border.”
She rose. “And if I were you, I’d stay here.”
NINETEEN
DENMARK
MALONE KEPT HIS GUN READY AS THORVALDSEN CONCLUDED HIS business with Viktor.
“We can make the exchange back here,” Thorvaldsen said. “Tomorrow.”
“You don’t strike me as a man who requires money,” Viktor said.
“Actually, I like as much as I can acquire.”
Malone repressed a smile. His Danish friend actually gave away millions of euros to causes all around the world. He’d often wondered if he was one of those causes, since Thorvaldsen had made a point, two years ago, to travel to Atlanta and offer him a chance to change his life in Copenhagen. An opportunity he’d taken and never regretted.
“I’m curious,” Viktor said. “The quality of the forgery was remarkable. Who’s the craftsman?”
“A person of talent, who takes pride in his work.”
“Pass on my compliments.”
“Some of your euros will go that way.” Thorvaldsen paused. “Now I have a question. Are you going after the last two medallions, here in Europe?”
“What do you think?”
“And the third one, in Samarkand?”
Viktor did not reply, but Thorvaldsen’s message had surely been received. I know your business well.
Viktor started to leave. “I’ll call tomorrow.”
Thorvaldsen stayed seated as the man left the room. “Look forward to hearing from you.”
The front door opened, then closed.
“Cotton,” Thorvaldsen said, producing a paper bag from his pocket. “We have little time. Carefully, slide the case with the medallion into this.”
He understood. “Fingerprints? That’s why you gave him the coin.”
“You saw how he touched nothing. But he had to hold the medallion so he could switch them.”
Malone used the barrel of the gun to slide the plastic case into the bag, careful that it landed flat. He rolled the top closed, leaving an air pocket. He knew the drill. Unlike on television, paper, not plastic, was the best repository for fingerprint evidence. Far less chance of smearing.
Thorvaldsen stood. “Come, now.” He watched as his friend shuffled across the room, head cocked forward. “We must hurry.”
He noticed Thorvaldsen was moving toward the rear of the house. “Where are you going?”
“Out of here.”
He hustled after his friend and they left through a kitchen door that opened onto a railed deck, facing the sea. Fifty yards away, a dock jutted from the rocky shoreline where a motorboat waited. The morning sky had turned overcast. Gunmetal gray clouds now hung low. A brisk northern wind cascaded across the sound, swirling the frothy brown water.
“We’re leaving?” he asked, as Thorvaldsen stepped from the deck.
The Dane continued to move with surprising speed for a man with a crooked spine.
“Where’s Cassiopeia?” Malone asked.
“In trouble,” Thorvaldsen said. “But that’s our only saving grace.”
CASSIOPEIA WATCHED AS THE MAN FROM INSIDE THE HOUSE climbed into his rental car and sped back down the tree-lined lane that led to the highway. She switched on a handheld LCD monitor, linked by radio with two video cameras she’d installed the previous week-one at the highway entrance, the other mounted high in a tree fifty meters from the house.
On the tiny screen the car stopped.
Tire Slasher scampered from the woods. The driver opened his door and stepped out. Both men hustled a few meters back down the lane toward the house.
She knew exactly what they were waiting for.
So she switched off the display and rushed from her hiding place.
VIKTOR WAITED TO SEE IF HE WAS RIGHT. HE’D PARKED THE CAR just past a bend in the hard-packed lane and watched the house from behind a tree trunk.
“They’re not going anywhere,” Rafael said. “Two flat tires.”
Viktor knew the woman had to have been watching.
“I never let on,” Rafael said. “I acted like I was on guard and sensed nothing.”
Which was what Viktor had told his partner to do.
From his pocket he removed the medallion that he’d managed to steal. Minister Zovastina’s orders were clear. Retrieve and return all of them intact. Five were accounted for. Only three remained.
“What were they like?” Rafael asked.
“Puzzling.”
And he meant it. He’d anticipated their moves, almost too well, and that bothered him.
The same slender woman with lioness moves emerged from the woods. Surely she’d seen the tires slashed and was racing to report to her compatriots. He was pleased to know that he’d been right. But why had she not stopped the assault? Maybe her task was simply to watch? He noticed she was carrying something. Small and rectangular. He wished he’d brought binoculars.
Rafael reached into his jacket pocket and removed the radio controller.
He gently laid a hand on his partner’s arm. “Not yet.”
The woman stopped and examined the tires, then trotted toward the front door.
“Give her time.”
Three hours ago, after arranging the meeting, they’d driven straight here. A thorough reconnaissance had confirmed that the house stood empty, so they’d stashed packs of Greek fire beneath the raised foundation and inside the attic. Instead of one of the turtles igniting this mixture, they’d rigged a radio charge.
The woman disappeared inside the house.
Viktor silently counted to ten and prepared to lift his hand from Rafael’s arm.
MALONE STOOD IN THE BOAT. THORVALDSEN BESIDE HIM.
“What did you mean Cassiopeia is in trouble?”
“The house is loaded with Greek fire. They came before us and prepared. Now that he has the medallion, Viktor doesn’t intend for us to survive the meeting.”
“And they’re waiting to make sure Cassiopeia is in there.”
“That’s my estimate. But we’re about to see if it’s also theirs.”
CASSIOPEIA ALLOWED THE FRONT DOOR TO CLOSE, THEN RACED through the house. This was chancy. She could only hope that the thieves gave her a few seconds before they detonated the mixture. Her nerves were tingling, her mind surging, her melancholy replaced with an adrenaline-driven rush.
At the museum, Malone had sensed her anxiety, seemingly knowing that something was wrong.
And there was.
But at the moment she couldn’t worry about it. Enough emotion had been expended on things she could not change. Right now, finding the rear door was all that mattered.
She burst out into dull daylight.
Malone and Thorvaldsen waited in the boat.
The house blocked any view of their escape from down the lane in front. She still held the compact LCD monitor.
Sixty meters to the water.
She leaped from the wooden deck.
MALONE SPOTTED CASSIOPEIA AS SHE FLED FROM THE HOUSE AND ran straight for them.