The president shook his head. “Not here. Not like last time. We’ve checked. Nothing. The Central Asian Federation is their main concern.”
Davis said, “All of the stans were heavy with foreign debt from their Soviet domination and tries at independence. Zovastina has managed to renegotiate those obligations with the various government creditors and a large chunk of that debt has been forgiven. But an influx of new capital would help. Nothing quells progress more than long-term debt.” He paused. “There’s three point six billion dollars on deposit in a variety of banks across the globe, traced to Venetian League members.”
“An ante in a huge poker game,” Daniels said.
She realized the significance, since presidents were not prone to sound an alert based on flimsy suspicion. “Which is about to play out?”
Daniels nodded. “So far, corporations organized under Central Asian Federation law have acquired, or taken over, nearly eighty companies around the world. Pharmaceuticals, information technology, automobile and truck manufacturing, and telecommunications are just a few of the areas. Get this, they even acquired the world’s largest producer of tea bags. Goldman Sachs predicts that, if this continues, the Federation could well become the third or fourth largest economy in the world, behind us, China, and India.”
“It’s alarming,” Davis noted. “Particularly since it’s happening with little or no fanfare. Usually, corporations like to play up their acquisitions. Not here. Everything is being kept close.”
Daniels motioned with one arm. “Zovastina needs a consistent capital flow to keep the wheels of her government turning. We have taxes, she has the League. The Federation is rich in cotton, gold, uranium, silver, copper, lead, zinc-”
“And opium,” she finished.
“Zovastina,” Davis said, “has even helped with that. The Federation is now third, worldwide, for opiates seizure. She’s shut down that region for trafficking, which makes the Europeans love her. Can’t speak ill about her at all across the Atlantic. Of course, she peddles cheap oil and gas to a lot of them, too.”
“You realize,” she said, “that Naomi is probably dead because of all this.” The thought turned her stomach. Losing an agent was the worst thing she could imagine. Luckily, it rarely happened. But when it did, she always had to fight a disturbing mixture of anger and patience.
“We realize that,” Davis said. “And it won’t go unpunished.”
“She and Cotton Malone were close. They worked together at the Billet many times. A good team. He’ll be upset to hear.”
“Which is another reason why you’re here,” the president said. “A few hours ago Cotton was involved in a fire at a Greco-Roman museum in Copenhagen. Henrik Thorvaldsen owned the place and Cassiopeia Vitt helped him escape the blaze.”
“You seem up on things.”
“Part of my job description, though I’m coming to dislike this part more and more.” Daniels gestured with the medallion. “One of these was in that museum.”
She recalled what Klaus Dyhr had said. Only eight.
Davis pointed a long finger at the coin. “It’s called an elephant medallion.”
“Important?” she asked.
“Apparently so,” Daniels said. “But we need your help to learn more.”
TWENTY-EIGHT
COPENHAGEN
MONDAY, APRIL 20
12:40 A.M.
MALONE GRABBED A BLANKET AND HEADED FOR THE SOFA IN THE other room. After the fire last fall, during rebuilding he’d eliminated several of the apartment walls and rearranged others, adjusting the layout so that the fourth floor of his bookshop was now a more practical living space.
“I like the furniture,” Cassiopeia said. “Fits you.”
He’d opted away from Danish simplicity and ordered everything from London. A sofa, some chairs, tables, and lamps. Lots of wood and leather, warm and comfortable. He’d noticed that little ever changed in the decor unless another book found its way up from the ground floor or another picture of Gary arrived by e-mail and was added to the growing collection. He’d suggested Cassiopeia sleep here, in town, as opposed to driving back to Christiangade with Thorvaldsen, and she’d not argued. During dinner, he’d listened to their various explanations, mindful that Cassiopeia possessed a judgment-affecting personal stake in whatever was happening.
Which wasn’t good.
He’d recently been there himself, when Gary had been threatened.
She sat on the edge of his bed. Lamps long on charm but short on strength illuminated mustard-colored walls. “Henrik says I may need your help.”
“You don’t agree?”
“I’m not sure you do.”
“Did you love Ely?”
He was surprised at himself for asking and she did not immediately answer.
“Hard to say.”
Not an answer. “He must have been pretty special.”
“Ely was extraordinary. Smart. Alive. Funny. When he discovered those lost texts, you should have seen him. You would have thought he just found a new continent.”
“How long did you see each other?”
“Off and on for three years.”
Her eyes drifted again, like while the museum burned. They were so alike. Both of them masked feelings. But everyone had a limit. He was still dealing with the realization that Gary was not his natural son-the product of an affair his ex-wife had long ago. A picture of the boy rested on one of the nightstands and his gaze shot toward it. He’d determined that genes didn’t matter. The boy was still his son, and he and his ex-wife had made their peace. Cassiopeia, though, seemed to be wrestling with her demon. Bluntness seemed in order. “What are you trying to do?”
Her neck tensed and hands stiffened. “Live my life.”
“Is this about Ely or you?”
“Why does it matter?”
Partly, she was right. It shouldn’t matter either way. This was her fight. Not his. But he was drawn to this woman, even though she obviously cared for someone else. So he flushed emotion from his brain and asked, “What did Viktor’s fingerprints reveal? Nobody mentioned a word about that at dinner.”
“He works for Supreme Minister Irina Zovastina. Head of her personal guard.”
“Was anyone going to tell me?”
She shrugged. “Eventually. If you’d wanted to know.”
He quelled his anger, realizing she was taunting him. “You think the Central Asian Federation is directly involved?”
“The elephant medallion in the Samarkand museum has not been touched.”
Good point.
“Ely found the first tangible evidence of Alexander the Great’s lost tomb in centuries. I know he passed that on to Zovastina, because he told me about her reaction. She’s obsessed with Greek history and Alexander. The museum in Samarkand is well funded because of her interest in the Hellenistic Age. When Ely discovered Ptolemy’s riddle about Alexander’s tomb, Zovastina was fascinated.” Cassiopeia hesitated. “He died less than a week after telling her.”
“You think he was murdered?”
“His house burned to the ground. Not much left of it or him.”
The dots connected. Greek fire. “And what of the manuscripts he uncovered?”
“We had some inquiries made by academicians. No one at the museum knew anything.”
“And now more buildings are burning and medallions are being stolen.”
“Something like that.”
“What are we going to do?”
“I haven’t decided if I need your help.”
“You do.”
She appraised him with suspicion. “How much do you know about the historical record regarding Alexander’s grave?”
“He was first entombed by Ptolemy at Memphis, in southern Egypt, about a year after he died. Then Ptolemy’s son moved the body north to Alexandria.”