He longed for those days.
Stephanie Nelle, employed with the U. S. Justice Department, sent supposedly by the president of the United States, had rattled him.
But not because of anything the Americans knew about his past-that would soon become irrelevant. And not because of what may have happened to their agent sent to spy on him-she was dead and buried, never to be found. No. His stomach ached because of the letters on the coin.
ZH.
Zeta. Eta.
Life.
“You can come in now,” he called out.
Peter O’Conner strolled into the room, having listened to the entire conversation from the adjacent parlor. One of Vincenti’s many house cats scampered into the main parlor, too.
“What do you think?” Vincenti asked.
“She’s a messenger who chose her words with care.”
“That medallion she showed me is exactly what Zovastina is after. It matches the description I read yesterday in the materials you gave me at the hotel.” But he still did not know why the coins were so important.
“There’s something new. Zovastina is coming to Venice. Today.”
“On a state visit? I’ve heard nothing of that.”
“Not official. In and out tonight. Private plane. Special arrangement, by the Vatican, with Italian customs. A source called and told me.”
Now he knew. Something was definitely happening and Zovastina was several steps ahead of him. “We need to know when she arrives and where she goes.”
“I’m already on it. We’ll be ready.”
Time for him to move, as well. “Are we ready in Samarkand?”
“Just say the word.”
He decided to take advantage of his enemy’s absence. No sense waiting till the weekend. “Have the jet ready. We’ll leave within the hour. But while we’re gone, make sure we know exactly what the Supreme Minister is doing here.”
O’Conner nodded his understanding.
Now for what really troubled him. “One more thing. I need to send a message to Washington. One that will be perfectly understood. Have Stephanie Nelle killed. And get that medallion.”
THIRTY-SIX
5:50 P.M.
MALONE ENJOYED HIS PLATE OF SPINACH PASTA SWIRLED WITH cheese and ham. Viktor and his cohort had left the island an hour ago, after spending twenty minutes inside the museum, then surveying the area around the basilica, especially the garden that separated the church from the Canale Borgognoni, a riverlike waterway that stretched between Torcello and the next patchy island over. He and Cassiopeia had watched from varying positions. Viktor had not seemed to notice anything, surely concentrating on the task that lay ahead, comfortable in his anonymity.
After Viktor and his accomplice departed on the water bus, he and Cassiopeia retreated to the village. One of the vendors peddling souvenirs told them that the restaurant, Locanda Cipriani, which had been around for decades, was regarded as one of Venice ’s most famous. People boated over each evening to enjoy its ambiance. Inside, among wooden ceilings, terra-cotta brick, and impressive bas-reliefs, hung a gallery of photographs-Hemingway, Picasso, Diana and Charles, Queen Elizabeth, Churchill, countless actors and performers-each one personalized with a testament of thanks.
They were seated in the garden, beneath a pergola of sweet-smelling roses, in the shadow of the two churches and campanile, the tranquil oasis framed by blossoming pomegranate trees. He had to admit, the food was excellent. Even Cassiopeia seemed hungry. Neither one of them had eaten since breakfast in Copenhagen.
“He’ll be back after dark,” she quietly said.
“Another bonfire?”
“Seems their way, though it’s not necessary. Nobody will miss that coin.”
After Viktor left, they’d ventured inside the museum. Cassiopeia had been right. Not much there. Bits and pieces, fragments of columns, capitals, mosaics, and a few paintings. On the second floor, two rickety glass-topped cases displayed pottery shards, jewelry, and ancient household items, all supposedly found in and around Torcello. The elephant medallion lay in one of the cases, among a variety of coinage. Malone had noticed that the building possessed no alarms or security and the lone attendant, a heavyset woman in a plain white dress, seemed only concerned that no one take photographs.
“I’m going to kill the son of a bitch,” Cassiopeia muttered.
The declaration did not surprise him. He’d sensed her rising anger in the bell tower. “You think Irina Zovastina ordered Ely’s murder.”
She’d stopped eating.
“Any proof, besides the fact that his house burned to the ground?”
“She did it. I know it.”
“Actually, you don’t know crap.”
She sat immobile. Beyond the garden, dusk was beginning to take hold. “I know enough.”
“Cassiopeia, you’re leaping to conclusions. I agree, the fire is suspect, but if she did it, you need to know why.”
“When Gary was threatened, what did you do?”
“I got him back. Unharmed.”
He saw she knew he was right. First rule of a mission. Never lose sight of the goal.
“I don’t need your advice.”
“What you need to do is stop and think.”
“Cotton, there’s more happening here than you realize.”
“That’s a shocker.”
“Go home. Let me be.”
“Can’t do that.”
A vibration in his trouser pocket startled him. He removed the cell phone, noticed the number, and said to her, “It’s Henrik.” He answered.
“Cotton, President Daniels just called.”
“I’m sure that was interesting.”
“Stephanie is in Venice. She was sent there to see a man named Enrico Vincenti. The president is concerned. They’ve lost contact.”
“Why call you?”
“He was looking for you, though I sensed he knew you were already here.”
“Not a hard thing to check, what with passport scans made at the airport. Provided you know what country to check.”
“Apparently he knew the right one.”
“Why was Stephanie sent here?”
“He said this Vincenti is connected to Irina Zovastina. I know of Vincenti. He’s a problem. Daniels also told me that another agent has been missing now for over a day and is presumed dead. He said you knew her. A woman named Naomi Johns.”
He shut his eyes. They had joined the Magellan Billet together and worked as a team several times. A good agent. A better friend. That was the problem with his fomer profession-rarely was someone fired. You either quit, retired, or died. He’d attended many memorials.
“Vincenti implicated in that?” he asked.
“Daniels thought so.”
“Tell me about Stephanie.”
“She’s staying at the Montecarlo, a block north and behind the basilica in San Marco, on the Calle degli Specchieri.”
“Why not use one of their own people?”
“He said Naomi Johns was their person on the scene. No one else in position. He was hoping I could contact you and ask if you’d check on Stephanie. Is it possible?”
“I’ll take care of it.”
“How are things there?”
He stared across the table at Cassiopeia. “Not good.”
“Tell Cassiopeia the package she ordered will be there shortly.”
He clicked off and asked her, “You called Henrik?”
She nodded. “Three hours ago. After we spotted our thieves.”