“And if she discovers you’re here plotting,” Kamil said, “we’re all dead. Remember, her little germs cannot be defended against.”
The foreign minister was one of a new breed of politicians that had risen with the Federation. And though Zovastina was the first to become Supreme Minister, she would not be the last.
“I can counter her bugs.”
A smile came to the Asian’s face. “Can you kill her and be done with it?”
He appreciated raw ambition. “That would be foolish.”
“What do you have in mind?”
“Something better.”
“Will the League stand with you?”
“The Council of Ten has authorized everything I’m doing.”
Kamil grinned. “Not everything, my friend. I know better. That attempt on her life. That was you. I could tell. And you bargained that assassin away. How else would she have been ready?” He paused. “I wonder. Will I be bargained away, too?”
“Do you want to succeed her?”
“I prefer to live.”
He glanced out the window at flat roofs, blue domes, and spindly minarets. Samarkand lay in a natural bowl, surrounded by mountains. Night camouflaged a hazy smog that perpetually blanketed the ancient earth. In the distance, factory lights cast a fuzzy halo. What once supplied the Soviet Union with manufactured goods now churned out Federation gross national product. The League had already invested billions for modernization. More was coming. So he needed to know, “How much do you want to be Supreme Minister?”
“It all depends. Can your League make that happen?”
“Her germs don’t scare me. They shouldn’t scare you, either.”
“Oh, my stout friend, I’ve seen too many enemies die suddenly. It’s amazing that no one has ever noticed. But her diseases work well. Just a cold or a flu that turns bad.”
Though Federation bureaucrats, including Zovastina, detested anything Soviet, they’d learned well from their corrupt predecessors. That was why Vincenti was always careful with his words but generous with promises. “Nothing can be gained without risk.”
Revin shrugged. “True. But sometimes the risks are too great.”
Vincenti gazed out at Samarkand. Such an old place, dating from the fifth century before Christ. The City of Shadows, Garden of the Soul, Jewel of Islam, Capital of the World. A Christian see before Islam and the Russians conquered. Thanks to the Soviets, Tashkent, two hundred kilometers to the northeast, had grown far larger and more prosperous. But Samarkand remained the region’s soul.
He stared across at Kamil Revin. “I’m personally about to take a dangerous step. My time as head of the Council of Ten ends soon. If we’re going to do this, we have to do it now. Time for you, as we say where I come from, to shit or get off the pot. You in or out?”
“I doubt I would live to see tomorrow if I said out. I’m in.”
“Glad we understand each other.”
“And what is it you’re about to do?” the foreign minister asked.
He gazed back out at the city. On one of the hundreds of mosques that dominated the landscape, in brilliantly illuminated Arabic calligraphy, letters at least a meter high proclaimed “God Is Immortal.” For all its elaborate history, Samarkand still cast a bland institutional solemnity, derived from a culture that had long ago lost all imagination. Zovastina seemed intent on changing that malady. Her vision was grand and clear. He had lied when he told Stephanie Nelle that history was not his strong point. In reality, it was his goal. But he hoped he wasn’t making a mistake breathing life into the past.
No matter. Too late to turn back now.
So he stared across at his coconspirator and answered the question honestly.
“Change the world.”
FORTY-ONE
TORCELLO
VIKTOR’S MIND RACED. THE TURTLE CONTINUED ITS PROGRAMMED assault of the museum’s ground floor, leaving a stinking trail of Greek fire. He thought about trying to force the double doors with Rafael, but he knew the wood’s breadth and the bar outside would make any effort foolish.
The windows seemed the only way out.
“Get one of the vacuum packs,” he said to Rafael, as his eyes raked the room and he decided on the set of windows to his left.
Rafael retrieved one of the clear plastic bags from the floor.
The Greek fire should weaken the aged wrought iron, along with the bolts that held the bars to the exterior wall, enough that they could force them. He drew one of the guns they’d obtained in the warehouse and was just about to shoot out the panes when, from the far side of the room, glass shattered.
Someone had shot out the window from outside.
He ducked for cover, as did Rafael, waiting to see what would happen next. The turtle continued its rhythmic crawl, stopping and starting as it encountered obstacles. He had no idea how many people were outside and whether or not he and Rafael were vulnerable from the three other sets of windows.
He felt the edge of danger on which they were balancing. One thing was clear. The turtle needed to be stopped. That would buy them some time.
But still.
They knew nothing.
CASSIOPEIA STUFFED THE GUN BACK AGAINST HER SPINE AND gripped the fiberglass bow she’d removed from the cloth bag. Thorvaldsen had not questioned why she needed a bow and high-velocity arrows, and she’d not really known if the weapon would prove useful.
But now it certainly would.
She was standing thirty meters from the museum, dry under the basilica’s porch. On her way from the other side of the island, she had stopped in the village and retrieved one of the oil lamps that illuminated the quayside near the restaurant. She’d noticed the lanterns earlier when she and Malone first arrived, which was another reason why she’d asked Thorvaldsen for the bow. She’d then found some rags in a trash bin near a vendor stall. While the thieves tended to their mission inside the museum, she’d prepared four arrows, wrapping strips of cloth around the metal tips and soaking them with lamp oil.
Matches were obtained during dinner with Malone-a few books retrieved from a tray in the restroom.
She lit the flammable rags on two of the arrows, then carefully loaded the first flaming projectile onto the bow. Her aim was for the ground-floor windows that she’d just shattered with bullets. If Viktor wanted a fire, then that was precisely what he was going to get.
She’d learned archery as a child. Never had she hunted, she detested the thought, but she regularly enjoyed target practice at her French estate. She was good, especially at distances, so thirty meters to the window across the piazzetta was no problem. And the bars themselves should not be a deterrent. Far more air than iron.
She stretched the string.
“For Ely,” she whispered.
VIKTOR SAW FLAMES STREAK THROUGH THE OPEN WINDOW AND crash into a tall sheet of glass that backed one of the ground-floor exhibits. Whatever propelled the flames had pierced the glass, the sheet smashing to the hardwood and taking the fire down with it. The turtle had already made a pass of that part of the museum, which was confirmed by a roar, as Greek fire sprang to life.
Orange and yellow instantly evolved into a scorching blue and the floor consumed itself.
But the vacuum packs.
He saw that Rafael had realized the same thing. Four lay scattered. Two atop display cases, two on the floor, one of which announced its presence in a cascade of mushrooming flames.
Viktor dove under one of the remaining display cases, seeking shelter from the heat.
“Get back here,” he yelled to Rafael.
His partner retreated toward him. Half the ground floor was now ablaze. Floor, walls, ceilings, and fixtures all burned. Where he’d taken refuge had yet to catch, thanks to a lack of the potion, but he knew that would only last another precious few moments. The stairway leading up began to his right, the path toward it clear. But the top floor would provide little refuge considering the fire would shortly obliterate it from beneath.