“And how are Edwin Davis and Danny Daniels?” he asked. “Satisfied?”
Thorvaldsen smiled. “I spoke with Edwin a couple of days ago. Daniels is grateful for all we did. He especially liked Cassiopeia blowing up that helicopter. Not a lot of sympathy from that man. He’s a tough one.”
“Glad we could help the president out one more time.” He paused. “What about the Venetian League?”
Thorvaldsen shrugged. “Faded into the woodwork. It didn’t do anything that can be proven.”
“Except kill Naomi Johns.”
“Vincenti did that, and I believe he paid.”
That was true. “You know, it’d be nice if Daniels could, for once, just ask for my help.”
“Not going to happen.”
“Like with you?”
His friend nodded. “Like with me.”
He finished his soup and stared down at Højbro Plads. The square was lively with people enjoying a warm evening, which were few and far between in Copenhagen. His bookshop across the plaza was closed. Business had been great lately and he was planning a buying trip to London the following week, before Gary arrived for his yearly summer visit. He was looking forward to seeing his fifteen-year-old.
But he was also melancholy. He’d been that way every since returning home. He and Thorvaldsen ate dinner together at least once a week, but never had they discussed what was really on his mind. Some places need not be trod.
Unless allowed.
So he asked, “How’s Cassiopeia?”
“I was wondering when you’d inquire.”
“You’re the one who got me into all that.”
“All I did was tell you she needed help.”
“I’d like to think she’d help me, if needed.”
“She would. But, to answer your question, both she and Ely are virus free. Edwin tells me scientists have also verified the bacteria’s effectiveness. Daniels will announce the cure shortly and the United States government will control its distribution. The president has ordered that it be available to all at minimal cost.”
“A lot of people will be affected by that.”
“Thanks to you. You solved the riddle and found the grave.”
He didn’t want to hear that. “We all did our job. And, by the way, I heard you’re a gun-toting fool. Stephanie said you were hell in that house.”
“I’m not helpless.”
Thorvaldsen had told him about Stephanie and the shooting. He’d spoken to her about it before they left Asia and had called her again last week.
“Stephanie’s realizing it’s tough out in the field,” he said.
“I spoke to her myself a few days ago.”
“You two becoming buddies?”
His friend smiled. “We’re a lot alike, though neither one of us would admit that to the other.”
“Killing is never easy. No matter what the reason.”
“I killed three men myself in that house. You’re right. It’s never easy.”
He still had not received an answer to his initial question, and Thorvaldsen seemed to sense what he truly wanted to know.
“I haven’t spoke with Cassiopeia much since we left the Federation. She went home to France. I don’t know about she and Ely-the two of them. She offers little.” Thorvaldsen shook his head. “You’ll have to ask her.”
He decided to take a walk. He liked roaming the Strøget. He asked Thorvaldsen if he wanted to join him but his friend declined.
He stood.
Thorvaldsen tossed some folded papers across the table. “The deed to that property by the sound, where the house burned. I have no use for it.”
He unfolded the sheets and saw his name on the grantee line.
“I want you to have it.”
“That property is worth a lot of money. It’s oceanfront. I can’t take that.”
“Rebuild the house. Enjoy it. Call it compensation for me bringing you into the middle of all this.”
“You knew I’d help.”
“This way, my conscience, what little of it there is, will be satisfied.”
From their two years together he’d learned that when Henrik Thorvaldsen made up his mind, that was it. So he stuffed the deed into his pocket and descended the stairs.
He pushed through the main doors into the warm touch of a Danish evening. People and conversations greeted him from occupied tables that sprawled out from the café.
“Hey, Malone.”
He turned.
Sitting at one of the tables was Cassiopeia.
She stood and walked his way.
She wore a navy canvas jacket and matching canvas pants. A leather shoulder bag draped one shoulder and T-strap sandals accented her feet. The dark hair hung in thick curls. He could still see her in the mountain. Tight leather pants and a sports bra, as she swam with him into the tomb. And those few minutes when they both were down to their underwear.
“What are you doing in town?” he asked.
She shrugged. “You’re always telling me how good the food is at this café, so I came to eat dinner.”
He smiled. “Long way for a meal.”
“Not if you can’t cook.”
“I hear you’re cured. I’m glad.”
“Does take a few things off your mind. Wondering if today is the day you start to die.”
He recalled her preoccupation that first night in Copenhagen, when she aided his escape from the Greco-Roman museum. All the melancholy seemed gone.
“Where you headed?” she asked.
He stared out across the square. “Just for a walk.”
“Want some company?”
He glanced back at the café, up to the second story, and the window table where he and Thorvaldsen had been sitting. His friend gazed out the open frame, smiling. He should have known.
He faced her and said, “Are you two always up to something?”
“You haven’t answered my question about the walk.”
What the hell. “Sure. I’d love some company.”
She slid her arm into his and led him forward.
He had to ask. “What about you and Ely? I thought-”
“Malone.”
He knew what was coming, so he saved her the trouble.
“I know. Just shut up and walk.”
WRITER’S NOTE
Time to separate fact from fiction.
The style of execution described in the prologue was utilized during the time of Alexander the Great. The physician who treated Hephaestion was ordered killed by Alexander, but not in the manner depicted. Hanging is what most chronicles mention.
The relationship between Alexander and Hephaestion was complex. Friend, confidant, lover-all would apply. Alexander’s deep distress at Hephaestion’s untimely death is documented, as is Hephaestion’s elaborate funeral, which some say may be the most expensive in history. Of course, the embalming and secreting away of Hephaestion’s body (Chapter 24) is fictional.
Greek fire (Chapter 5) is real. The formula was indeed held personally by Byzantine emperors and was lost when that empire fell. To this day, its chemical composition remains a mystery. As to any salt water vulnerability, that is my invention-actual Greek fire was used offensively against ships at sea.
The game of buzkashi (Chapter 7) is both ancient and violent and continues to be played across central Asia. The rules, dress, and equipment, as detailed, are correct, as is the fact that players die routinely.
The Central Asian Federation is fictional, but the political and economic details outlined in Chapter 27, of this region of the world, are accurate. Unfortunately, that land has always been a convenient battleground, and the region’s governments remain riddled with corruption.
Frank Holt’s book, Alexander the Great and the Mystery of the Elephant Medallions, taught me about these unusual objects. Herein, their existence was narrowed to eight-many more than that still exist. Their description (Chapters 8-9) is faithful, save for the microletters-ZH-which are my addition. Amazingly, utilizing crude lenses, ancient engravers actually possessed the ability to micro-engrave.