The Venetian Betrayal (Cotton Malone 3)

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."

They'd split up and reconned the two museums separately.

"Stephanie's in Venice and may be in trouble," he said. "I have to go see about her."

"I can handle things here."

He doubted that.

"They'll wait till it's dark before returning," she said. "I asked. This island is deserted at night, except for people who come over for dinner here. Closing time is nine P.M. The last water bus leaves at ten. By then, everyone is gone."

A waiter delivered a silver box, wrapped in a red ribbon, along with a long cloth bag, maybe three feet, it, too, tied with a decorative bow. He explained that a water taxi had delivered both a few moments ago. Malone tipped him two euros.

Cassiopeia unwrapped the box, peeked, then passed it to him. Inside lay two automatic pistols with spare magazines.

He motioned at the bag. "And that?"

"A surprise for our thieves."

He didn't like the implications.

"You check on Stephanie," she said. "Time for Viktor to see a ghost."

THIRTY-SEVEN

9:40 P.M.

MALONE FOUND THE HOTEL MONTECARLO EXACTLY WHERE Thorvaldsen had directed, hidden along a hallwaylike street lined with shops and busy cafes a hundred feet north of the basilica. He wove his way through a dense evening crowd to the glass-fronted entrance and entered a lobby where a Middle Eastern man sporting a white shirt, tie, and black pants waited behind a counter.

"Prego," Malone said. "English?"

The man smiled. "Of course."

"I'm looking for Stephanie Nelle. American. She's staying here."

Recognition instantly came to the other man's face, so he asked, "Which room?"

The man searched the key rack behind him. "Two-ten."

Malone stepped toward a marble stairway.

"But she's not there."

He turned back.

"She went out in the square a few minutes ago. For a gelato. Just dropped her key." The attendant held up a heavy chunk of brass with 210 etched on the side.

How different it was in Europe learning things. That would have cost him at least a hundred dollars at home. Still, nothing about this seemed right. Thorvaldsen said Washington had lost contact with Stephanie. But clearly she'd been in the hotel and, like all Magellan Billet agents, carried a world phone.

And yet she'd just casually left her hotel in search of an ice cream?

"Any idea where?"

"I directed her to the arcade. In front of the basilica. Good treats there."

He liked the stuff, too. So why not?

They'd both have one.

CASSIOPEIA ASSUMED A POSITION NEAR WHERE THE MUDDY CANAL drained into the lagoon, not far from Torcello's public transportation terminal. If her instincts proved correct, Viktor and his cohort would return here sometime in the next couple of hours.

Darkness cloaked the island.

Only the restaurant where she and Malone had eaten remained open, but she knew it would close in another half hour. She'd also checked the two churches and the museum. Both were locked down, all the employees departing on the water bus that left an hour ago.

Through a thickening mist shrouding the lagoon she spotted boats crisscrossing in all directions, confined, she knew, to marked channels that acted like highways on the shallow water. What she was about to do would cross a moral line-one she'd never breached before. She'd killed, but only when forced. This was different. Her blood ran cold, which frightened her.

But she owed Ely.

She thought of him every day.

Especially about their time in the mountains.

She stared out over the mass of rock sloping into steeply falling hills, ravines, gorges, and precipices. She'd learned that the Pamirs were a place of violent storms and earthquakes, of constant mists and soaring eagles. Desolate and lonely. Only a wild barking tore through the silence.

"You like this, don't you?" Ely asked.

"I like you."

He smiled. He was in his late thirties, broad-shouldered, with a bright, round face and mischievous eyes. He was one of the few men she'd encountered who made her feel mentally inadequate, and she loved that feeling. He'd taught her so much.

"Coming here is one of the great perks of my job," Ely said.

He'd told her about his retreat in the mountains, east of Samarkand, close to the Chinese border, but this was her first visit. The three-room cabin was built with stout timber, nestled in the woods off the main highway, about two thousand meters above sea level. A short walk through the trees brought them to this perch and the spectacular mountain view.

"You own the cabin?" she asked.

He shook his head. "The widow of a shopkeeper in the village owns it. She offered it to me last year, when I came here for a visit. The money I pay in rent helps her live, and I get to enjoy all this."

She loved his quiet manner. Never raised his voice or uttered a profanity. Just a simple man who loved the past. "Have you found what you wanted?"

He motioned to the rocky ground and the magenta earth. "Here?"

She shook her head. "In Asia."

He seemed to consider her question in earnest. She allowed him the luxury of his thoughts and watched as snow trickled down one of the distant flanks.

"I believe I have," he said.

She grinned at his assertion. "And what have you accomplished?"

"I met you."

Flattery never worked with her. Men tried all the time. But with Ely it was different. "Besides that," she said.

"I've learned that the past never dies."

"Can you talk about it?"

The barking stopped and the weak patter of some far-off rivulet could be heard.

"Not now," he said.

She wrapped her arm around him, brought him close, and said, "Whenever you're ready."

Her eyes moistened at the memory. Ely had been special in so many ways. His death came as a shock, similar to when she learned that her father died, or when her mother succumbed to a cancer nobody knew she'd harbored. Too much pain. Too many heartbreaks.

She spotted a pair of yellow lights heading her way, the boat plowing a course straight for Torcello. Two water taxis had already come and gone, shuttling patrons to and from the restaurant.

This could be another.

She'd meant what she'd said to Malone. Ely had been murdered. She possessed no proof. Just her gut. But that feeling had always served her well. Thorvaldsen, God bless him, had sensed she needed a resolution, which was why he'd sent, without argument, the cloth bag she cradled in a tight embrace, and the gun snuggled at her belt. She hated Irina Zovastina, and Viktor, and anyone else who'd driven her to this moment.

The boat slowed, its engine weakening.

The low-lying craft was similar to the one she and Malone had rented. Its course was straight for the canal entrance and, as the craft drew closer, in the amber light from its helm, she spotted not a nondescript taximan but Viktor.

Early.

Which was fine.

She wanted to handle this without Malone.

STEPHANIE EASED ACROSS SAN MARCO SQUARE, THE HIGH GOLDEN baubles of the basilica lit to the night. Chairs and tables stretched out from the arcades across the famous pavement in symmetrical rows. A couple of ensembles stringed away in blithe disharmony. The usual rabble of tourists, guides, vendors, beggars, and touts seemed diminished by the deteriorating weather.

She passed the celebrated bronze flagpoles and the impressive campanile, closed for the night. A smell of fish, pepper, and a hint of clove caught her attention. Somber pools of light illuminated the square in a golden hue. Pigeons, which dominated by day, were gone. Any other time the scene would be romantic.

But now she was on guard.

Ready.

MALONE SEARCHED THE CROWD FOR STEPHANIE AS THE BELLS high in the campanile pealed out ten P.M. A breeze blew in from the south and swirled the mist-muffled air. He was glad for his jacket, beneath which he concealed one of the guns Thorvaldsen had provided Cassiopeia.

The brightly lit basilica dominated one end of the old square, a museum the other, everything mellowed by years of glory and splendor. Visitors milled through the long arcades, many searching the shop windows for possible treasures. The trattorias, coffee shops, and gelato stands, shielded from the weather by the arcade, were all doing a brisk business.

He surveyed the piazza. Maybe six hundred feet long by three hundred wide. Bordered on three sides by a continuous row of artistic buildings that seemed to form one vast marble palace. Across the damp square, through bobbing umbrellas, he spotted Stephanie, who was walking briskly toward the south arcade.

He stood beneath the north arcade, which stretched to his right for what seemed like forever from the basilica, toward the museum at the far end.

Among the crowd, one man caught his attention.

He stood alone, dressed in an olive green overcoat, his hands stuffed into his coat pockets. Something about the way he stopped and started down the arcade, hesitating at each archway, his attention focused outward, caught Malone's attention.

Malone decided to take advantage of his anonymity and head toward the problem. He kept one eye on Stephanie and the other on the man in the olive coat. It only took a moment for him to determine that the man was definitely interested in her.

Then he spied more trouble in a beige raincoat at the far end of the arcade, the other man's attention also directed out into the piazza.

Two suitors.

Malone kept walking, taking in the voices, laughter, a fragrance of perfume, the click-clack of heels. The two men joined together, then abandoned their positions, turning left, hustling toward the south arcade, which Stephanie had now entered.

Malone veered left, out into the mist, and trotted across the square.

The two men advanced parallel to him, their images illuminated between each of the arches. The thin strain of one of the cafe orchestras masked all sound.

Malone slowed and wove his way through a maze of tables, empty thanks to the inclement weather. Beneath the covered arcade, Stephanie stood before a glass case studying the ice cream.

The two men rounded the corner a hundred feet away.

He stepped up beside her and said, "The chocolate chip is excellent."

Surprise invaded her face. "Cotton, what in-"

"No time. We have company, behind me, coming this way."

He saw her glance over his shoulder.

He turned.

Guns appeared.

He shoved Stephanie away from the counter and together they fled the arcade, back into the piazza.

He gripped his gun and readied himself for a fight.

But they were trapped. A football field-size open square spread out behind them. Nowhere to go.

"Cotton," Stephanie said. "I have this under control."

He stared at her, and hoped to heaven she was right.

VIKTOR INCHED THE BOAT THROUGH THE NARROW CANAL AND passed beneath a rickety arched bridge. He wasn't planning on tying up at the waterway's end, near the restaurant, he just wanted to make sure the village had cleared out for the night. He was glad for the wet weather, a typical Italian storm had blown in from the sea, rain coming off and on, more a nuisance than a distraction, but enough to provide them with great cover.

Rafael kept an eye out on the blackened banks. High tide had arrived two hours ago, which should make their eventual landing point that much more accessible. He'd spotted the location earlier. Adjacent to the basilica, where a sluggish canal cut a broad path across the breadth of the island. A concrete dock, near the basilica, would provide the stopping point.

Ahead, he spotted the village.

Dark and quiet.

No boats.

They'd just come from the warehouse Zovastina had directed him toward. True to her word, the Supreme Minister had planned ahead. Greek fire, guns, and ammunition were stored there. He wondered, though, about torching the museum. It seemed unnecessary, but Zovastina had made clear that nothing should remain.

"Looks okay," Rafael said.

He agreed.

So he shifted the boat's throttle into neutral, then reversed the engine.

CASSIOPEIA SMILED. SHE'D BEEN RIGHT. THEY WOULDN'T BE FOOLISH enough to dock at the village. They'd intentionally reconnoitered the other canal that ran beside the basilica as their destination.

She watched the boat's outline turn one hundred eighty degrees and leave the canal. She reached back, found the gun Thorvaldsen had sent, and chambered a round. She gripped both the gun and the cloth bag and fled her hiding place, keeping her eyes locked out on the water.

Viktor and his accomplice found the lagoon.

Engines revved.

The boat veered right, beginning its circumnavigation of the island.

She trotted through the soggy night, toward the churches, one stop to make along the way.