The Venetian Betrayal

by Steve Berry

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 cafés 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 p
ealed 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 café 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. THIRTY-EIGHT

  STEPHANIE WAS PUZZLED BY MALONE'S PRESENCE. ONLY ONE WAY she could have been found. No time at the moment, though, to consider the implications.

  “Do it now,” she said into the lapel mike.

  Three pops echoed across the piazza and one of the armed men crumpled to the pavement. She and Malone dove to the damp flagstones as the remaining man sought cover. Malone reacted with the skill of the agent he'd once been and rolled himself back into the arcade, firing twice, trying to flush the remaining attacker out into the open square. People scattered in a frenzy, as a panic overtook San Marco.

  Malone sprang to his feet and hugged the wet side of one of the arches. The assailant stood fifty feet away, caught in a crossfire between Malone and the rifleman Stephanie had stationed atop the building on the north side.

  “Care to tell me what's happening?” Malone asked, not taking his eyes off the man.

  “Ever heard of bait?”

  “Yeah, and it's a bitch on that hook.”

  “I have men in the square.”

  He risked a look around, but saw nothing. “They invisible?”

  She looked around, too. No one was coming their way. Everyone was fleeing toward the basilica. A familiar anger swelled inside her.

  “Police will be here any second,” he said.

  She realized that could be a problem. Her rules at the Magellan Billet discouraged agents from involving the locals. They were usually not helpful or were downright hostile, and she'd seen evidence of that, firsthand, in Amsterdam.

  “He's on the move,” Malone said, as he rushed forward.

  She followed and said into the mike, “Get out of here.”

  Malone was running to an exit that led from the arcade, away from the square, back into the dark streets of Venice. At the exit's end a pedestrian bridge arced over one of the canals. She saw Malone race across it.

  MALONE KEPT RUNNING. CLOSED SHOPS LINED BOTH SIDES OF THE ridiculously narrow lane. Just ahead, the street right-angled. A few pedestrians turned the corner. He slowed and concealed the gun beneath his jacket, keeping his fingers tight on the trigger. He stopped at the next corner, embracing the gleam of a wet store window. He swallowed hot, heavy gulps of air and carefully peered around the edge.

  A bullet whizzed past and ricocheted off the stone.

  Stephanie found him.

  “Isn't this foolish?” she asked.

  “Don't know. It's your party.”

  He risked another look.

  Nothing.

  He abandoned his position and rushed forward another thirty feet to where the street turned again. A glance around the corner and he saw more closed shops and deep shadows and a misty murk that could conceal almost anything.

  Stephanie approached, holding a gun.

  “Aren't you the little field agent?” he said. “Carrying a weapon now?”

  “Seems I've had a lot of use for one lately.”

  So had he, but she was right. “This is foolish. We're going to get shot or arrested if we keep going. What are y
ou doing here?”

  “That was going to be my question for you. This is my job. You're a bookseller. Why did Danny Daniels send you?”

  “He said they'd lost contact with you.”

  “No one tried to contact me.”

  “Seems our president apparently wants me involved, but didn't have the courtesy to ask.”

  Shouts and screams could be heard from behind them in the square. But he had a greater concern. Torcello. “I have a boat docked just beyond San Marco, at the quayside.” He pointed right at another alleylike street. “We should be able to get there if we

  head that way.”

  “Where are we going?” Stephanie asked.

  “To help someone who needs even more help than you do.”

  VIKTOR KILLED THE ENGINE AND ALLOWED THE BOAT TO GENTLY touch the stone dock. A muted scene of slate grays, muddy greens, and pale blues engulfed them. The iron silhouette of the basilica rose thirty meters away, just past a jagged patch of stubbled shadows that defined a garden and orchard. Rafael emerged from the aft cabin carrying two shoulder bags and said, “Eight packs and one turtle ought to be enough. If we torch the bottom, the rest will burn easily.”

  Rafael understood the ancient potion and Viktor had come to rely on that expertise. He watched as his partner gently laid the rucksacks down and stepped back into the cabin, toting up one of the robotic turtles.

  “He's charged and ready.”

  “Why is it a 'he'?”

  “I don't know. Seems appropriate.”

  Viktor smiled. “We need a rest.”

  “A few days off would be good. Maybe the minister will give us the time, as a reward.”

  He laughed. “The minister doesn't believe in rewards.”

  Rafael adjusted the straps on the two packs. “A few days in the Maldives would be great. Lying on a beach. Warm water.”

  “Stop dreaming. Not going to happen.”

  Rafael shouldered one of the heavy rucksacks. “Nothing wrong with dreaming. Especially out here, in this rain.”

  He grabbed the turtle as Rafael lifted the other satchel. “In and out. Quick and fast. Okay?”

  His partner nodded. “Should be an easy run.”