Steve Berry - The Venetian Betrayal

He stared at his partner. The younger man was a quick, energetic soul. Viktor had come to like him, which explained why he tolerated mistakes that others would never be allowed. Like jerking that man into the museum. But maybe that hadn’t been a mistake after all?

“We can’t call,” he quietly said.

“If this becomes known, she’ll kill us.”

“Then we can’t let it become known. We’ve done well so far.”

And they had. Four thefts. All from private collectors who, luckily, kept their wares in flimsy safes or casually displayed. They’d masked each of their crimes with fires and covered their presence well.

Or, maybe not.

The man on the phone seemed to know their business.

“We’re going to have to solve this ourselves,” he said.

“You’re afraid she’ll blame me.”

A knot clenched in his throat. “Actually, I’m afraid she’ll blame us both.”

“I’m troubled, Viktor. You carry me too much.”

He threw his partner a self-deprecating expression. “We both messed this one up.” He fingered the medallion. “These cursed things are nothing but trouble.”

“Why does she want them?”

He shook his head. “She’s not one to explain herself. But it’s surely important.”

“I overheard something.”

He stared up into eyes alive with curiosity. “Where did you hear this something ?”

“When I was detailed to her personal service, just before we left last week.”

They all rotated as Zovastina’s day-to-day guards. One rule was clear. Nothing heard or said mattered, only the Supreme Minister’s safety. But this was different. He needed to know. “Tell me.”

“She’s planning.”

He held up the medallion. “What does that have to do with these?”

“She said it did. To someone on the phone. What we’re doing will prevent a problem.” Rafael paused. “Her ambition is boundless.”

“But she’s done so much. What no one has ever been able to do. Life is good in central Asia. Finally.”

“I saw it in her eyes, Viktor. None of that’s enough. She wants more.”

He concealed his own anxiety with a look of puzzlement.

Rafael said, “I was reading a biography of Alexander that she mentioned to me. She likes to recommend books. Especially on him. Do you know the story of Alexander’s horse, Bucephalas?”

He’d heard Zovastina speak of the tale. Once, as a boy, Alexander’s father acquired a handsome horse that could not be broken. Alexander chastised both his father and the royal trainers, saying he could tame the animal. Philip doubted the claim, but after Alexander promised to buy the horse from his own funds if he failed, the king allowed him the chance. Seeing that the horse seemed frightened by his shadow, Alexander turned him to the sun and, after some coaxing, managed to mount him.

He told Rafael what he knew.

“And do you know what Philip told Alexander after he broke the horse?”

He shook his head.

“He said, ‘Look for a kingdom that matches your size, for Macedonia has not enough space for you.’ That’s her problem, Viktor. Her Federation is larger than Europe, but it’s not big enough. She wants more.”

“That’s not for us to worry about.”

“What we’re doing somehow fits into her plan.”

He said nothing in response, though he, too, was concerned.

Rafael seemed to sense his reluctance. “You told the man on the phone that we’d bring fifty thousand euros. We have no money.”

He appreciated the change in subject. “We won’t need any. We’ll get the medallion without spending anything.”

“We need to eliminate whoever is doing this.”

Rafael was right. Supreme Minister Zovastina would not tolerate errors.

“I agree,” he said. “We’ll kill them all.”

SAMARKAND

CENTRAL ASIAN FEDERATION

11:30 A.M.

THE MAN WHO ENTERED IRINA ZOVASTINA’S STUDY WAS SHORT, squat, with a flat face and a jawline that signaled stubbornness. He was third in command of the Consolidated Federation Air Force, but he was also the covert leader of a minor political party, whose voice had, of late, acquired an alarming volume. A Kazakh who secretly resisted all Slavic influences, he liked to speak about nomadic times, hundreds of years ago, long before the Russians changed everything.

Staring at the rebel she wondered how his bald cranium and barren eyes endeared him to anyone, yet reports described him as smart, articulate, and persuasive. He’d been brought to the palace two days ago after suddenly collapsing with a raging fever, blood gushing from his nose, coughing fits that had left him exhausted, and a pounding in his hips that he’d described as hammer blows. His doctor had diagnosed a viral infection with a possible pneumonia, but no conventional treatment had worked.

Today, though, he seemed fine.

In bare feet, he wore one of the palace’s chestnut bathrobes.

“You’re looking good, Enver. Much better.”

“Why am I here?” he asked in an expressionless tone that carried no appreciation.

Earlier, he’d been questioning the staff, who, on her orders, had dropped hints of his treachery. Interestingly, the colonel had showed no fear. He was further displaying his defiance by avoiding Russian, speaking to her in Kazakh, so she decided to humor him and kept to the old language. “You were deathly ill. I had you brought here so my doctors could care for you.”

“I remember nothing of yesterday.”

She motioned for him to sit and poured tea from a silver service. “You were in a bad condition. I was concerned, so I decided to help.”

He eyed her with clear suspicion.

She handed him a cup and saucer. “Green tea, with a hint of apple. I’m told you like it.”

He did not accept the offering. “What is it you want, Minister?”

“You’re a traitor to me and this Federation. That political party of yours has been inciting people to civil disobedience.”

He showed no surprise. “You say constantly that we have the right to speak out.”

“And you believe me?”

She tabled the cup and decided to stop playing hostess. “Three days ago you were exposed to a viral agent, one that kills within twenty-four to forty-eight hours. Death comes from an explosive fever, fluid in the lungs, and a weakening in the arterial walls that leads to massive internal bleeding. Your infection had not, as yet, progressed to that point. But, by now, it would have.”

“And how was I cured?”

“I stopped it.”

“You?”

“I wanted you to experience what I’m capable of inflicting.”

He said nothing for a moment, apparently digesting reality.

“You’re a colonel in our air force. A man who took an oath to defend this Federation with his life.”

“And I would.”

“Yet you apparently have no problem inciting treason.”

“I’ll ask again. What do you want?” His tone had lost all civility.

“Your loyalty.”

He said nothing.

She grabbed a remote control from the table. A flat-screen monitor resting on the corner of the desk sprang to life with the image of five men milling among a crowd, examining stalls beneath bright awnings burgeoning with fresh produce.

Her guest rose to his feet.

“This surveillance video came from one of the cameras in the Navoi market. They’re quite useful in maintaining order and fighting crime. But they also allow us to track enemies.” She saw that he recognized the faces. “That’s right, Enver. Your friends. Committed to opposing this Federation. I’m aware of your plans.”

She well knew his party’s philosophy. Before the communists dominated, when Kazakhs lived mainly in yurts, women had been an integral part of society, occupying over a third of the political positions. But between the Soviets and Islam, women were shoved aside. Independence in the 1990s brought not only an economic depression, it also allowed women back into the forefront, where they’d steadily reacquired political influence. The Federation cemented that resurrection.