Steve Berry - The Venetian Betrayal

But she’d changed that rule.

The spindly-legged, broad-chested horse stiffened as she caressed his neck. “Patience, Bucephalas.”

She’d named him after the animal that had carried Alexander the Great across Asia, into battle after battle. Buzkashi horses, though, were special. Before they played a single match years of training accustomed them to the game’s chaos. Along with oats and barley, eggs and butter were included in their diet. Eventually, when the animal fattened, he was bridled and saddled and stood in the sun for weeks at a time, not just to burn away excess kilos, but to teach him patience. Even more training came in close-quarter galloping. Aggression was encouraged, but always disciplined so that horse and rider became a team.

“You are prepared?” the attendant asked. He was a Tajik, born among the mountains to the east, and had served her for nearly a decade. He was the only one she allowed to ready her for the game.

She patted her chest. “I believe I’m properly armored.”

Her fur-lined leather jacket fit snugly, as did the leather pants. It had served her well that nothing about her stout frame was particularly feminine. Her muscular arms and legs bulged from a meticulous exercise routine and a rigid diet. Her wide face and broad features carried a hint of Mongol, as did her deep-set brown eyes, all thanks to her mother, whose family traced their roots to the far north. Years of self-imposed discipline had left her quick to listen and slow to speak. Energy radiated from her.

Many had said that an Asian federation was impossible, but she’d proven them all wrong. Kazakhstan, Uzbekistan, Kyrgyzstan, Karakalpakstan, Tajikistan, and Turkmenistan were no more. Instead, fifteen years ago, those former Soviet republics, after briefly trying independence, merged into the newly formed Central Asian Federation. Nine and a half million square kilometers, sixty million people, a massive stretch of territory that rivaled North America and Europe in size, scope, and resources. Her dream. Now a reality.

“Careful, Minister. They like to best you.”

She smiled. “Then they better play hard.”

They conversed in Russian, though Dari, Kazakh, Tajik, Turkmen, and Kyrgyz together were now the official Federation languages. As a compromise to the many Slavs, Russian remained the language of “interethnic communication.”

The stable doors swung open and she gazed out onto a flat field that stretched for over a kilometer. Toward its center, twenty-three mounted horsemen congregated near a shallow pit. Inside lay the boz -a goat’s carcass, without a head, organs, or legs, soaked in cold water for a day to give it strength for what it was about to endure.

At each end of the field rose a striped post.

The horsemen continued to ride. Chopenoz. Players, like herself. Ready for the game.

Her attendant handed her a whip. Centuries ago they were leather thongs tied to balls of lead. They were more benign now, but still used not only to spur a horse but to attack the other players. Hers had been fashioned with a beautiful ivory handle.

She steadied herself in the saddle.

The sun had just topped the forest to the east. Her palace had once been the residence of the khans who ruled the region until the late nineteenth century, when the Russians had invaded. Thirty rooms, rich in Uzbek furniture and Oriental porcelain. What was now the stables had then housed the harem. Thanks to the gods those days were over.

She sucked a deep breath, which carried the sweet scent of a new day. “Good playing,” the attendant said.

She acknowledged his encouragement with a nod and prepared to enter the field.

But she could not help wondering.

What was happening in Denmark?

COPENHAGEN

VIKTOR TOMAS STOOD IN THE SHADOWS, ACROSS THE CANAL, AND watched the Greco-Roman museum burn. He turned to his partner but did not speak the obvious.

Problems.

It was Rafael who had attacked the intruder, then dragged the unconscious body into the museum. Somehow, after their surreptitious entrance, the front door had become ajar and, from the second-floor railing, he’d spotted a shadow approaching the stoop. Rafael, working on the ground floor, had instantly reacted, positioning himself just inside. True, he should have simply waited and seen what the visitor’s intentions had been. But instead, he’d yanked the shadow inside and popped the side of the man’s head with one of the sculptures.

“The woman,” Rafael said. “She was waiting, with a gun. That can’t be good.”

He agreed. Long dark hair, shapely, dressed in a tight-fitting body-suit. As the building caught fire, she’d emerged from an alley and stood near the canal. When the man appeared in the window, she’d produced a gun and shot out the glass.

The man, too, was a problem.

Fair-haired, tall, sinewy. He’d propelled a chair through the glass then leaped out with surprising agility, as if he’d done that before. He’d instantly grabbed the woman and they’d both plunged into the canal.

The fire department had arrived within minutes, just as the two emerged from the water and blankets were wrapped around them. The turtles had clearly performed their tasks. Rafael had christened them with the label since, in many ways, they resembled turtles, even possessing the ability to right themselves. Thankfully, no remnant of the devices would remain. Each was made of combustible materials that vaporized in the intense heat of their destruction. True, any investigator would quickly label the blaze arson, but proof of the method and mechanism would be impossible to determine.

Except that the man had survived.

“Will he be trouble?” Rafael asked.

Viktor continued to watch the firemen battle the blaze. The man and woman sat on the brick parapet, still wrapped in their blankets.

They seemed to know each other.

That worried him more.

So he answered Rafael’s inquiry the only way he could.

“No doubt.”

MALONE HAD RECOVERED HIS WITS. CASSIOPEIA HUDDLED IN A blanket beside him. Only remnants of the museum’s walls remained and nothing of its inside. The old building had burned quickly. Firemen continued to mind the blaze, concentrating on confining the destruction. So far, none of the adjacent buildings had been affected.

The night air reeked of soot, along with another smell-bitter, yet sweet-similar to what he’d inhaled while trapped inside. Smoke continued to drift skyward, filtering the bright stars. A stout man in dingy yellow firefighting gear waddled over for the second time. One of the crew chiefs. A city policeman had already taken a statement from both he and Cassiopeia.

“Like you said about the sprinklers,” the chief said in Danish. “Our water only seemed to spark it up.”

“How’d you finally control it?” Malone asked.

“When the tanker ran out of juice, we dipped our hoses into the canal and pumped straight from it. That worked.”

“Salt water?” All of Copenhagen ’s canals connected to the sea.

The chief nodded. “Stops it cold.”

He wanted to know, “Find anything in the building?”

“No little machines, like you told the police. But that place was so hot it melted the marble statues.” The chief ran a hand through his wet hair. “That’s a powerful fuel. We’ll need your clothes. May be the only way to determine its composition.”

“Maybe not,” he said. “I took a dip in that canal, too.”

“Good point.” The chief shook his head. “The arson investigators are going to love this one.”

As the fireman lumbered off, Malone faced Cassiopeia and plunged into an interrogation. “You want to tell me what’s going on?”