Steve Berry - The Venetian Betrayal

He first measured its width. Thirty-five millimeters. About right. He flicked on the electronic scales and checked its weight. Forty point seventy-four grams. Correct, too.

With a magnifying glass he examined the image on one face-a warrior in regal splendor, complete with plumed helmet, neck guard, breastplate, and a calvary cloak that fell to his knees.

He was pleased. An obvious flaw in the forgeries was the cloak, which in the false medallions hung to the ankles. For centuries, trade in fake Greek coins had flourished and clever forgers had become adept at fooling both the anxious and the willing.

Luckily, he was neither.

The first known elephant medallion had surfaced when it was donated to the British Museum in 1887. It came from somewhere in central Asia. A second appeared in 1926, from Iran. A third was discovered in 1959. A fourth in 1964. Then, in 1973, four more were found near the ruins of Babylon. Eight in all that had made the rounds through museums and private collectors. Not all that valuable, considering the variety of Hellenistic art and the thousands of coins available, but nonetheless collectible.

He returned to his examination.

The clean-shaven, youthful warrior grasped a sarissa in his left hand topped by a leaf-shaped point. His right hand held a bolt of lightning. Above him loomed a flying Nike, the winged goddess of victory. To the warrior’s left, the die cutter had left a curious monogram.

Whether it was BA or BAB, and what the letters represented Viktor did not know. But an authentic medallion should show that odd symbol.

All seemed in order. Nothing added or missing.

He flipped the coin over.

Its edges were grossly distorted, the pewter-colored patina worn smooth as if by running water. Time was slowly dissolving the delicate engraving on both sides. Amazing, really, that any of them had managed to survive.

“All quiet?” he asked Rafael, who still stood near the window.

“Don’t patronize me.”

He glanced up. “I actually want to know.”

“I can’t seem to get it right.”

He caught the defeatism. “You saw someone coming to the museum door. You reacted. That’s all.”

“It was foolish. Killing attracts too much attention.”

“There would have been no body to find. Quit worrying about it. And besides, I approved leaving him there.”

He refocused his attention on the medallion. The obverse showed the warrior, now a calvaryman, wearing the same outfit, attacking a retreating elephant. Two men sat atop the elephant, one brandishing a sarissa, the other trying to remove a calvaryman’s pike from his chest. Numismatists all agreed that the regal warrior on both sides of the coin represented Alexander, and the medallions commemorated a battle with war elephants.

But the real test as to whether the thing was authentic came under the microscope.

He switched on the illuminator and slid the decadrachm onto the examining tray.

Authentic ones contained an anomaly. Tiny microletters concealed within the engraving, added by ancient die cutters using a primitive lens. Experts believed the lettering represented something akin to a watermark on a modern banknote, perhaps to ensure authenticity. Lenses were not common in ancient times, so detecting the mark then would have been nearly impossible. The lettering was noticed when the first medallion surfaced years ago. But of the four they’d stolen so far, only one had contained the peculiarity. If this medallion were genuine, within the folds of the cavalryman’s clothing there should be two Greek letters – ZH.

He focused the microscope and saw tiny writing.

But not letters.

Numbers.

36 44 77 55.

He glanced up from the eyepiece.

Rafael was watching him. “What is it?”

Their dilemma had just deepened. Earlier he’d used the hotel room’s phone and made several calls. His gaze shot to the telephone and the display at its base. Four sets of numbers, two each, starting with thirty-six.

Not the same ones he’d just seen through the microscope.

But he instantly knew what the digits on the supposedly ancient medallion represented.

A Danish phone number.

VENICE

6:30 A.M.

VINCENTI STUDIED HIMSELF IN THE MIRROR AS HIS VALET creased the jacket and allowed the Gucci suit to drape his enormous frame. With a camel-haired brush, all remnants of lint from the dark wool were removed. He then adjusted his tie and made sure the dimple plunged deep. The valet handed him a burgundy handkerchief and he adjusted the silk folds into his coat pocket.

His three-hundred-pound frame looked good in the tailored suit. The Milan fashion consultant he kept on retainer had advised him that swarthy colors not only conveyed authority, they also drew attention away from his stature. Which wasn’t an easy thing to do. Everything about him was big. Pouched cheeks, rolled forehead, cob-nose. But he loved rich food and dieting seemed such a sin.

He motioned and the valet buffed his Lorenzo Banfi laced shoes. He stole a last look in the mirror, then glanced at his watch.

“Sir,” the valet said, “she called while you were showering.”

“On the private line?”

The valet nodded.

“She leave a number?”

The valet reached into his pocket and found a slip of paper. He’d managed some sleep both before and after the Council meeting. Sleep, unlike dieting, was not a waste of time. He knew people were waiting for him, and he despised being late, but he decided to call from the privacy of his bedroom. No use broadcasting everything over a cellular.

The valet retreated from the room.

He stepped to a bedside phone and dialed international. Three buzzes shrilled in his ear before a woman’s voice answered and he said, “I see, Supreme Minister, that you’re still among the living.”

“And it’s good to know your information was accurate.”

“I wouldn’t have bothered you with fantasy.”

“But you still haven’t said how you knew someone would try to kill me today.”

Three days ago he’d passed on to Irina Zovastina the Florentine’s plan. “The League watches over its members, and you, Supreme Minister, are one of our most important.”

She chuckled. “You’re so full of it, Enrico.”

“Did you win at buzkashi ?”

“Of course. Two times into the circle. We left the assassin’s body on the field and trampled it into pieces. The birds and dogs are now enjoying the rest.”

He winced. That was the problem with central Asia. Wanting desperately to be a part of the twenty-first century, its culture remained entrenched in the fifteenth. The League would have to do what it could to change all that. Even if the task would be like weaning a carnivore onto a vegetarian diet.

“Do you know the Iliad ?” she asked.

He knew she’d have to be humored. “I do.”

“Cast the souls of many stalwart heroes to Hades and their bodies to the gods and birds of prey.”

He grinned. “You fashion yourself Achilles?”

“There’s much to admire in him.”

“Wasn’t he a proud man? Excessive, as I recall.”

“But a fighter. Always a fighter. Tell me, Enrico, what of your traitor? Was that problem resolved?”

“The Florentine will enjoy a lovely burial north of here, in the lake district. We’ll send flowers.” He decided to see if she was in the mood. “We need to talk.”

“Your payment for saving my life?”