Steve Berry - The Venetian Betrayal

“How did they get all of this in here?” Stephanie asked. “These coffins are huge.”

Ely motioned at the room. “Twenty-three hundred years ago, the topography was surely different. I’d wager there was another way in. Maybe the pools were not as high, the tunnel more accessible and not underwater. Who knows?”

“But the letters in the pool,” Malone said. “How did they get there? Surely the people who fashioned this tomb didn’t do it. That’s like a neon sign to alert people.”

“My guess is Ptolemy did that. Part of his riddle. Two Greek letters at the bottom of two dark pools. His way, I assume, of marking the spot.”

A golden mask covered Alexander’s face. No one had yet touched it. Finally, Malone said, “Why don’t you, Ely? Let’s see what a king of the world looks like.”

He saw the look of anticipation in the younger man’s eyes. He’d studied Alexander the Great from afar, learned what he could from the scant information that had survived. Now he could be the first in two thousand years to actually touch him.

Ely slowly removed the mask.

What skin remained cast a blackish tint and was bone dry and brittle. Death seemed to have agreed with Alexander’s countenance, the half-closed eyes conveying a strange expression of curiosity. The mouth ran from one side of the cheek to the other, open, as if to shout. Time had frozen everything. The head was devoid of hair, the brain, which more than anything else accounted for Alexander’s success, gone.

They all stared in silence.

Finally, Cassiopeia shined her light across the room, past an equestrian figure on horseback clad only in a long cloak slung over one shoulder, at a striking bronze bust. The powerful oblong face showed confidence and featured steady narrowed eyes, gazing off into the distance. The hair sprang back from the forehead in a classic style and dropped midlength in irregular curls. The neck rose straight and high, the bearing and look of a man who utterly controlled his world.

Alexander the Great.

Such a contrast to the face of death in the coffin.

“All of the busts I’ve ever seen of Alexander,” Ely said, “his nose, lips, brow, and hair were usually restored with plaster. Few survived the ages. But there’s an image, from his time, in perfect condition.”

“And here he is,” Malone said, “in the flesh.”

Cassiopeia moved to the adjacent coffin and wrestled open its lid enough for them to peek inside. Another mummy, not fully adorned in gold, but masked, lay in similar condition.

“Alexander and Hephaestion,” Thorvaldsen said. “Here they’ve rested for so long.”

“Will they stay?” Malone asked.

Ely shrugged. “This is an important archaeological find. It would be a tragedy not to learn from it.”

Malone noticed that Viktor’s attention had shifted to a gold chest that lay close to the wall. The rock above was incised with a tangle of engravings showing battles, chariots, horses, and men with swords. Atop the chest a golden Macedonian star had been molded. Rosettes with petals of blue glass dotted its center. Similar rosettes wrapped a central band around the chest. Viktor grasped both sides and, before Ely could stop him, lifted the lid.

Edwin Davis shined a light inside.

A gold wreath of oak leaves and acorns, rich in stunning detail, came into view.

“A royal crown,” Ely said.

Viktor smirked. “That’s what Zovastina wanted. This would have been her crown. She would have used all of this to fuel herself.”

Malone shrugged. “Too bad her helicopter crashed.”

They all stood in the chamber, soaking wet from the swim but relieved that the ordeal was over. The rest involved politics, and that didn’t concern Malone.

“Viktor,” Stephanie said. “If you ever get tired of freelancing and want a job, let me know.”

“I’ll keep the offer in mind.”

“You let me best you when we were here before,” Malone said. “Didn’t you?”

Viktor nodded. “I thought it better you leave, so I gave you the chance. I’m not that easy, Malone.”

He grinned. “I’ll keep that in mind.” He pointed at the tombs. “What about these?”

“They’ve been waiting here a long time,” Ely said. “They can rest a little longer. Right now, there’s something else we have to do.”

CASSIOPEIA WAS THE LAST TO CLIMB FROM THE TAWNY POOL, BACK into the first chamber.

“Lyndsey said the bacteria in the green pool could be swallowed,” Ely said. “They’re harmless to us, but destroy HIV.”

“We don’t know if any of that is true,” Stephanie said.

Ely seemed convinced. “It is. That man’s ass was on the line. He was using what he had to save his skin.”

“We have the disk,” Thorvaldsen said. “I can have the best scientists in the world get us an answer immediately.”

Ely shook his head. “Alexander the Great had no scientists. He trusted his world.”

Cassiopeia admired his courage. She’d been infected for over a decade, always wondering when the disease would finally manifest itself. To have a time bomb ticking away inside, waiting for the day when your immune system finally failed, that changed your life. She knew Ely suffered from the same anxiety, clutched at every hope. And they were the lucky ones. They could afford the drugs that kept the virus at bay. Millions of others could not.

She stared into the tawny pool, at the Greek letter Z that lay at its bottom. She recalled what she’d read in one of the manuscripts. Eumenes revealed the resting place, far away, in the mountains, where the Scythians taught Alexander about life. She walked to the green pool and again admired the H at its bottom.

Life.

What a lovely promise.

Ely grasped her hand. “Ready?”

She nodded.

They dropped to their knees and drank.

COPENHAGEN

SATURDAY, JUNE 6

7:45 P.M.

MALONE SAT ON THE SECOND FLOOR OF THE CAFÉ NORDEN AND enjoyed more of the tomato bisque soup. Still the best he’d ever eaten. Thorvaldsen sat across from him. The second-floor windows were flung open, allowing a lovely late-spring evening to wash over them. Copenhagen’s weather this time of year was nearly perfect, another one of the many reasons why he so enjoyed living here.

“I heard from Ely today,” Thorvaldsen said.

He’d wondered what was happening in central Asia. They’d returned home six weeks ago and he’d been busy selling books. That was the thing about being a field agent. You did your job, then moved on. No postanalysis or follow-up. That task was always left to others.

“He’s excavating Alexander’s tomb. The new Federation government is cooperating with the Greeks.”

He knew that Ely had taken a position in Athens with the Museum of Antiquities, thanks to Thorvaldsen’s intervention. Of course, knowing the location of Alexander the Great’s grave certainly fueled the museum’s enthusiasm.

Zovastina had been succeeded by a moderate deputy minister who, according to the Federation constitution, temporarily assumed power until elections could be held. Washington had quietly ensured that all of the Federation’s biological stockpiles were destroyed and Samarkand had been given a choice. Cooperate or the Federation’s neighbors would learn what Zovastina and her generals had planned, and then nature could take its course. Luckily, moderation prevailed and the United States sent a team to oversee the viral extermination. Of course, with the West holding the antiagent, there’d been no choice. The Federation could start killing, but they could not stop it. The uneasy alliance between Zovastina and Vincenti had been replaced with one between two distrusting nations.