The Venetian Betrayal

  THE VENETIAN BETRAYAL

  By

  STEVE BERRY

  Copyright © 2007 by Steve Berry

  Maps copyright © 2007 by David Lindroth

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  THE VENETIAN BETRAYAL

  STEVE BERRY

  Synopsis:

  In 323 B.C.E, having conquered Persia, Alexander the Great set his sights on Arabia, then suddenly succumbed to a strange fever. Locating his final resting place – unknown to this day –

  remains a tantalizing goal for both archaeologists and treasure hunters. Now the quest for this coveted prize is about to heat up. And Cotton Malone – former U.S. Justice Department agent turned rare-book dealer – will be drawn into an intense geopolitical chess game. After narrowly escaping incineration in a devastating fire that consumes a Danish museum, Cotton learns from his friend, the beguiling adventurer Cassiopeia Vitt, that the blaze was neither an accident nor an isolated incident. As part of campaign of arson intended to mask a far more diabolical design, buildings across Europe are being devoured by infernos of unnatural strength.

  And from the ashes of the U.S.S.R., a new nation has arisen: Former Soviet republics have consolidated into the Central Asian Federation. At its helm is Supreme Minister Irina Zovastina, a cunning despot with a talent for politics, a taste for blood sport, and the single-minded desire to surpass Alexander the Great as history's ultimate conqueror. Backed by a secret cabal of powerbrokers, the Federation has amassed a harrowing arsenal of biological weapons. Equipped with the hellish power to decimate other nations at will, only one thing keeps Zovastina from setting in motion her death march of domination: a miraculous healing serum, kept secret by an ancient puzzle and buried with the mummified remains of Alexander the Great – in a tomb lost to the ages for more than 1,500 years.

  Together, Cotton and Cassiopeia must outrun and outthink the forces allied against them. Their perilous quest will take them to the shores of Denmark, deep into the venerated monuments of Venice, and finally high inside the desolate Pamir mountains of Central Asia to unravel a riddle whose solution could destroy or save millions of people – depending on who finds the lost tomb first.

  For Karen Elizabeth,

  A journey complete

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  First, Pam Ahearn–and beware, an agent with a new BlackBerry is a dangerous thing. Next, as always, the wonderful folks at Random House: Gina Centrello, my publisher (which I say with great pride); Libby McGuire, for being there with unwavering support; Mark Tavani, who again offered superb editorial insights; Cindy Murray, who takes great joy in sending me away; Kim Hovey, who somehow makes people want me; Rachel Kind, who spreads the books across the globe; Beck Stvan, a cover artist supreme; Carole Lowenstein; and finally all those in Promotions and Sales–absolutely nothing could be achieved without their superior efforts. A few extra mentions: Vicki Satlow, our Italian literary agent who made the trip to Italy productive; Michele Benzoni and his wife, Leslie, who made us feel welcome in Venice; Cristina Cortese, who showed us St. Mark's basilica and provided invaluable insights; all the folks at Nord publishing in Italy, what a terrific team; and Damaris Corrigan, a brilliant lady who, one evening over dinner, spurred my imagination. My sincere thanks to you all. For my brother Bob and his wife, Kim; daughter, Lyndsey; and son, Grant; a long overdue special mention. Though it's not said enough, all of you are quite special to me. Finally, this book is dedicated to my wife of the past few months. She's watched this story grow from a rough idea to words on a page. Along the way she offered guidance, criticism, and encouragement.

  Toil and risk are the price of glory, but it is a lovely thing to live with courage and die leaving an everlasting fame.

  –ALEXANDER THE GREAT

  It is a divine right of madness, not to be able to see the e v i l which lies just in front.

  –UNKNOWN DANISH PLAYWRIGHT

  TIMELINE OF RELEVANT EVENTS

  JULY 20, 356 BCE

  Alexander of Macedonia is born.

  336 BCE

  Philip II is murdered.

  Alexander becomes king.

  334 BCE

  Alexander crosses into Asia Minor and begins

  his conquests.

  SEPTEMBER 326 BCE

  The Asia campaign ends in India when

  Alexander's army revolts.

  Alexander returns west.

  OCTOBER 324 BCE

  Hephaestion dies.

  JUNE 10, 323 BCE

  Alexander dies in Babylon.

  His generals divide the empire.

  Ptolemy claims Egypt.

  321 BCE

  Alexander's funeral cortege leaves for

  Macedonia.

  Ptolemy attacks the procession.

  The body is taken to Egypt.

  305 BCE

  Ptolemy is crowned pharaoh.

  283 BCE

  Ptolemy dies.

  215 BCE

  Ptolemy IV erects the Soma to house

  Alexander's remains.

  100 CE

  St. Mark is martyred in Alexandria, his body

  hidden.

  391 CE

  The Soma is destroyed and Alexander the

  Great vanishes.

  828 CE

  St. Mark's body is stolen from Alexandria by

  Venetian merchants, taken to Venice, and

  stored in the Doge's palace, its whereabouts

  lost over time.

  JUNE 1094 CE

  Body of St. Mark reappears in Venice.

  1835 CE

  St. Mark is moved from the crypt to beneath

  the main altar of the basilica that bears his

  name.

  PROLOGUE

  BABYLON

  MAY, 323 BCE

  ALEXANDER OF MACEDONIA HAD DECIDED YESTERDAY TO KILL the man

  himself. Usually he delegated such tasks, but not today. His father had taught him many things that served him well, but one lesson above all he'd never forgotten. Executions were for the living.

  Six hundred of his finest guardsmen stood assembled. Fearless men who, in battle after battle, had surged head-on into opposing ranks or dutifully protected his vulnerable flank. Thanks to them the indestructible Macedonian phalanx had conquered Asia. But there'd be no fighting today. None of the men carried weapons or wore armor. Instead, though weary, they'd gathered in light dress, caps on their heads, eyes focused.

  Alexander, too, studied the scene through unusually tired eyes. He was leader of Macedonia and Greece, Lord of Asia, Ruler of Persia. Some called him king of the world. Others a god. One of his generals once said that he was the only philosopher ever seen in arms.

  But he was also human.

  And his beloved Hephaestion lay dead.

  The man had been everything to him–confidant, cavalry commander, Grand Vizier, lover. Aristotle had taught him as a child that a friend was a second self, and that had been Hephaestion. He recalled with amusement how his friend had once been mistaken for him. The error caused a general embarrassment, but Alexander had only smiled and noted that the confusion over Hephaestion was unimportant for he, too, was Alexander. He dismounted his horse. The day was bright and warm. Spring rains from yesterday had passed. An omen? Perhaps.

  Twelve years he'd swept east, conquering Asia Minor, Persia, Egypt, and parts of India. His goal now was to advance s
outh and claim Arabia, then west to North Africa, Sicily, and Iberia. Already ships and troops were being amassed. The march would soon begin, but first he had to settle the matter of Hephaestion's untimely death.

  He trod across the soft earth, fresh mud sucking at his sandals. Small in stature, brisk in speech and walk, his fair-skinned, stocky body bore witness to countless wounds. From his Albanian mother he'd inherited a straight nose, a brief chin, and a mouth that could not help but reveal emotion. Like his troops, he was clean shaven, his blond hair unkempt, his eyes–one blue-gray, the other brown–always wary. He prided himself on his patience, but of late he'd found his anger increasingly hard to check. He'd come to enjoy being feared.

  “Physician,” he said in a low voice, as he approached. “It is said that prophets are best who make the truest guess.”

  The man did not reply. At least he knew his place.

  “From Euripides. A play I much enjoy. But more is expected from a prophet than that, would you not say?”

  He doubted Glaucias would reply. The man was wild-eyed with terror. And he should be scared. Yesterday, during the rain, horses had bent the trunks of two tall palms close to the ground. There they'd been roped, the two lashings intertwined into a single binding, then fastened to another stout palm. Now the physician was tied in the center of the V

  formed by the trees, each arm secured to a rope, and Alexander held a sword.

  “It was your duty to make the truest guess,” he said through clenched teeth, his eyes tearing.

  “Why could you not save him?”

  The man's jaw clattered uncontrollably. “I tried.”

  “How? You did not give him the draught.”

  Glaucias' head shook in terror. “There was an accident a few days before. Most of the supply spilled. I sent an emissary for more, but he'd not arrived by the time…of the final illness.”

  “Were you not told to always have plenty available?”

  “I did, my king. There was an accident.” He started to sob.

  Alexander ignored the display. “We both agreed that we did not want it to be like the last time.”

  He knew the physician recalled, from two years past, when Alexander and Hephaestion had both suffered fever. Then, too, the supply had run low, but more had been obtained and the draught relieved them both.

  Fear dripped from Glaucias' forehead. Terrified eyes pleaded for mercy. But all Alexander could see was his lover's dead glare. As children, they'd both been students of Aristotle–Alexander the son of a king, Hephaestion the heir of a warrior. They'd bonded thanks to a shared appreciation of Homer and the Iliad. Hephaestion had been Patroclus to Alexander's Achilles. Spoiled, spiteful, overbearing, and not all that bright, Hephaestion had still been a wonder. Now he was gone.

  “Why did you allow him to die?”

  No one but Glaucias could hear him. He'd ordered his troops only close enough to watch. Most of the original Greek warriors who'd crossed with him into Asia were either dead or retired. Persian recruits, conscripted into fighting after he'd conquered their world, now made up the bulk of his force. Good men, every one of them.

  “You're my physician,” he said in a whisper. “My life is in your hands. The lives of all those I hold dear are in your hands. Yet you failed me.” Self-control succumbed to grief and he fought the urge to again weep. “With an accident.”

  He laid the sword flat across the taut ropes.

  “Please, my king. I beg you. It was not my fault. I do not deserve this.”

  He stared at the man. “Not your fault?” His grief immediately evolved into anger. “How could you say such a thing?” He raised the sword. “It was your duty to help.”

  “My king. You need me. I am the only one, besides yourself, who knows of the liquid. If it is needed and you are incapable, how would you receive it?” The man was talking fast. Trying whatever might work.

  “Others can be taught.”

  “But it requires skill. Knowledge.”

  “Your skill was useless for Hephaestion. He did not benefit from your great knowledge.” The words formed, but he found them hard to speak. Finally, he summoned his courage and said, more to himself than his victim, “He died.”

  The time last fall at Ecbatana was to be one of great spectacle–a festival in honor of Dionysius with athletics, music, and three thousand actors and artists, newly arrived from Greece, to entertain the troops. The drinking and merriment should have continued for weeks, but the revelry ended when Hephaestion fell sick.

  “I told him not to eat,” Glaucias said. “But he ignored me. He ate fowl and drank wine. I told him not to.”

  “And where were you?” He did not wait for an answer. “At the theater. Watching a performance. While my Hephaestion lay dying.”

  But Alexander had been in the stadium viewing a race and that guilt amplified his anger.

  “The fever, my king. You know its force. It comes quickly and overpowers. No food. You cannot have food. We knew that from last time. Refraining would have provided the time needed for the draught to arrive.”

  “You should have been there,” he screamed, and he saw that his troops heard him. He calmed and said in a near whisper, “The draught should have been available.”

  He noticed a restlessness among his men. He needed to regain control. What had Aristotle said?

  A king speaks only through deeds. Which was why he'd broken with tradition and ordered Hephaestion's body embalmed. Following more of Homer's prose, as Achilles had done for his fallen Patroclus, he'd commanded the manes and tails of all horses to be severed. He forbade the playing of any musical instrument and sent emissaries to the oracle of Ammon for guidance on how best to remember his beloved. Then, to alleviate his grief, he fell upon the Cossaeans and put the entire nation to the sword–his offering to the evaporating shade of his beloved Hephaestion.

  Anger had ruled him.

  And still did.

  He swung the sword through the air and stopped it close to Glaucias' bearded face. “The fever has again taken me,” he whispered.

  “Then, my king, you will need me. I can help.”

  “As you helped Hephaestion?”

  He could still see, from three days ago, Hephaestion's funeral pyre. Five stories high, a furlong square at its base, decorated with gilded eagles, ships' prows, lions, bulls, and centaurs. Envoys had come from throughout the Mediterranean world to watch it burn. And all because of this man's incompetence.

  He whirled the sword behind the physician. “I won't require your help.”

  “No. Please,” Glaucias screamed.

  Alexander sawed the tight strands of rope with the sharp blade. Each stroke seemed to purge his rage. He plunged the edge into the bundle. Strands released with pops, like bones breaking. One more blow and the sword bit through the remaining restraints. The two palms, freed from their hold, rushed skyward, one left, the other right, Glaucias tied in between. The man shrieked as his body momentarily stopped the trees' retreat, then his arms ripped from their sockets and his chest exploded in a cascade of crimson.

  Palm branches rattled like falling water, and the trunks groaned from their journey back upright. Glaucias' body thudded to the wet earth, his arms and part of his chest dangling in the branches. Quiet returned as the trees again stood straight. No soldier uttered a sound. Alexander faced his men and shrieked, “Alalalalai.”

  His men repeated the Macedonian war chant, their cries rumbling across the damp plain and echoing off the fortifications of Babylon. People watching from atop the city walls screamed back. He waited until the sound quieted, then called out, “Never forget him.”

  He knew they would wonder if he meant Hephaestion or the hapless soul who'd just paid the price of disappointing his king.

  But it did not matter.

  Not anymore.

  He planted the sword into the wet earth and retreated to his horse. What he'd said to the physician was true. The fever was once again upon him.

  And he welcomed it
.

  PART ONE

  ONE

  COPENHAGEN, DENMARK

  SATURDAY, APRIL 18 , THE PRESENT

  11:55 P.M.

  THE SMELL ROUSED COTTON MALONE TO CONSCIOUSNESS. SHARP, acrid, with a hint of sulfur. And something else. Sweet and sickening. Like death. He opened his eyes.

  He lay prone on the floor, arms extended, palms to the hardwood, which he immediately noticed was sticky.

  What happened?

  He'd attended the April gathering of the Danish Antiquarian Booksellers Society a few blocks west of his bookshop, near the gaiety of Tivoli. He liked the monthly meetings and this one had been no exception. A few drinks, some friends, and lots of book chatter. Tomorrow morning he'd agreed to meet Cassiopeia Vitt. Her call yesterday to arrange the meeting had surprised him. He'd not heard from her since Christmas, when she'd spent a few days in Copenhagen. He'd been cruising back home on his bicycle, enjoying the comfortable spring night, when he'd decided to check out the unusual meeting location she'd chosen, the Museum of Greco-Roman Culture–a preparatory habit from his former profession. Cassiopeia rarely did anything on impulse, so a little advance preparation wasn't a bad idea.

  He'd found the address, which faced the Frederiksholms canal, and noticed a half-open door to the pitch-dark building–a door that should normally be closed and alarmed. He'd parked his bike. The least he could do was close the door and phone the police when he returned home. But the last thing he remembered was grasping the doorknob.

  He was now inside the museum.

  In the ambient light that filtered in through two plate-glass windows, he saw a space decorated in typical Danish style–a sleek mixture of steel, wood, glass, and aluminum. The right side of his head throbbed and he caressed a tender knot.

  He shook the fog from his brain and stood.

  He'd visited this museum once and had been unimpressed with its collection of Greek and Roman artifacts. Just one of a hundred or more private collections throughout Copenhagen, their subject matter as varied as the city's population.