supplies when he needed them, so more conquests could be made. Then, he shared the wealth. He was successful because he understood how to use power."
Hard to tell if she was making progress, but the Kazakh had made one valid point. Enemies did indeed surround her, and the assassination attempt from earlier still loomed fresh in her mind. She tried always to either eliminate or recruit the opposition, but new factions seemed to spring up daily. Alexander himself eventually fell victim to an unreasonable paranoia. She could not repeat that mistake.
"What do you say, Enver? Join us."
She watched as he mulled over her request. He may not have liked her, but reports noted that this warrior, an aviator trained by the Soviets who fought with them in many of their foolish struggles, hated something else far worse.
Time to see if that were true.
She pointed at the screen toward Pakistan, Afghanistan, and Iran. "These are our problem."
She saw he agreed.
"What do you plan to do?" he asked, with interest.
"End them."
Chapter FOURTEEN
COPENHAGEN
8:
0 A . M .
MALONE STARED AT THE HOUSE. HE, THORVALDSEN, AND CASSIOPEIA had left his bookshop a half hour ago and driven north, following a seaside route. Ten minutes south of Thorvaldsen's palatial estate, they'd veered off the main highway and parked before a modest one-story dwelling nestled among a grove of gnarly beechwoods. Spring daffodils and hyacinths wrapped its walls, the brick and wood topped by a lopsided gabled roof. Gray-brown waters of the Oresund lapped a rocky beach fifty yards behind.
"As if I have to ask who owns this place."
"It's run-down," Thorvaldsen said. "It abuts my land. I bought it for a bargain, but the waterfront location is wonderful."
Malone agreed. Prime real estate. "And who's supposed to live here?"
Cassiopeia grinned. "The owner of the museum. Who else?"
He noticed that her mood was lightening. But his two friends were clearly on edge. He'd changed clothes before leaving town and retrieved his Magellan Billet-issue Beretta from beneath his bed. He'd been ordered twice by the local police to surrender it, but Thorvaldsen had used connections with the Danish prime minister to block both attempts. Over the past year, even though retired, he'd found a lot of uses for the weapon. Which was troubling. One reason he'd quit the government was to stop carrying a gun.
They stepped inside the house. Sunlight poured through windows clouded with salt film. The interior was decorated with a mishmash of old and new--a combination of styles that seemed pleasant by merely being itself. He noticed the condition. Lots of repairs were needed.
Cassiopeia searched the house.
Thorvaldsen sat on a dusty tweed-covered couch. "Everything in that museum last night was a copy. I removed the originals after I bought the place. None of it was particularly valuable, but I couldn't allow it to be destroyed."
"You went to a lot of trouble," Malone said.
Cassiopeia returned from her reconnoiter. "There's a lot at stake."
Like he needed to hear that. "While we wait for someone to come and try to kill us--the individual you talked to on the phone three hours ago--could you at least explain why we gave them that much prep time?"
"I'm well aware of what I've done," Thorvaldsen said.
"Why are these medallions so important?"
"Do you know much about Hephaestion?" Thorvaldsen asked.
He did. "He was Alexander's closest companion. Probably his lover. Died a few months before Alexander."
"The molecular manuscript," Cassiopeia said, "that was discovered in Samarkand actually fills in the historical record with some new information. We now know that Alexander was so guilt-ridden over Hephaestion's death that he ordered the execution of his personal physician, a man named Glaucias. Had him torn apart between two trees tied to the ground."
"And what did the doctor do to deserve that?"
"He failed to save Hephaestion," Thorvaldsen said. "Seems Alexander possessed a cure.
Hard to tell if she was making progress, but the Kazakh had made one valid point. Enemies did indeed surround her, and the assassination attempt from earlier still loomed fresh in her mind. She tried always to either eliminate or recruit the opposition, but new factions seemed to spring up daily. Alexander himself eventually fell victim to an unreasonable paranoia. She could not repeat that mistake.
"What do you say, Enver? Join us."
She watched as he mulled over her request. He may not have liked her, but reports noted that this warrior, an aviator trained by the Soviets who fought with them in many of their foolish struggles, hated something else far worse.
Time to see if that were true.
She pointed at the screen toward Pakistan, Afghanistan, and Iran. "These are our problem."
She saw he agreed.
"What do you plan to do?" he asked, with interest.
"End them."
Chapter FOURTEEN
COPENHAGEN
8:
0 A . M .
MALONE STARED AT THE HOUSE. HE, THORVALDSEN, AND CASSIOPEIA had left his bookshop a half hour ago and driven north, following a seaside route. Ten minutes south of Thorvaldsen's palatial estate, they'd veered off the main highway and parked before a modest one-story dwelling nestled among a grove of gnarly beechwoods. Spring daffodils and hyacinths wrapped its walls, the brick and wood topped by a lopsided gabled roof. Gray-brown waters of the Oresund lapped a rocky beach fifty yards behind.
"As if I have to ask who owns this place."
"It's run-down," Thorvaldsen said. "It abuts my land. I bought it for a bargain, but the waterfront location is wonderful."
Malone agreed. Prime real estate. "And who's supposed to live here?"
Cassiopeia grinned. "The owner of the museum. Who else?"
He noticed that her mood was lightening. But his two friends were clearly on edge. He'd changed clothes before leaving town and retrieved his Magellan Billet-issue Beretta from beneath his bed. He'd been ordered twice by the local police to surrender it, but Thorvaldsen had used connections with the Danish prime minister to block both attempts. Over the past year, even though retired, he'd found a lot of uses for the weapon. Which was troubling. One reason he'd quit the government was to stop carrying a gun.
They stepped inside the house. Sunlight poured through windows clouded with salt film. The interior was decorated with a mishmash of old and new--a combination of styles that seemed pleasant by merely being itself. He noticed the condition. Lots of repairs were needed.
Cassiopeia searched the house.
Thorvaldsen sat on a dusty tweed-covered couch. "Everything in that museum last night was a copy. I removed the originals after I bought the place. None of it was particularly valuable, but I couldn't allow it to be destroyed."
"You went to a lot of trouble," Malone said.
Cassiopeia returned from her reconnoiter. "There's a lot at stake."
Like he needed to hear that. "While we wait for someone to come and try to kill us--the individual you talked to on the phone three hours ago--could you at least explain why we gave them that much prep time?"
"I'm well aware of what I've done," Thorvaldsen said.
"Why are these medallions so important?"
"Do you know much about Hephaestion?" Thorvaldsen asked.
He did. "He was Alexander's closest companion. Probably his lover. Died a few months before Alexander."
"The molecular manuscript," Cassiopeia said, "that was discovered in Samarkand actually fills in the historical record with some new information. We now know that Alexander was so guilt-ridden over Hephaestion's death that he ordered the execution of his personal physician, a man named Glaucias. Had him torn apart between two trees tied to the ground."
"And what did the doctor do to deserve that?"
"He failed to save Hephaestion," Thorvaldsen said. "Seems Alexander possessed a cure.
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