{"product_id":"the-venetian-betrayal-isbn-9798217298990","title":"The Venetian Betrayal","description":"\u003cb\u003e“[Steve Berry] has a genuine feel for the factual gaps that give history its tantalizing air of the unknown.”—\u003ci\u003eThe New York Times Book Review\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e After narrowly escaping incineration in a devastating fire that consumes a Danish museum, Cotton Malone—former Justice Department agent turned rare-book dealer—learns from his friend, the beguiling adventurer Cassiopeia Vitt, that the blaze was neither an accident nor an isolated incident. As part of a campaign of arson intended to mask a far more diabolical design, buildings across Europe are being devoured by infernos of unnatural strength. Born from the ashes is a new Eastern European nation whose ruthless leader will soon draw Cotton into an intense geopolitical chess game against a shadowy cabal of power brokers. The prize lies buried with the mummified remains of Alexander the Great—in a tomb lost to the ages for  more than two thousand years. Trekking from Denmark \u003cbr\u003e to Venice to Central Asia, Cotton and Cassiopeia are determined to solve an ancient puzzle whose solution \u003cbr\u003e could destroy or save millions of people—depending on who finds the lost tomb first.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e “There’s nothing tastier than a globe-spanning mystery. . . . Berry’s books excel at bringing out fascinating tidbits of history.” \u003ci\u003e—Richmond Times-Dispatch\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cb\u003eSteve Berry\u003c\/b\u003e is the \u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e and #1 internationally bestselling author of \u003ci\u003eThe Lincoln Myth, The King’s Deception, The Columbus Affair, The Jefferson Key, The Emperor’s Tomb, The Paris Vendetta, The Charlemagne Pursuit, The Venetian Betrayal, The Alexandria Link, The Templar Legacy, The Third Secret, The Romanov Prophecy, \u003c\/i\u003eand\u003ci\u003e The Amber Room\u003c\/i\u003e. His books have been translated into 40 languages with more than 18,000,000 copies in 51 countries.Copenhagen, Denmark \u003cbr\u003eSaturday, April 18 , The Present\u003cbr\u003e11:55 p.m. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe smell roused Cotton Malone to consciousness. Sharp, acrid, with a hint of sulfur. And something else. Sweet and sickening. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eLike death. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe opened his eyes. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe lay prone on the floor, arms extended, palms to the hardwood, which he immediately noticed was sticky. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhat happened? \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe’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. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe’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. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBut the last thing he remembered was grasping the doorknob. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe was now inside the museum. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIn 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. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe shook the fog from his brain and stood. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe’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. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe steadied himself against a glass display case. His fingertips again came away sticky and smelly, with the same nauseating odor. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe noticed that his shirt and trousers were damp, as was his hair, face, and arms. Whatever covered the museum’s interior coated him, too. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe stumbled toward the front entrance and tried the door. Locked. Double dead bolt. A key would be needed to open it from the inside. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe stared back into the interior. The ceiling soared thirty feet. A wood-and-chrome staircase led up to a second floor that dissolved into more darkness, the ground floor extending out beneath. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe found a light switch. Nothing. He lumbered over to a desk phone. No dial tone. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eA noise disturbed the silence. Clicks and whines, like gears working. Coming from the second floor. \u003cbr\u003eHis training as a Justice Department agent cautioned him to keep quiet, but also urged him to investigate. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSo he silently climbed the stairs. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe chrome banister was damp, as were each of the laminated risers. Fifteen steps up, more glass-and-chrome display cases dotted the hardwood floor. Marble reliefs and partial bronzes on pedestals loomed like ghosts. Movement caught his eye twenty feet away. An object rolling across the floor. Maybe two feet wide with rounded sides, pale in color, tight to the ground, like one of those robotic lawn mowers he’d once seen advertised. When a display case or statue was encountered, the thing stopped, retreated, then darted in a different direction. A nozzle extended from its top and every few seconds a burst of aerosol spewed out. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe stepped close. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAll movement stopped. As if it sensed his presence. The nozzle swung to face him. A cloud of mist soaked his pants. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhat was this? \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe machine seemed to lose interest and scooted deeper into the darkness, more odorous mist expelling along the way. He stared down over the railing to the ground floor and spotted another of the contraptions parked beside a display case. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNothing about this seemed good. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe needed to leave. The stench was beginning to turn his stomach. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe machine ceased its roaming and he heard a new sound. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTwo years ago, before his divorce, his retirement from the government, and his abrupt move to Copenhagen, when he’d lived in Atlanta, he’d spent a few hundred dollars on a stainless-steel grill. The unit came with a red button that, when pumped, sparked a gas flame. He recalled the sound the igniter made with each pump of the button. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe same clicking he heard right now. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSparks flashed. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe floor burst to life, first sun yellow, then burnt orange, finally settling on pale blue as flames radiated outward, consuming the hardwood. Flames simultaneously roared up the walls. The temperature rose swiftly and he raised an arm to shield his face. The ceiling joined the conflagration, and in less than fifteen seconds the second floor was totally ablaze. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOverhead sprinklers sprang to life. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe partially retreated down the staircase and waited for the fire to be doused. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBut he noticed something. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe water simply aggravated the flames. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe machine that started the disaster suddenly disintegrated in a muted flash, flames rolling out in all directions, like waves searching for shore. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eA fireball drifted to the ceiling and seemed to be welcomed by the spraying water. Steam thickened the air, not with smoke but with a chemical that made his head spin. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe leaped down the stairs two at a time. Another swoosh racked the second floor. Followed by two more. Glass shattered. Something crashed. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe darted to the front of the building. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe other gizmo that had sat dormant sprang to life and started skirting the ground-floor display cases. \u003cbr\u003eMore aerosol spewed into the scorching air. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe needed to get out. But the locked front door opened to the inside. Metal frame, thick wood. No way to kick it open. He watched as fire eased down the staircase, consuming each riser, like the devil descending to greet him. Even the chrome was being devoured with a vengeance.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eHis breaths became labored, thanks to the chemical fog and the rapidly vanishing oxygen. Surely someone would call the fire department, but they’d be no help to him. If a spark touched his soaked clothes . . . \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe blaze found the bottom of the staircase. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTen feet away.New York Times bestselling author of The Alexandria Link","brand":"Ballantine Books","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":48233761308901,"sku":"NP9798217298990","price":20.0,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9798217298990.jpg?v=1767742049","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/es\/products\/the-venetian-betrayal-isbn-9798217298990","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}