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“Can you smell it?” he asked.
The odor was sharp, pungent, mixing unpleasantly with the putrid waft of the tortured man’s waste. He wanted to remove a handkerchief and shield his nose, but knew better. Generals in chief never flinched.
“Tell me what I want to know and the plant can soothe your wounds,” he said.
No reply.
“You have kept your oath and not revealed a thing. I must admit, that is most admirable. But your life as a Knight of Malta is over. The order itself is over. There is no need to keep your promise any longer. Ease your suffering and tell me where I can find the Nostra Trinità.”
The man’s eyes grew wide with the mention.
“How … do you know … of that?”
“Its existence is no secret within the church, to certain cardinals. They told me about it, or at least what they knew. I’m intrigued and curious, so forget your promise and tell me where it is hidden.”
The knight shook his head. “Promises are all … we have left.”
The man’s head collapsed back to the table.
He could only imagine the agony the nails were inflicting. He stepped closer and noticed the pewter ring on the right hand.
And the letters.
He reached down and slid the trinket off.
The man raised his head at the violation. “That is … not … yours.”
He stared deep into the man’s pained eyes. “I was told of this ring, too. The sign of Constantine. The symbol of your Secreti. A long-honored brotherhood.” He allowed his praise to hang in the air, then made his point. “I have come for Constantine’s Gift. Make no mistake, dear knight, your life depends on whether I obtain it.”
Kastor stared at Chatterjee. “How do you know all that?”
“As I said, Eminence, I have been working on this for some time.”
So had he, scouring the Vatican Library. As prefect of the Apostolic Signatura he’d had access to even the closed portions, the so-called secret archives, labeled that only because they required papal permission to utilize. He’d used his time wisely among those stacks, learning all he could about the Nostra Trinità.
Our Trinity.
“Napoleon came to Malta searching for the Hospitallers’ precious possession,” Chatterjee said. “That knight with his hands nailed to the table never revealed a thing. I read about his heroism in old records. The ones that lie in attics, or in basements, forgotten by time, nobody really knowing if they are truth or fiction. In the end Napoleon skewered the man through the chest, covering the floor in the Hall of the Supreme Council with as much blood as the heart could pump before he died.”
“Which means he didn’t learn a thing.”
“Did I say that?”
Now he was intrigued.
“Are you saying we can find it?”
Chatterjee grinned. “We need to leave.”
“Where are we going?”
“Someone wants to speak with you.”
“I thought you were the person I was supposed to see.”
“I never said that, Eminence. You simply assumed.”
Yes, he had.
“A piece of advice,” Chatterjee said. “Assume nothing. That course will serve you well in the hours ahead.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
Cotton entered the Four Seasons in Milan. He’d driven the thirty miles south from Como in a little over an hour.
The time was approaching 1:00 P.M.
His mind still reeled at the loss of the documents.
Failure was not his style.
Before flying from Denmark yesterday he’d engaged in a little research. The general consensus seemed to be that any letters between Churchill and Mussolini would have involved an attempt by Churchill to either prevent or sever Italy’s alliance with Germany. Once he’d conquered Ethiopia in 1936, Mussolini had openly wanted to rekindle a friendship with Britain. He personally disliked Hitler and did not want to see Europe fall under Germany’s influence. But the British thought appeasing Hitler, and opposing Mussolini, was the better course, so they’d rebuffed his advances. Not until 1938 had Britain finally capitulated. But by then it was too late. Italy had already shifted toward Hitler.
Historical speculation on what might have been written between Churchill and Mussolini ran rampant. Unfortunately he hadn’t been able to read any of the letters inside the satchel. He’d planned on doing that once he returned to his hotel in Menaggio, even though the Brits had emphatically told him not to be so curious.
But what did they say about the best-laid plans?
He’d been able to change the tire, using the small spare the rental came equipped with, and he’d made it south without incident. The man who’d hired him waited in a sunny, elegant dining room that overlooked an inner courtyard. His name was Sir James Grant, presently of MI6, Great Britain’s famed foreign intelligence service. He hadn’t met or heard of Grant before yesterday, an urbane and elegant gentleman in his mid-fifties, with dark eyes that cast an expressionless quality typical of professional spies. He noticed that Grant wore the same three-button dark-blue suit with a vest from yesterday. Cotton had called ahead to say that he was on the way with an interesting story, specifically alerting his employer to the two bodies in the villa.
The hotel was impressive, a former convent located in the heart of Milan’s fashionable shopping district. Apparently British intelligence’s per diem for fieldwork was much more generous than the Justice Department’s. He stepped into the dining room, sat at the table, and explained more of what had happened.
Grant laughed at the bear. “That’s a new one. I’ve been at this for twenty years and never had an agent encounter that before.”
“Was the satchel real elephant skin?” he asked.
“It’s said Mussolini shot the animal himself. How many pages would you estimate were inside?”
“Fifty or so. But only eleven letters. I’m sorry about losing them. Whoever was there wanted that satchel.”
“After you called earlier, I sent a man north to investigate. He found the body inside, as you described, and it seems to be the villa’s grounds
keeper. We also found the dead man upstairs. Shot twice with one arm shredded. Quite horrible, my man said. Then he located the owner, hanging from a tree in the woods north of the villa.” Grant paused. “His arms had been pulled up behind his back, his shoulders separated, a bullet to the head.”
Cotton sat back in the chair. “Have you identified the dead guy who attacked me?”
“Not yet. His fingerprints are not in any database. Which is unusual, to say the least. But we’ll learn who he is.” Grant motioned at a plate of pastries on the table. “Please. Help yourself. I ordered those in case you were hungry.”
He caught the diversion, a way to move things off to another subject. Stephanie Nelle was known to use the same tactic. But since he was hungry, he helped himself to a couple of croissants. A waiter sauntered over and he ordered a glass of orange juice.
“Fresh-squeezed?” he asked the waiter.
“But of course.”
He smiled. Perfect. Thanks to his mother, who’d discouraged him from both, he’d never acquired a taste for alcohol or coffee. But fresh-squeezed juice? Especially from those tart and tangy Spanish oranges?
That was the best.
The ring rested in his pocket. He decided to do a little hedging of his own and keep that tidbit to himself while he determined what this cagey Brit knew that he didn’t. But he did decide to share a little. “There were eleven letters between Churchill and Mussolini. Five were being sold to you. Maybe the other six had been offered to another buyer. He wanted five million euros from you. More, probably, from the other guy. So you both decided it was cheaper to steal them.”
“I agree, we were being played. I should not be surprised. The seller’s reputation does precede him.”
He enjoyed another of the pastries and pointed at the plate. “Those are good.”
“Do you know the story of the croissant?”
More hedging.
He played along and shook his head.
“In 1686 a baker was supposedly working through the night while the Turks lay siege to Budapest. He heard rumblings underground, beneath his store, and alerted officials. They discovered a Turkish attempt to tunnel under the city walls. Of course, the tunnel was promptly destroyed. As a reward, the baker asked only that he been given the sole right to bake crescent-shaped rolls commemorating the incident, the crescent being the symbol of Islam. Bread the masses could eat, devouring their enemy. And the croissant, which is French for ‘crescent,’ was born.”
