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In the beginning, an applicant had only to be legitimately born into a noble family. By the 14th century that evolved into both parents having to be of noble, land-owning gentry. A hundred years later applicants had to prove nobility in the male line back four generations. Eventually, by the 16th century, all four grandparents were required to be of noble stock. Passage money, what it took to support a knight for a year in the Holy Land, became the final initiation fee. Once anointed, each knight endured a year’s training, then swore to have faith, repent his sins, and live in humility, being merciful, sincere, wholehearted, and brave enough to endure persecution.
With the fall of the Holy Land in 1291, the age of the warrior-monk ended. The Knights Templar never grasped that change and faded in 1307. The Hospitallers adapted, keeping their primary mission charity but evolving from a land-based cavalry force to a sea power, conquering and taking Rhodes in 1310. They then became the Order of the Knights of Rhodes and acquired a new purpose.
Keeping both the Ottomans and the corsairs at bay.
After Constantinople fell in 1453, Rhodes became the last outpost of Christianity in the East. The knights acted as a buffer between the Latin-Christian Western world and the Eastern infidels. Their fighting ships and galleys dominated the Mediterranean, their white cross on a red matte striking fear into their enemies.
Members organized themselves into eight langues, one for Provence, Auvergne, France, Italy, Castile, England, Germany, and Aragon, which represented the major political divisions of the time. Those were further subdivided into bailiwicks and comman
deries. The langues headquartered in auberges, where members lived and ate communally. Traditional national rivalries never faded, though, and led to regimental conflicts between the langues, but enforced discipline and a strong hand eventually forged the langues into a tight, cohesive fighting force.
In 1522 the Turks finally succeeded in retaking Rhodes.
The knights loaded their ships and left, drifting for seven years. In 1530 Charles V of Spain granted them Malta, and its twelve thousand inhabitants, in exchange for a single falcon, payable yearly to the viceroy of Sicily on All Saints’ Day.
The island had not been much of a prize. Just a chunk of limestone seven leagues long and four wide. Its stony soil was unfit for growing much other than cotton, figs, melons, and other fruits. Honey was its major export and main claim to fame. Just a few springs near the center was all the running water. Rain was the main supply. Wood was so scarce the locals used sun-dried cow dung for cooking. The south coast claimed no harbors, coves, or bays, the shore tall and rocky. The north coast was the opposite, with plenty of anchorage, including two fine harbors suitable for any fleet. Which was perfect, since the knights were a seafaring power. But the gift of an island was not merely gratuitous. Charles intended for them to employ their forces and arms against the perfidious enemies of the Holy Faith.
Which they did.
Becoming the Sovereign and Military Order of the Knights of Malta, exempt from civil duties and taxes, bowing to no authority save the pope.
There they stayed until 1798.
“Now they are Sovereign Military Hospitallers Order of St. John of Jerusalem, of Rhodes, and of Malta,” Grant said. “The world’s oldest surviving chivalric order. Headquartered in Rome. The eight-pointed cross of St. John remains their emblem. Four barbed arrowheads, joined at the center, each point representing the eight beatitudes, the four arms symbolizing prudence, temperance, fortitude, and justice. Its whiteness is a reminder of purity.”
The waiter brought Cotton’s bacon and eggs. He pointed at the ring, which Grant still held. “Is that connected to the Hospitallers?”
“I believe it is.”
He ate his late breakfast, noticing the eggs had been fried perfectly. “So the dead guy could be a knight?”
“That’s my assumption.” Grant sipped his coffee. “You may not believe this, but I was genuinely hoping this was only about the letters. A part of me wanted it to be that simple. But in this business nothing is ever simple.” Grant paused. “The Hospitallers possess the largest, most extensive collection of Mussolini’s writings and personal belongings in the world. They’ve been secretly acquiring it for decades. A bit of an odd obsession, wouldn’t you say? But they refuse to confirm or deny anything. As they like to say, what they may or may not own is a private matter.”
“Like that stops MI6.” But he did connect the dots. “You think the Hospitallers were the ones after the Churchill letters?”
Grant reached into his inside jacket pocket and removed a cell phone. He punched the screen, then handed it over. On it, Cotton saw a man hanging from a rope, arms yanked up from behind, his neck angled over in death.
He handed the phone back. “The villa owner?”
Grant nodded. “When the Crusaders invaded the Holy Land, they became a brutal lot. They were fighting an enemy like none they had ever seen. The Arabs were tough, relentless, and unmerciful. To show their adversary that they could be equal to the task, they devised new means of torture and punishment.” Grant gestured with the phone. “One of those involved hanging their prisoners in this particular way. It became a trademark. So yes, I think the Knights of Malta are involved.”
Cotton kept enjoying his breakfast, waiting for the pitch.
“We need someone, other than us, to look into this,” Grant said. “That’s why I hired one of the best intelligence operatives in the world.”
He grinned. “Now you’re blowing smoke up my ass.”
“Just being honest. You do realize that there are people at MI6 who still hold a grudge your way.”
He knew what Grant was referring to. An incident that involved his son, Gary, and a former head of British intelligence. “I did what I had to do.”
“Which is exactly why I want you on this. I have a situation here, Cotton. One that may be wider than I first thought. I need your help. I’ll double your fee.”
Music to his ears and, luckily, he had a few days free. But he wanted to know more. “What do you want me to do?”
“Make contact with the Knights of Malta.” Grant laid the ring on the table. “Start with inquiring about why the dead man in that villa was wearing this. Then find out anything you can on their Mussolini collection. And I’m not particular on how you accomplish that objective.”
Which meant the local criminal codes did not have to be observed. But he had to ask, “Is that all I get from you? Pretty damn vague.”
“I would ask that you allow me the luxury of withholding further facts until I’m sure of a few matters. There is a possibility this might be nothing at all. That we are on the wrong trail.”
“Looking for what?”
Grant did not reply.
He shrugged. “Okay. For a hundred thousand euros, I can be a good bird dog. I’ll sniff around and see where it leads.”
“Excellent. Hopefully, I’ll have some clarity shortly that I can share.”
“Can I at least know what you’re waiting for?”
“A situation on Malta to resolve itself.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Kastor emerged from the car.
He’d ridden from the Madliena Tower with Chatterjee, following the north coast highway to the town of St. Paul’s Bay. It began as a sleepy fishing village, the adjacent shoreline one of the easier points on the island from which to gain land. Now it was a popular tourist spot, its unstylish concrete buildings overflowing with an overpriced array of restaurants, cafés, and boutiques, the mass-market hotels and nondescript apartments packed with people year-round.
He caught sight of one of the coastal towers, high above, standing guard from its lofty perch. Another grand master creation, this one in 1610 by Wigancourt, who built six facing the sea. He knew about the famed Frenchman. A knight his entire adult life, including during the Great Siege, he was popular with the Maltese, which was rare for grand masters. The viaduct he completed delivered water to Valletta until the 20th century.
Out in the calm bay boats lay at anchor, so many that their bulk formed a carpet on the water. Beyond them, he spotted the small island where the faithful believed that Paul himself first came ashore. What a tale. In A.D. 60 275 prisoners were being ferried toward Rome to be tried, Paul included. Their ship was ruined in a dreadful storm, drifting two weeks before breaking up just off the coast. Despite not knowing how to swim, miraculously all of the prisoners made it to shore. The Bible itself recounted the event, noting that later we learned that the island was named Malta. The people who lived there showed us great kindness and they made a fire and called us all to warm ourselves. As the story went, while Paul was ashore a poisonous snake bit him but he survived, which the locals took as a sign that he was no ordinary man.
No. That he was not.
More a brilliant rebel.
Like himself.
Kastor stood before a formidable church, one of 360 that dotted the island, this one a high building of burnt ocher, with a graceful spire and a beautiful cupola, vivid against the drabness of the shady street. Not much had changed in thirty years. As a young priest, serving his first parish, he’d said mass here many times. He noticed that the same two clocks remained in the tower. One real, the other a trompe l’oeil, installed by overly superstitious locals to supposedly confuse the devil when he came to collect souls.
He and Chatterjee entered through the front doors. Inside was the same low roof supported by arches, with little pomp or circumstance, shadows still the only adornment. A solitary figure stood beside the front pew.
“Come in, my frie
nd. Please. We have much to discuss.”
A tall, stout, older man, with a noticeable midsection, paraded down the center aisle. He was robust, with a thick patch of pale-white hair and features framed by a pair of wispy white sideburns. Few angles defined the round face, the skin streaked by veins of yellow and purple, perhaps the lasting effects from years of smoking.
Danjel Spagna.
The few times Kastor had seen him at the Vatican, Spagna had worn the black cassock, purple skullcap, and silver pectoral cross of an archbishop. Today he was dressed casually, nothing reflecting any ecclesiastical status.
He’d never actually met Spagna, only heard the tales.
The press called it all the Vatican, but the Holy See was not the Vatican City State. The latter came into existence as sovereign territory only in 1929 because of the Lateran Treaty. It consisted of chapels, halls, galleries, gardens, offices, apartments, and museums. The Holy See, the episcopal seat of Rome and the pope, dated back to Christ, and was an independent sovereign entity that did not end at the death of a pontiff. The Holy See acted and spoke for the whole church, currently maintaining diplomatic relations with 180 nations. Ambassadors were officially accredited not to the Vatican City State, but to the Holy See. The pope was its unchallenged head, but it was administered by the curia, with the secretary of state acting like a prime minister, a buffer between the over two thousand employees and the pope. The old joke came from John XXIII. When asked how many people worked at the Vatican, he quipped about half of them.
As in any other nation, security had always been a concern.
The most secret agency within the Holy See had existed since the 16th century, created specifically by Pius V to end the life of the Protestant Elizabeth I and support her cousin, the Catholic Mary, Queen of Scots, for the English throne. Though it failed in that mission, ever since it had served popes through schisms, revolutions, dictators, persecutions, attacks, world wars, even assassination attempts. First called the Supreme Congregation for the Holy Inquisition of Heretical Error, then the much shorter Holy Alliance. In the 20th century it was changed to the Entity.
