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“And what is your job?” Kastor asked.
“I assist the archbishop, from time to time, on matters with which I have some expertise.”
He recalled their talk at the tower. “Like scouring and stealing from archives, libraries, and newspaper morgues, doing whatever is necessary to get the job done?”
“Absolutely.”
“Then we’re lucky to have you. What about that parasailer? The Americans knew what you were doing.”
“No, Kastor,” Spagna said. “They knew what you were doing. Which is why I’m here.”
Troubling to hear for a second time.
“The Entity itself is somewhat in crisis,” Spagna said. “Many of my own people think it’s time I step aside. I have subordinates who want my job. The red vulture who’s in charge despises me. But the dead pope liked me, so there was nothing anyone could do. That may not be the case after the coming conclave, depending on who becomes pope. I don’t want to step aside. I don’t want to be forced to step aside.”
He stared at the bearlike man, a bit shambled in street clothes but definitely comfortable with his power.
“Your problem,” Spagna said, “is that you’ve always wanted things too fast. Since childhood the concept of patience has been foreign to you. That’s why you find yourself with the dubious title of patron of the Sovereign Military Order of Malta and not prefect of the Apostolic Signatura. Seven cardinals have held that patron post over the past sixty years. Seven losers. Now you’re the eighth. I was surprised, after your firing, when you requested such an innocuous job, which the pope gladly granted. But that was precisely where you wanted to be. That’s when I first became interested in what you were doing. But as always, you were impatient. You wreaked havoc inside the Hospitallers. They’re now in a state of civil war, fighting among themselves, unsure what’s happening to them. All thanks to you.”
“Which gives me a great freedom of movement. I started that chaos. I control it. So I also know how to avoid it.”
Spagna chuckled. “And there it is. The liar and the thief showing himself in all his glory. That’s why you’ll make a great pope. At least for me, you will. I can work with you, Kastor, like I did with the Pole. We’ll understand each other. I saved your hide a little while ago with that American parasailer, as a show of my good faith.”
“And what if I don’t want your help?”
“Then I’ll take my chances with another candidate. One who will appreciate the kind of assistance I can offer.”
He got the message. “I’m listening.”
Spagna retreated to the front pew and reached down, lifting up a thin sheaf of papers, bound together in a binder. The older man approached and offered them. The top sheet, visible through the clear plastic, was blank.
“I gave it no title. Perhaps you could offer one. After you’ve read it.”
He accepted the binder and started to open to the next page.
“Wait,” Spagna said.
He looked up, unaccustomed to being ordered.
“I offer this as a second show of my good faith,” the spymaster said. “By reading it, though, you agree to work with me, on my terms. If you’re not inclined to do that, hand it back and we will not speak again.”
Choice time.
He had few allies in the world. As a kid he’d been closer to his brother than any other person. And for good reason. They’d shared a womb, born identical twins, Pollux the older by a little over a minute. As kids it had been difficult for anyone to tell them apart. That similarity had carried over into adulthood, though they both now tried hard to distinguish themselves. His brown hair was short and tight to the scalp, while Pollux’s hung below the ears. He stayed clean-shaven. His brother had always sported the remnants of a monk’s beard. Though their height, size, shape, and facial features remained mirror images, he wore glasses for nearsightedness and the scarlet of a cardinal, while Pollux retained perfect vision and had never favored the priesthood. Their father had named them for the constellation Gemini, Latin for “twins,” and its two brightest stars, Castor and Pollux. As a fisherman, the stars had been important to their father. But that man was gone, and this was his decision alone. What was the old cliché?
Never look a gift horse in the mouth?
“I’ll keep it.”
Spagna smiled. “We’ll be in touch before nightfall.”
“How will you know where to find me?”
Spagna smirked.
“Please, Kastor. Asking ridiculous questions only shows your ignorance.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Luke sat in the dark, his back against a rock wall, and cursed. Good thing his mother wasn’t around. His shorts and shirt remained damp from the swim, shoes sodden and clammy. His luminous watch noted the time at 2:20 P.M. He felt neither nerves nor fear. Only irritation. He was three for three on mistakes for the day.
He’d tried to avoid the two men who’d confronted him at the dock, dodging and weaving through Valletta’s unbroken cordon of waterfront streets. But they eventually cornered him. An arm had snapped closed across his throat, another hand clamped on his mouth, and then the arm across his windpipe tightened until his vision had flashed with lights.
What happened after that was sketchy.
He vaguely recalled being carried into a building, down a flight of stairs, into coolness, then lowered into the ground and dropped onto soft earth. When he came around absolute blackness had enveloped him, so thick that he couldn’t see his hand in front of his face. He’d used his fingers to examine the rough-hewn walls of his prison, which was circular and measured about five paces across. Reaching up, he’d determined the hole was wider at the bottom, the sides tapering inward as they rose. A clever way to prevent any attempt to climb out since you’d fall long before making it even halfway up.
The air hung humid and stale, as if it had been breathed to exhaustion. Sweat coursed down the small of his back. His mouth felt pasty. What he’d give for a bottled water. As screwups went, this day ranked high on the list.
What would Malone say?
Good going, Frat Boy.
Hard to live up to a legend. And that perfectly described Cotton Malone. But if you were going to strive to be the best, then you had to know the best. Pappy might be retired and selling books in Denmark, but he remained if not at, then certainly near, the top of his game. Of course, he’d never tell Malone that. He’d worked with him twice and both times he’d learned things. The goal? Work hard another decade and new agents might talk about him the way the current ones spoke of Malone. That was possible. Why not? Everybody needed goals. And time was indeed the best teacher.
Trouble was, eventually it killed all of its students.
He wondered where Pappy was now. Probably at his shop in Copenhagen, doing whatever booksellers do.
What a day.
He reached down and played with a handful of the parched sand that formed the pit’s floor. How long had this hole been in the ground? How many others had rotted away here? He figured he was somewhere beneath Valletta, as he vaguely recalled not being carried all that far. But where? Wh
o the hell knew?
A sound disturbed the silence.
Like a door opening above.
Shafts of light appeared across the top of the pit.
He was now able to see that he’d been right. The hole was bell-shaped. About ten feet deep. Tapering upward to an opening about four feet wide.
He looked up and saw Laura Price.
Which caught him off guard. He’d been wondering who the two guys worked for. His best guess had been the guy on the tower with the cardinal.
A rope fell from above, which she used to climb down. The moment her feet hit the earthen floor, he clipped her legs out from under her and she dropped to the soft sandy floor.
He came to his feet and stood over her.
She shook her head. “Feel better after that cheap shot?”
“Where am I?”
“Inside a piece of history. You should feel honored. The Knights of Malta once dug these prisons all over the island. They’re called guvas. Means ‘birdcage.’ Bad little knights were thrown in and left for days, or weeks, at a time. A few even forever. The only guva most people think still exists is beneath Fort St. Angelo, not far from here. But there’s another, right here. As you can see, there’s no way out except by ladder or rope.”
She stood, wearing a look of unpredictability, her blond hair loosely gathered by a leather thong. Everything about her breathed freedom. He watched as she brushed the dirt from her clothes and examined the walls.
“Did you notice this?” she asked, pointing at the rock.
He stepped over and, in the dim light, spotted carved letters.
AD MELIORES.
“Toward better things,” she said, translating. “Obviously, a plea from a former occupant.”
