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Within the order a precious few were privy to the most confidential of information. Thankfully, he was one of those. He knew the story of Mussolini’s visit to the Villa del Priorato di Malta and what he told Grand Master Rovere-Albani. I’ve even done him a favor and sealed it away where no one can get to it. If Mussolini truly found the Trinity, this could be his hiding place.
At least that’s what James Grant had told him. Now it was time to determine if the information he’d risked everything to obtain was true.
Finally, the Brits were out of the way.
Only the Americans remained.
But he’d handle them.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Kastor hunched in the low-riding dghajsa as Chatterjee headed them out of the bay and toward open sea. He didn’t necessarily agree with the wisdom of that move in the storm but decided not to argue. The idea was surely to get as far away from the men with guns as possible. To a place where they could come ashore in seclusion and safety.
The Mediterranean’s great plain loomed dark. Giant thunderheads banked overhead, bolts of lightning cracking inside the clouds, charging them with a white glow. Waves clawed over the side as they rose and fell into the troughs. On the distant horizon he saw more flickering of thunderclouds.
He knew the coastal geography.
South Malta was littered with towering cliffs, some dropping over 250 meters. They were now out of St. Thomas Bay heading toward Delimara Point. He could see the lighthouse beacon through the storm. Though invisible in the night, he knew that Fort Delimara loomed ahead, built by the British in the 19th century. Mostly underground, its armaments and casements were set in the cliffs near the point. It had been a derelict during his childhood and, to his knowledge, remained so today. So no refuge could be sought there.
The rain continued to squall.
Chatterjee angled the motor a quarter to starboard, on a path to cut across Marsaxlokk Bay. The bow heaved against the waves. High on emotion and lack of sleep, Kastor felt riddled with anxiety. He turned back toward Chatterjee and, in the distance, spotted the fast-approaching profile of a powerboat, running lights winking green and red.
“That could be trouble,” he called out, pointing, his words thrown back in his face by the wind.
Chatterjee turned around and saw their pursuer, too. “These people came prepared.”
Which made him wonder again who his enemy might be. “Why do they want me dead?”
“You think too highly of yourself, Eminence.”
Then it hit him.
“They’re after you?”
“I would say so.”
They passed the southern tip of the bay. The famed cart ruts were nearby, at the Dingli Cliffs. Pairs of grooves cut into the rocky ground back in the Bronze Age that crisscrossed one another, a remnant of the past that he recalled from childhood. No one really knew how they originated. Sledges? Wheels? Slides? Hard to say. A mystery. One the nuns could never explain.
Like right now.
This was madness.
Out on the sea during a raging storm in a dghajsa propelled by a mere few horsepower, while a powerboat carrying who-knew-what bore down on them.
He grabbed his bearings.
Then he remembered the caves.
The south shore was littered with them, their names reflective of their history. Cat’s. Reflection. Circle. Elephant. Honeymoon. The Ghar Hasan was perhaps the most famous. Supposedly the Saracen Hasan took refuge there with a young maiden he abducted. He recalled a footpath that led to stone steps heading down a limestone cliff. Inside were a series of passages, none of them hospitable, but Hasan had supposedly occupied one of them. That cave was too high from the water to be of any help. But the grottoes that existed below could provide a place to hide. The Blue Grotto was the most famous. He racked his brain and thought back. His gaze raked the darkened shoreline, periodically illuminated by lightning. The prop continued to bite the water. Their pursuer was coming ever closer, but still loomed a couple of kilometers away.
He pointed to the right. “Head toward shore.”
“You’re thinking the grottoes,” Chatterjee asked.
“It’s the only shelter we’ve got. If we hurry, we might be able to disappear into one without being seen. But you’re going to have to get close for us to be able to see.”
He checked his watch, the hands illuminated in the darkness.
12:20 A.M.
Another day had begun.
Which brought the conclave ever closer, now less than twelve hours away.
This was way beyond anything he’d ever experienced. Granted, he’d defied the Holy See with his outspoken dissension, but that was vastly different from men trying to kill him. Genuine fear surged through him, an unusual feeling. Never once had he feared the pope or the curia. Regret? Definitely, he’d felt that. Nobody liked to lose.
But this was nothing like that.
His eyes focused through the night, searching for an opening in the towering cliffs. Lightning continued to flash at regular intervals, offering a few precious seconds of clarity.
“There,” he yelled, pointing ahead. “A grotto. I saw it.”
“I did, too,” Chatterjee said.
They rounded another point, the bow headed toward a small bay, homing in on the spot he’d seen in the last flash. Ill-tempered squalls kept scuffing the wavetops white. Another lightning bolt exploded overhead and he saw they were headed for an arch in the limestone wall, the entrance formed by a craggy arc of rain-sheered rock, a curtain of rivulets pouring down to the sea.
The powerboat was momentarily out of sight, which allowed them time to find the dark chasm in the cliff wall. Chatterjee navigated to the archway and they passed beneath the waterfall that spilled down across the opening. Kastor’s clothes were soaked, the dghajsa puddled with water. Now, though, they were sheltered by a roof of stone, the grotto beyond calm to the night. During the day, combined with sunlight and the surrounding chain of rock, the water would reflect the phosphorescent colors of the submerged flora forming shades of blue and green. Tonight there was only black.
“There’s a ledge,” he called out, seeing its outline in the blackness.
Chatterjee eased to it. “Get out.”
He stared back at the Indian.
“Get out,” Chatterjee said again. “Stay out of sight. I’ll divert them.”
“Let’s stay together.”
For some reason he did not want to be alone.
“You’re going to be pope. I’m hired help. Now get the hell out of this boat and let me do my job.”
He hopped onto the limestone, the ledge perched just above the surface. He heard the dghajsa’s outboard rev and the craft sped away, deeper into the grotto, toward the exit on the far side. From beyond the entrance he heard the roar of the powerboat, drawing closer, its engine a steady drone above the wind and rain. Chatterjee slipped back out into the storm.
Then a new sound invaded the monotony.
Rat, tat, tat.
Gunfire.
More fear swept through him. He’d never felt more helpless. A need to withdraw came over him. He stared into the blackness and saw an even darker splotch. A cave? He carefully inched his way across the rough rock, slippery with seawater, and saw he was half right. Not a cave, more a tunnel. He knew most of them came to a dead end. He headed inside. This one drained into a small chamber hewn from the rock.
More gunfire could be heard.
He recalled the caves he’d explored as a child, most decorated with stalac
tites and splash deposits. Sometimes even crude paintings from antiquity. Hard to know if this one came with any of that. He sat on the wet limestone, breathing evenly, gathering his strength. He dared not give way to panic and forced his mind to behave.
What a predicament for a prince of the church.
He backed himself against the wall, his head pounding like a piston.
Once again he felt like Paul, who also supposedly found refuge in a Maltese cave. Paul was not one of the original twelve, but an apostle nonetheless. A servant of Christ who experienced a sudden, startling revelation that set him apart from others. He gained a reputation for bucking the law. His fate was sealed by writing letters to the Romans, Galatians, and Corinthians. He recalled the words from Acts about the viper on Malta. How the locals said, No doubt this man is a murderer, whom, though he has escaped the sea, yet justice does not allow to live. But Paul shook off the bite of the viper and they were expecting that he would swell up or suddenly fall down dead. But after they had looked for a long time and saw no harm come to him, they changed their minds and said that he was a god.
He’d planned to also shake off the viper, suffer no harm, and be regarded as a god. Like Paul, though, it seemed he might meet a horrible fate. No one really knew how or when Paul died. But every account that had survived described a violent demise in one form or another. Decapitation. Crucifixion. Stabbing. Strangulation.
Would his fate be similar?
There’d not been any more shots for a few minutes.
A good sign?
Had Chatterjee led them away?
From the tunnel’s entrance, back into the grotto, he heard the hum of an engine. Low, steady. His gaze locked on the blackness.
A new surge of fear swept through him.
Footsteps approached. Coming his way across the hard stone through the tunnel. He dared not say a word. Then a form appeared in the chamber. No details. No face. Just a man.
“Eminence.”
Chatterjee’s voice.
Thank God.
“Are they gone?” he asked, hoping.
Chatterjee stepped farther inside. Another form appeared behind him, the outline of a gun in the man’s right hand.
