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“No,” Chatterjee said. “And I was caught.”
He did not know what to say.
The form behind him stood still.
He wanted to stand but his muscles had frozen. Two bangs echoed off the stone walls, which hurt his ears. Chatterjee pitched forward and fell hard to the ground, not moving. He stared at the dark form in astonishment. Would it all end here? Alone? Inside a cliff. With no meaning or purpose? All that he’d endured would come to nothing?
He finally gave in to his calling and closed his eyes, saying a prayer, hoping God, if he existed, was indeed merciful.
Nothing happened.
He opened his eyes.
The sound of footsteps moved away.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Luke finished off another of the ring-shaped loaves filled with cheese and meat. Laura called them ftira, something of a cross between a calzone and a sandwich. What he particularly liked was the thin slices of potato that adorned the outer crust. Unusual. But tasty. He washed the late supper down with a Kinnie, reminiscent of a Coke with less sugar. A beer would have been preferable, but none had been offered. He’d been grateful for the meal. He was hungry, and every growing boy needed three squares a day. Or at least that’s what his mother always said.
Laura had eaten a little before an older, dark-haired man with a pouch around his waist appeared. She introduced him as Kevin Hahn, her boss, head of Maltese security. She then left with Spagna and Hahn. He’d wondered about all the chumminess that excluded him, but decided not to allow his feelings to be hurt, using the time to think.
A couple of newspapers were lying on the kitchen table. The Malta Independent. He noticed a front-page headline dated a few days ago—ALL IS READY FOR THE CONCLAVE—and scanned the article.
VATICAN CITY—Cardinals are filing into Rome for preliminary meetings to ponder who among them might be best to lead the church. Invitations to attend went out to all cardinal-electors under the age of 80 the day after the pope died. They arrive by private car, taxi, and mini bus at the gates of the Vatican for gatherings known as general congregations, closed-door meetings in which they will get to know each other and decide who will next lead 1.2 billion Catholics.
“We need a man of governance, by that I mean a man who is intimately connected with the people he chooses to help him govern the church,” Cardinal Tim Hutchinson, the former archbishop of Westminster in London, said.
The voting-cardinals, numbering about 150, have been holding two meetings a day. One of their purposes is to select the conclave officers and review all of the rules. They also talk of the Holy See, the curia, and the expectations of a new pope. These preliminary sessions provide the cardinals a chance to size up potential candidates by watching them closely in the debates and checking discreetly with other cardinals about their qualifications or any skeletons in their closets. All necessary as these men come from all over the world and are rarely together.
“We’ve had meetings all this week to get to know each other better and consider the situations that we face,” Hutchinson said.
He added that he could not say, at this stage, who the favorites might be. Cardinals never reveal publicly who they prefer but they do occasionally drop hints in interviews by discussing their view of the ideal candidate. The most frequently mentioned quality is an ability to communicate the Catholic faith convincingly. But the suddenness of the pope’s death means that no front-runner currently stands out.
The Sistine Chapel itself is being prepared. The chimney is installed, leading down to the stove where the ballots will be burned after each vote. White smoke signals success. Black smoke failure. The color of each is ensured by a chemical pack added to the flames.
A further mix of high-tech gadgetry and Old World tradition will ensure secrecy, including a scrambling device that will block any attempt to phone or text the outside world. Bug sweepers will also guarantee the chapel is secure from unwanted eavesdroppers. Jamming will be used both inside the Sistine and at the nearby guesthouse at Santa Marta where the cardinals will sleep during the conclave. Computers will also be banned, so email and Twitter are firmly out of bounds.
But it’s not all down to high-tech gadgets.
A number of traditions will be strictly followed to ensure that the ballot is secret …
Luke recalled what Spagna had said about his people and conclave preparations. The Entity would possess all of the necessary expertise to ensure that secrecy was maintained. And who better than the Lord’s Own to protect the faithful.
The door opened and Spagna returned.
Alone.
Now his feelings were hurt.
“Where’s Laura?” he asked.
“She’ll be back shortly.”
“Is she in trouble with the boss?”
“I imagine that’s a situation you are quite familiar with.”
He grinned. “I’ve had my share of trouble.”
“I bet you have. When she gets back, I’ll need you both to take care of a situation that has arisen.”
The rain had eased but was still drizzling down.
“I’m trying to find my man who has Cardinal Gallo contained,” Spagna said. “But I’m having trouble making contact. He was headed toward St. Thomas Bay, to a local clockmaker’s shop. I need you both to go there and see what’s happening.”
“You think there’s a problem?”
“I have one of those bad feelings.”
He’d heard that before from Stephanie, and though he’d learned to trust her instincts, this guy was a stranger.
“I have to check in with my boss,” Luke made clear. “And that’s not a request. If you have a problem with that, then I’m out of here.”
“Your supervisor is on a helicopter headed toward Rome, unavailable at the moment. Cotton Malone and the temporary head of the Knights of Malta are with her. You should know that the temporary head is the twin brother of Cardinal Gallo.”
“Aren’t you a wealth of information,” he noted.
“That’s my job and, you’re right, I lied earlier. I don’t have Stephanie Nelle’s okay to use your services. But I’ll obtain it the moment it’s possible. I do have permission to use Ms. Price, though. So for the moment, it’s your call to stay or go. Make up your mind.”
“Why aren’t you working the conclave?”
“My people are preparing things as we speak.”
“And here you are. On a treasure hunt. Makes a fellow wonder.”
“Ever heard of multitasking?”
Luke rose from the table and tossed away the paper remnants from his supper into a trash can.
“There’s a car downstairs, parked across the street. A green Toyota. Here are the keys.” Spagna laid them on the table, along with a cell phone. “The directions to where you need to go are loaded on the map app. If you’re in, head there when Ms. Price returns. If not, give both to her. She’ll handle it. Either the both of you or her alone, find Gallo and my man and don’t let them out of your sight. Call me when you have them. My number is also loaded in the phone as number 1 on speed dial.”
Spagna left the apartment.
Bossy guy.
He had no choice. Which Spagna well knew. He had to stay. But now he had a cell phone. So he grabbed the unit and punched in the Magellan Billet emergency contact number. The phone did not connect. Instead, a message displayed that read INTERNATIONAL SERVICE NOT AVAILABLE.
He smiled.
Spagna was no fool.
He decided a trip to the head was in order. No telling when there’d be another chance. He laid his Beretta on the table, stepped into the bathroom, used the facilities, then washed his face and hands. Drying them with some paper towels, he walked back toward the trash bin in the outer room and tossed the paper away.
The door banged open, bursting from its jamb.
Which startled him.
Two men rushed inside.
Nothing in their look or manner signaled friend.
No way to
reach the gun, so he spun on his right heel and jammed an elbow down then up into the nearest threat. His assailant crumpled from the blow, dazed. He lunged, gritted his teeth, and kicked again. The second man flew back against the wall, rattling the hanging pictures. He advanced to finish the second guy off and momentarily forgot about the first man. A blow to his spine came hard and unexpected.
Followed by another.
Electric pain resonated down his back. His legs went limp, the pain overtaking the adrenaline, compounding his uneasiness. But he was well trained, well conditioned, a combat veteran who’d fought hand-to-hand in close quarters. He knew how to block pain from his mind and fight while hurt.
He spun around.
A fist smashed into his face.
If not for the tingling in his spine he could have counteracted, but he was too dazed to respond. The image before him, a man standing firm and ready, twirled.
So did the room.
