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?By Mussolini?” Cotton asked.
Gallo nodded. “And he clearly found something that commanded two popes’ attention. Enough that he was able to compel them to stay out of his politics. We’ve always thought something significant came from that grave.”
“Was it the message we just read?” Stephanie asked.
“It has to be. And there’s one other thing.” Gallo stopped, laying the heavy duffel bag down. “Mussolini killed three of our brothers to obtain what we just read. Those men, like that long-ago prior of the cathedral, died fulfilling their oaths. What we always believed, and now know to be true, is that Mussolini ultimately found nothing. He lied to the Vatican. A good one, for sure, but a lie nonetheless.”
“How can you be so sure?” Stephanie asked.
“That’s easy,” Cotton said. “If he’d found the ultimate prize, it would have been inside that obelisk, instead of just clues as to where it might be.”
Gallo nodded. “He also apparently altered the original message, since there were no typewriters on Malta in 1798. The original would have been handwritten. Let’s hope he transcribed it correctly. It’s now incumbent on us to find what he could not locate and return it to our custody.”
He could hear the pain in Gallo’s voice. Surely membership in any long-standing secret brotherhood involved a healthy dose of male bonding. But a society with overt religious overtones and ancient historical purposes added entirely different dimensions. Eighty-plus years had passed since those three brothers had died, yet the wound seemed fresh as yesterday to Pollux Gallo.
“We need to go to Malta,” Gallo said.
“Why do you say that?” Cotton asked.
“It was in the words we just read. Where oil meets stone. What we seek is there.”
* * *
The knight had watched what was happening at the obelisk with both fascination and worry. The Codex Fori Mussolini seemed to be exactly where the newspaper accounts from the 1930s had suggested.
An excellent turn of events.
It would be an easy matter to assume control of the situation and deal with the Americans here and now, as he’d done at the villa by Lake Como. He had the resources available. Just a simple gesture would call them to action. But that did not seem like the smart play.
Not yet, anyway.
Nothing had ever been gained through impetuousness. Rash thinking always resulted in unsatisfying results. He’d come this far thanks to smart choices and smart moves, timed perfectly. No sense stopping now. His grand plan contained many moving parts. So much had to go right, and at precisely the right time. The original path he’d mapped toward success now seemed obsolete. Too many new and unpredictable players had entered the field. Which seemed troublesome, but it also oozed with opportunity.
He’d been able to listen to the conversation at the obelisk. The information on the sheet that had fallen free of the codex had to be what Mussolini stole, then hid away. The British were convinced of that fact, that’s what James Grant had said, and now it seemed they may have been correct.
Better to let this play out.
And take advantage of his good fortune.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
Kastor had not moved.
Nor had Chatterjee, who lay a few meters away.
Once the black form had left the cavern, no one else had approached through the tunnel. After a motor revved, then faded, not a sound had betrayed the night beside the slosh of the sea from the grotto. He’d never seen anyone shot before. But tonight he’d borne witness to two lives ending that way.
Tiredness and a sense of hopelessness crept over him. He was shaking, fear seeping from every pore like a wounded animal. Probably shock setting in. Lying still, he tried to repair himself. But that self-awareness did little to alleviate a bleak despair. Which made him feel ashamed.
Thankfully, no one was here to see his weakness.
And he could not show even a trace of that in the days ahead.
The church was wounded and in turmoil. China and Russia were drifting from its orbit. Europeans were avoiding mass. In Central and South America its once strong moral hold had become frail. And America. The worst of all. Deviant priests and indifferent bishops had inflicted immeasurable damage. People were leaving the church in droves. Few studied for the priesthood anymore. Even fewer Catholics cared. Traditionalists had drawn many of the older faithful away, while the young were simply disenchanted with religion in general. An educated laity seemed no longer willing to blindly memorize catechism and ignore the dreaded question, why.
The time had come for a man of action. One who knew the church’s laws and legacy, one who respected tradition and believed that the essence of truth lay within the Vatican, no reaching out required. The Roman Catholic Church was the greatest dynasty in human history. But malleable popes and a gluttony of poor thinking had led it astray.
That had to end.
He was about to challenge the College of Cardinals. Not all of them. Only a select few. The ones who could wield influence and bring the rest around where he could achieve the votes needed to win the papacy. He’d thought the Constitutum Constantini might be enough to accomplish that goal, but Spagna had unexpectedly offered something better.
And it was all on the flash drive Chatterjee had shown him.
He grabbed hold of his emotions and crawled across the rough stone, hoping it was still there. Chatterjee had fallen on his left side, so he rolled the body over and searched the pockets, finding the drive.
Thank God.
His salvation.
Provided it was real.
Too bad about Chatterjee. The man had tried to help, though he’d wondered what that help would ultimately cost from Spagna. It could not be as simple as Chatterjee had explained. Keep his job? A cardinal’s hat? There had to be more at stake than that.
And there was.
Killers.
Men who shot other men in cold blood with no compulsion. Who were they? Why had they not shot him? If there was any semblance of faith left in his bones, he should come to his knees and pray to God for both thanks and guidance. But he’d long ago lost any belief that there actually existed a merciful omnipotent being who watched over the earth with the benevolence of a loving father. That was a myth, part of religion, which had been created by man, organized by man, and existed for over two thousand years thanks to man.
Spagna had been right about one thing. The pressure had to be applied once the cardinals were locked away inside the Sistine Chapel, where no one could seek help from the outside.
But first things first. Get out of here.
He came to his feet and felt his way through the black tunnel, back to the grotto. The dghajsa was tied to a rock, seemingly waiting for him. He wondered if it was a trap, a way to get him back out on the water. But he discounted that as justified paranoia. If they, whoever they were, had wanted him dead, they would have shot him with Chatterjee.
He hopped in the boat and untied the line.
Three pulls and the outboard cranked.
The last time he’d piloted a boat had been as a child, with his father. He maneuvered out of the grotto and into the bay beyond. The storm had abated, the rain slackened to sprinkles, the wind subsided. He swung the bow around and headed out toward the open Med. No other vessels were in sight. The question was where to go. He could turn and parallel the south coast, perhaps docking at the popular Blue Grotto, which wasn’t all that far away. There he could make his way up to a road and find his way back to Valletta, leaving the island as fast as he could. Or he could retrace his route to the clockmaker’s house. Surely the police were there by now, considering a car had exploded. He could seek their protection, invoking his status as a cardinal. Insist on being taken to Rome. But that could mean publicity, and he could ill afford anything negative at the moment.
Only a few more hours remain. Stay anonymous and above the fray. Let your new friend handle the dirty work.
The advice he’d been given just a short w
hile ago on the phone.
Still, the clockmaker’s house seemed the safest route.
He turned the tiller east.
* * *
Luke drove the Volvo coupe and followed the directions provided on the cell phone. It helped that Laura knew the island and recalled a series of shops near St. Thomas Bay, just beyond the village of Marsaskala, one of them a longtime clockmaker. Neither of them had spoken of Spagna, their focus centered on getting out of Valletta.
“How deep is your boss involved in this?” he asked.
“He told me to work with Spagna. For once I decided not to argue and to do as I was told.”
“Where did this conversation take place?”
“In the apartment Spagna was tossed from.”
“You were gone awhile.”
She was being stingy with the information and the tone of his question signaled irritation.
“Look,” she said. “They didn’t tell me their life story. Spagna said he needed us both to help him out. His more immediate concern was that he was having trouble making contact with Chatterjee. He wanted the two of us to check it out. He told me that he left a car, the keys, a cell phone, and directions with you. If you were there, then both of us should head out. If you were gone, then you’d decided to opt out and I was to do it on my own.”
Exactly what the archbishop had told him, too.
“I headed back and found you were having a party without me.”
“I appreciate you crashin’ it. Any idea who those people were?”
She shook her head. “Probably with the same ones who found Spagna. They knew both locations.”
“The Entity has a helluva leak.”
“To say the least. But right now we need to find Cardinal Gallo.”
The farther from Valletta they drove, the less it rained. She’d used the cell phone to confirm her own navigation, but she easily led them to the correct site. Ahead, he caught the strobe of blue lights off into the night before he saw the police and emergency vehicles.
