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The villa’s owner sighed from relief.
“Why did you not display the letters?” he asked. “As you did the ring.”
“My father told me that it might be risky. He said we should hold on to them quietly, until others were willing to pay.”
“So why sell now?”
“I need money. I read an article in a magazine about Churchill and Mussolini that speculated about the letters. I decided, why speculate. I have them. So I called the British.”
“What was to be your price?”
“Five million euros.”
For the love of money is a root of all kinds of evils. It is through this craving that some have wandered away from the faith and pierced themselves with many pangs.
The Bible was right.
He hated greed.
Enough.
This endeavor had run its course.
He raised his arm and shot the owner in the head.
A sound suppressor at the end of the barrel made sure the round drew no attention. Just a pop that could not be heard beyond a few meters. This fool should have realized that the only bargaining chip he had was the hiding place. But fear stymied reason, and people always thought they could talk their way out of things.
“Do it,” he said to his associate.
The body was hauled up, the dead man’s arms wrenched hard backward. He heard a crack as the shoulders separated. Then the rope was tied around the trunk, the corpse dangling awkwardly in the air, as a reminder, just as had been done centuries ago.
Deuteronomy was right.
Vengeance is mine, and retribution. In due time their foot will slip. For the day of their calamity is near, and the impending things are hastening upon them.
He grabbed the binoculars and stepped back to where he could again see the villa below. The only disturbance came from the morning breeze hissing through the conifers, tugging at his clothes. His second problem was still perched on the third-floor ledge.
The bear was not in sight.
He lowered the binoculars.
That animal was about to be the least of Harold Earl “Cotton” Malone’s concerns.
CHAPTER THREE
Cotton stood rock-still on the ledge. The bear had disappeared back inside the villa, but he could hear the animal rustling around. There was a second open window, beyond the one from which he’d escaped, that offered an opportunity to flee his perch and go back inside. But that would mean passing by the bear’s window, which did not seem like a good idea.
He strained his weight back on the balls of his feet, hands pressed tight to the wall, trying not to lose his balance. To his left, the tip of a gabled roof from a first-floor offshoot rose to a pitch. The jump down was about eight feet. He could make that. Since it seemed the only course available he sidestepped his way across the cornice, reaching a clawing hand around the corner and making the turn, keeping his body flat against the exterior wall.
He sucked in a few deep breaths.
Good thing Cassiopeia wasn’t here. She hated heights as much as he hated enclosed spaces. He used thoughts of her to take his mind off his current predicament. He missed her. Their relationship was in a good place. They’d finally made peace with all of their demons. She was in France, working on her 13th-century castle reconstruction. They were scheduled to get together next week for a few days of fun in Nice. In the meantime he’d agreed to this supposed cakewalk of a job—an easy 50,000 euros—that had turned into anything but.
He stopped his creep along the edge above the gable.
The one thing he could not do was land directly on the ridge.
That would be life changing.
He jumped, angling for one of the sides, and his feet found hard slate. He had only a moment to secure a grip before he rebounded and slid off. His fingernails tore against the warm stone, then his hands caught on the ridge where he held on tight.
Releasing his grip, he scuttled down the slope of the slate toward guttering, his legs extended, using the soles of his shoes as brakes until he found the copper. The gutters squeaked in protest and shifted from his weight, but held. He lowered himself over the edge, clinging to it, wincing at every groan of protest the metal supports uttered. From there he dropped to the ground, landing in the grass near a copse of shrubbery.
Unfortunately, he had to go back inside the villa.
He could wait until the bear moved on, but that could take a while. The owner might return and find the body. The police would then be called and this would become a crime scene, preventing any attempt at finding those letters.
Now was the time, bear or no bear.
But he wasn’t going to be foolish.
He hustled around to the front door. Earlier, he’d noticed a gun case in the ground-floor salon. He reentered the villa and heard the bear foraging upstairs. He found the case, which was locked. Eight rifles stood at attention inside. He grabbed a nearby chair and shattered the glass, removing one of the single-barreled shotguns. In a cabinet beneath he located shells. He slid five inside, then pumped the weapon, chambering a round, readying himself for the climb to the third floor. He didn’t want to kill the animal but would if necessary.
He climbed the stairs again to the third-floor landing.
The bear remained in the bedroom from which he’d escaped out to the ledge. Judging by the noise, the animal was continuing to wreak havoc on the décor. He approached the open door. The bear’s attention was elsewhere, which allowed him to scoot past to the other side, near the open window at the end of the hall. He was cornered, but it seemed the only way to herd the animal toward the stairway and down to the front door, which he’d left wide open.
A quick count to three and he stepped back into the doorway, firing a blast of the shotgun into the far wall. The bear jumped with a start, then roared in fright. Cotton fled back toward the open window in the hall, pumping another round into the chamber. The bear rushed from the bedroom, tossed a quick glance his way, then turned and loped down the third-floor hall in the opposite direction. To make sure the animal kept going, he fired again into the ceiling. Wood splinters and plaster dust showered down.
The bear disappeared onto the stairs.
He followed to the second-floor landing and watched as the animal rushed out the front door.
That worked.
But at a cost of noise that somebody might have noticed.
* * *
The knight heard two gun blasts.
The villa’s owner had told him that what he sought waited inside a small study on the third floor. He’d watched as Malone had worked his way off the ledge, found solid ground, then reentered the house. The two gunshots were surely Malone’s, so he had to assume his adversary was now armed.
At least the bear was gone.
The animal had fled the villa, running as fast as its bulk would allow into the trees beyond.
He was pleased. This might be the place.
Everything pointed in the right direction.
In his escape attempt Mussolini had taken many documents north with him, presumably those of the greatest importance, papers that could be used for political advantage. He’d been seeking refuge in a neutral country, one that had worked hard to stay out of the war. Hitler had wanted to invade Switzerland, but Mussolini had taken the credit for stopping him. Il Duce had been betting that Swiss authorities would be grateful enough to grant him political sanctuary. Historians all agreed that he probably brought with him written proof of his efforts to save the Swiss from the Germans. But apparently he’d also brought his legendary correspondence with Churchill, which had drawn the current interest of the British.
His hope?
/> Maybe, just maybe, there might also be something else within the villa owner’s cache. Something special. What he’d sought for a long time. The appearance of the ring had encouraged him. This could, indeed, be the right place.
Was it there?
Only one way to find out.
* * *
Cotton set the shotgun down and lifted one corner of the Turkish rug that covered the third-floor study. He examined the wooden floor planks, each pitted and weathered, and at first glance nothing seemed unusual.
Everything nailed in place.
He dropped to his knees and began to softly tap the surface, searching for the hiding place that he’d been told was there. Finally he detected a hollowness. He kept tapping, defining the outline of a square-shaped cavity. To get it open he’d brought along a hefty pocketknife he’d bought yesterday on his way north from the airport.
He opened the blade.
It took a few minutes but he managed to free a panel composed of fused planks. From the lack of dirt and grit in the joints it seemed that it had recently been removed, then replaced. Below the floor he discovered a small cavity that contained a tattered satchel, made of elephant skin, he’d been told, with a broken clasp bound by a sash cord.
He lifted it out.
Etched into the side was a perched eagle, wings extended, clutching a bundle of sticks with an ax.
It was an ancient symbol from imperial Rome, reflecting power over life and death. Nineteenth- and early-20th-century Italian political organizations had routinely adopted it as their emblem. Eventually it appeared on the flag of the National Fascist Party, which took its name from the fasces symbol.
He opened the satchel.
Inside was a well-preserved treasure trove of documents sealed within a thick fold of oilskin. He was fluent in Italian, and several other languages, one of the benefits of having an eidetic memory, so he took a quick inventory, flicking through the brittle sheets. Most dealt with the war, partisan activities, and military reports. There were a few typed letters from Hitler, originals, with Italian translations pinned to them, and some carbons sent to Germany. A few had postscripts and marginal notations in longhand. At the bottom of the stack lay a sheaf of prewar letters between Mussolini and Churchill.
