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All had dropped right into place.
And while the pope’s body had lain on view inside St Peter’s Basilica and hundreds of thousands filed by, Spagna had appeared at the Palazzo di Malta with an intriguing offer.
A way to make Kastor pope.
The Lord’s Own had become aware of Kastor’s private investigations and his interest in the Trinity. But Spagna was several steps ahead, though he’d refused to share the details. Cardinals had long been bribed and coerced. Nothing new there. Before the 20th century the college had been small enough that it was easy to alter its course with just a few moves. Modern conclaves were different. 100 to 150 cardinals participated, which added mathematical challenges. But cardinals were men and men were flawed. So while the pope was buried beneath St. Peter’s, he and Spagna had schemed. It had been Spagna who insisted Kastor be sent to Malta. He wanted to make a deal face-to-face, and he wanted Kastor out of Rome so he could not do anything stupid to ruin things.
And he’d made that happen.
Then, once the greedy Italian at Como had contacted the knights and wanted to sell the letters, a path opened to the Trinity. So he’d improvised and used the opportunity to finally bring the Brits to the table by acquiring the Churchill letters. James Grant had been easy to manipulate. The Americans, too. But Kastor the easiest of them all. Whoever exalts himself will be humbled, and whoever humbles himself will be exalted.
The Bible was right.
Kastor never learned humility.
Neither had Spagna, which was why he had to die, along with his minion Chatterjee and Roy, his second in command. Spagna wanted the Constitutum Constantini destroyed. The Entity considered it a direct threat to the church, one that should be eliminated. Whether it was destroyed or not mattered little to him. But that flash drive.
It mattered the most.
So he’d allowed Spagna to play his hand. The fool had apparently wanted to be the pope-maker. And what better way than by providing a cardinal, with little to no moral structure, the ammunition needed to blackmail his way to the papacy. One who’d owe him big time.
What better way, indeed.
The only unexpected occurrence had been the Americans. But Spagna had assured him he had them under control.
He smiled at the dead spy’s naïveté.
Sadly, the Lord’s Own had never realized that the greatest danger he faced would come from within. Pollux’s men had taken out Spagna, Chatterjee, Laura Price, and John Roy with each death blamed on the Secreti.
Which, of course, no longer existed.
It had all been a ruse. His creation.
“What a fool you were,” he whispered to his brother.
Then he pocketed the flash drive, lifting it off the hard earth where it had fallen from Kastor’s grip. He supposed he should feel some regret, but he harbored not a speck of remorse. Unlike the knight at the villa by Como. That death he’d regretted. Killing a fellow Christian had always been forbidden for the Hospitallers. It was part of their oath to protect Christians. But the murder had been unavoidable. He could not allow Malone to take that man into custody. Everything would have been placed in peril.
And killing Kastor?
He was a lot of things, but a Christian his brother was not. Just an opportunist who used the church to further his own ambitions.
Two men entered the inner chapel. One was the man who’d escorted Malone from Rome to Rapallo, the other the man who’d impersonated him once Malone arrived and tried to eliminate the ex-agent at the archives. That had not turned out according to plan. He’d only made the attempt because James Grant had insisted. But once the effort failed, he’d adapted and decided to personally intervene, working the Americans himself. It had also allowed him to be on the inside and learn what Spagna and Stephanie Nelle were doing.
Just another of the many differences between him and Kastor. He possessed an ability to disregard what was not working and immediately change to something that would. It had been easy to ingratiate himself with both the British and the Americans. Easy to enlist their help to solve the obelisk and the puzzle at the cathedral.
The problems had come from Spagna.
A true maverick.
Impossible to control.
But not anymore.
He slipped the flash drive into his pocket.
“Grab him,” he told his two men.
They grasped Kastor’s ankles and wrists, lifting the body and following him deeper into the inner chapel. Another oak door waited at the end of a short apse. He opened its iron latch and switched on another series of lights. A spiral staircase led down, and he followed the corkscrewed path deeper into the earth. His two men, with Kastor, followed him down. His brother’s bulk made the going slow.
At the bottom he navigated another corridor hewn from the rock to a small chamber. A doorway led out on the far side. The entire underground network of alcoves and corridors had been fashioned sometime in the 17th century. Most had served as gunpowder and ammunition depots. The hole in the ground before him had been dug long ago, too. About three meters wide, five meters deep, its walls bell-shaped, tapering outward the farther down they stretched.
A guva.
He motioned and they laid Kastor down on the parched ground. His men knew exactly what to do. All six of his trusted associates were now on Malta, three here for the past few days on the boat offshore, the other three standing ready at Fort St. Angelo, waiting for his call, which he’d made from the cathedral once Malone had solved the riddle. There was no way he could accomplish anything alone. That was why the Secreti had been reactivated. Of course it was all mainly for appearance’s sake, but he’d bound them all together with the ring and a promise of good things to come.
His two men undressed Kastor.
One reason strangulation had been chosen was the preservation of the clothing. He needed it all intact.
“I’ll help finish this,” he said, then motioned to one of his acolytes. “Get the shovels and rope.”
The man left while he and the other finished removing Kastor’s clothes. His brother’s body was not nearly as fit as his own, but the size and shape were reasonably similar. He carefully folded the clothes and set them to the side, along with the shoes.
The other man returned.
To the right of the guva an oak post protruded from the ground. To it, one of his men tied the end of the thick hemp rope they’d brought in earlier. There had to be a way in and out of the pit, and a rope was the most practical choice, the post having been there for centuries. The coil was thrown into the black yawn. He nodded and his men tossed the shovels down then used the rope to descend into the guva. Burying his brother at the bottom of the pit seemed the perfect place as no one was allowed inside St. Magyar’s without express permission of the grand master. Since there wasn’t one at the moment, control of this locale fell to him as temporary head of command. But even after a new leader was chosen, no one would venture into this guva.
There’d be no reason.
And by then all traces of this night would be gone.
“Bury him deep,” he called out.
He listened as they dug.
This was not just the closing of a chapter in his life. More like an entire part. Nothing would be the same after tonight. But he was ready. The Hospitallers had provided him the perfect refuge. He’d managed to learn things, build relationships, establish loyalties, all in anticipation of what was about to happen. Two days ago he’d been unsure if any of this was possible, but now he was much more confident.
His men stopped digging.
They both climbed back up using the rope. They were about to toss Kastor into the guva when he recalled something. He found his phone and snapped a picture of his brother’s face and hair.
Then he removed the ring from the right hand.
Each newly elected cardinal was presented with a gold ring by the pope. Kissing that ring was a sign of respect.
He slipped it onto his own finger.
> Then nodded.
And they dropped Kastor’s naked body over the edge, the corpse finding the bottom with a thud.
His men climbed back down to finish the burial.
Not the end his brother imagined. Surely Kastor had thought his mortal remains would rest forever beneath St. Peter’s along with so many other popes.
Not going to happen, he mouthed.
Or at least, not exactly.
CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT
Luke sat in the holding cell.
Familiar territory.
How many had he graced over the years?
His clothes were still wet from his second dip in the Med. His boat had sunk the yacht, killing all the men aboard. The harbor patrol had responded to the explosion and fished the bodies and him from the water, though he’d tried to avoid them in the dark.
Damn night-vision goggles.
It would have been so much easier to just swim back to shore unnoticed. The locals were rarely helpful. Most times they were a giant pain in the ass. And this time was no exception. He’d deflected all of their questions, practicing the ol’ Sergeant Schultz of I see nothing, hear nothing, know nothing. He’d loved Hogan’s Heroes. The only thing he had said was United States Justice Department and Stephanie Nelle, coupled with a request to make a call.
Which they’d allowed.
He’d explained his current dilemma to Stephanie, keeping his story short, and she’d told him to sit tight.
No problem there.
But over an hour had passed since then in silence.
Which had given him time to think.
The steel door beyond the cell clattered open and a man entered the holding area. He recognized the face from the safe house. Kevin Hahn, head of Maltese security, and he did not look happy.
“I’ve spoken with Ms. Nelle,” Hahn said. “She told me about what happened with Laura. We found her body, and that of the Entity’s second in command, just where you said.” He pointed. “You killed four men, Mr. Daniels. This isn’t the United States. Murders are rare here. Yet we’ve had seven in the past twelve hours.”
He stood and faced the idiot through the bars. He wasn’t in the mood for lectures. Like Malone taught him. Never take crap from the locals. “I’m an agent for the United States government, on assignment, doing my job. Now get me out of here.”
