The Malta Exchange (Cotton Malone 14)

It was almost like this demon was reading his mind. Popes had the power to name cardinals in pectore, in the breast, with only the pope knowing of the appointment, in his heart. But in pectore cardinals could only function after the appointment became public. In modern times it had been used to protect an appointee from hostile political situations in places like China, Ukraine, Latvia, and Russia. Once the pope made the appointment public, the secret cardinal would then assume his duties and be ranked within the cardinalate back to the time of his selection. However, if a pope died before revealing the in pectore cardinal, the appointment died, too.

“John Paul II gave Archbishop Spagna an in pectore appointment, but died before revealing it,” Chatterjee said. “Not this time. He wants the red hat and the investiture ceremony. He wants all of the red vultures to be there and watch as he joins their ranks. The one thing you and he agree on is a mutual hatred of the curia.”

For so long the taste of failure had lingered in his mouth. Becoming pope would, in one stroke, regain everything he’d lost. He’d once said that the church’s greatest sin of modern times was an unwillingness to become involved.

The sin of omission.

Popes had grown soft, their voices devoid of thunder.

He would change that.

He’d originally thought that what he sought might be the best weapon to use in the coming conclave to sway votes. Now it seemed only a means to a better end. And he had no problem with any of Spagna’s demands.

But there were two things.

First—

“As head of the Entity, Spagna will do whatever I need done. No questions. No debate. Just do it.”

“Of course, that goes without saying.”

And second—

“What happened with the woman in the boat and the American parasailer?”

Chatterjee nodded. “Alea jacta est.”

He grinned at the irony.

The die is cast.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Cotton felt the swoop as the helicopter began to descend toward the Italian countryside. His greeter had led him to the top of the Palazzo di Malta, where a black-and-white AgustaWestland AW139 bearing civilian markings had landed on a small pad. He’d been under the mistaken impression that the interim grand master would be at the palazzo. Instead he’d been informed that the lieutenant ad interim waited at Villa Pagana, a seaside residence in Rapallo, about 250 miles to the north.

Evening was approaching, the late-afternoon sun hanging solemn in the western sky. Being transported a long way from Rome only raised more red flags in his already suspicious mind. True, the pessimist might be right in the long run, but he’d come to know that the optimist had a better time along the way. So he decided to keep an open mind.

He stared down at Rapallo, which looked like a typical seaside Italian town. An amphitheater of hills faced the sea supporting a jumble of whitewashed houses with red-tile roofs that funneled downward to a stark stretch of sandy beach. A promenade lined the shore, flanked by a small castle. Boats and yachts rolled at anchor in the blue waters of the Ligurian Sea.

The chopper came in low over the shoreline and flew inland, angling toward one of the villas, an impressive three-story battlement of ocher stone, set among a thick stand of maritime pines dominating a rocky promontory. A red flag with a white Maltese cross flew above its parapets.

“The villa was built in the 1600s,” his escort told him. “But it has only been the summer residence of the grand masters since the 1950s.”

They sat in a comfortable rear compartment, free of vibration, with black leather seats and enough insulation that their voices could be heard over the rotors.

He glanced out the window and noticed the manicured grounds, dotted with cacti, palm trees, and a carpet of flowers. At the promontory’s tip he spotted a ruined fortification. A small grassy clearing not far from the house seemed to serve as a landing pad, and the pilot eased the helicopter down to a gentle stop.

A black Mercedes coupe waited beyond the wash of the blades, and he followed his host to the car. In the backseat, across from him, sat a broad-shouldered man with neatly combed dark hair. He was clean-featured with a hard, lanky build. He sat straight with a military bearing, his jaw stretched forward, the face as bland as milk. As with his escort from Rome, this one wore a three-buttoned dark suit and striped tie, a pale-blue handkerchief providing a discreet contrast of color at the top of the breast pocket.

“I’m Pollux Gallo, the lieutenant ad interim.”

No hand was extended to shake, but his host did offer a slight smile of welcome.

“Cotton Malone. Sir James Grant sent me.”

The car drove across the grass and found a paved drive, heading away from the villa.

“Where are we going?”

“To obtain the answers you seek.”

He’d immediately noticed the ring on Gallo’s right hand. He found the one he’d taken from the dead man in his pocket.

“I was briefed by the British on what happened to you earlier today,” Gallo said. “They told me about that ring. I believe I can shed some light on the matter.”

“Were you shown a photo of the dead man?”

Gallo nodded. “He’s not one of us. But we’ve seen these copied rings before. There are jewelry stores across France and Italy that sell them. The palindrome is called a Sator Square, after the first word in the line of five. It has existed for a long time, with Roman origins.”

“Why is a Maltese cross inside?”

Gallo shrugged. “A good question.”

“I bet the one on your finger has a cross inside it, too. My guess is those copycats don’t have that addition.”

Finally a slight rise of the eyebrows signaling irritation. Good. This guy needed to know that he wasn’t dealing with an amateur.

He’d always hated funerals and only attended them when absolutely necessary. His first had been as a teenager, when his grandfather died. His own father disappeared when he was ten, lost at sea in a navy submarine. As a teenager, he and his mother moved back to Georgia and lived on the family’s onion farm. He and his grandfather grew close, and eventually seeing the old man in that coffin had hurt more than he’d ever imagined. He also remembered the f

uneral director. A dour man, not much different in looks and bearing from the statue sitting across from him, uttering predictable words.

So he told himself to stay alert.

“In 1957,” Gallo said, his voice lowered, “a trial occurred in Padua, Italy, where some of the partisans involved in the 1945 disappearance of Mussolini’s gold were prosecuted. Rumors had been rampant for years of how the gold might have been kept by the locals. Twelve years of investigation led to thirty-five defendants being charged with theft. Three hundred witnesses were subpoenaed. The trial was expected to last eight months, but was abruptly halted by the presiding judge after only twenty-six witnesses testified. It never reconvened and no further official inquiry was ever made into the gold’s disappearance. The presiding judge at that trial resigned his post in 1958. Interestingly, afterward he lived a posh life in a villa. That judge’s grandson was the man killed this morning. The owner of the villa by Lake Como.”

“Obviously, the judge was paid off.”

“I have no idea. I can only tell you what happened. We know that, on April 25, 1945, Allied forces were less than fifty miles from Milan. Mussolini called an emergency meeting of his cabinet and told them he was fleeing north to Switzerland. He then ordered what was left of the Italian treasury brought to the cabinet meeting. It consisted of gold ingots, currency, and the Italian crown jewels. He distributed the cash and jewels among his ministers and ordered them to leave the city with their caches. He kept the gold, some of the currency, and a few of the jewels. The best estimate is that about a hundred million U.S. dollars’ worth, in 1945 values, came north with him. Most of the currency would be worthless today. But the gold and jewels are another matter. Surely worth over a billion euros in today’s value.”