The Malta Exchange (Cotton Malone 14)

That was indeed an impressive treasure.

“Which answers your question,” Gallo said. “The Italian justice system leaves a lot to be desired. Corruption is common. There is little doubt that judge was bribed. But again, we’ll never know the truth, as the matter was not investigated. But part of that 1957 trial record consists of depositions detailing the inventory of two elephant-skin satchels, which were taken from Mussolini when he was captured. Both had the party’s symbol etched on the outside. An eagle clutching a fasces.”

One of which he’d held in his hands earlier.

“Both of those satchels disappeared,” Gallo said. “They have not been seen since 1945. By 1960 nearly everyone associated with what had been found with Mussolini had either died or disappeared. Ever since, men have searched. Now, today, you apparently found one of the satchels.”

They were following a two-lane switchback road that descended from the promontory. The man who’d brought him from Rome sat in the front passenger seat, a third man in another dark suit driving. Neither had spoken, or even acknowledged that there was someone else in the car.

“What do you know about the letters between Mussolini and Churchill?” he asked Gallo.

“I’m familiar with the speculation. The British have long believed Mussolini brought some, or all, of his correspondence with Churchill north during his escape attempt. That is a possibility. There was an emissary of ours present both in Dongo and at the villa where Mussolini and his mistress were kept the night before they died. Mussolini spoke of documents he had that the British might find embarrassing. He even offered them in return for safe passage out of Italy. But he did not elaborate on what those were and, by the time he spoke of them, they were no longer in his possession. The partisans had them in Dongo.”

“Why was an emissary of the Hospitallers talking to Mussolini?”

“We wanted something he stole from us returned. We hoped he’d brought it north, too.”

Cotton motioned with the ring. “Something like this?”

Gallo nodded. “One of these rings was involved. Taken from a professed knight whom Mussolini had ordered killed. We definitely wanted it returned.”

He waited for more, but nothing was offered. So he tried something easier. “I need to know more about this ring.”

“It represents a sect that once existed within our ranks called the Secreti. They date back to the Crusades and our time in Jerusalem, and they were a part of us in Rhodes and Malta. Only the highest-ranking knights were invited to join, their numbers small. For a long time not even the grand masters were privy to their activities. That was because grand masters only lived a few years, or even a few months. Many of them inept and corrupt. The Secreti lasted longer and kept true to their vows. They became a law unto themselves, trusting no one, using their own methods, their own rules, their own justice to keep the order’s secrets safe. The only thing those men trusted was God. For all intents and purposes, though, they ended when Napoleon claimed Malta. The knights dispersed across the globe, our secrets going with them. They were formally disbanded just after World War II.”

“Yet you, the guy in the front seat, and the dead man back at Como are all still wearing the ring.”

Gallo smiled. The effort seemed almost painful. “Merely ceremonial, Mr. Malone. A hark back to another time. We Hospitallers are appreciative of the past. We like to recall it. And to answer your question from earlier, there is a Maltese cross etched inside my ring. But the Secreti no longer exist. Our rings are mere copies, made by a Roman jeweler. I can provide his name and address, if you like.”

It all sounded so innocent, so correct, but nothing about this man rang right. Particularly annoying was the lowered voice, which seemed a means of ascendancy, a way to shrink others down and control the conversation.

“You’re in temporary charge of the Hospitallers?” he asked.

Gallo nodded. “I was selected to fill the position after the grand master was forced to resign. We planned on making a permanent choice two weeks ago, but the pope’s death changed that. We will convene after the conclave and select a new leader.”

He was curious, “Your last name. Gallo. Any relation to Cardinal Gallo?”

“He is my brother.”

Now that was convenient. From the media accounts he’d read the cardinal had wreaked havoc within the Hospitallers, essentially masterminding the grand master’s ouster. Then his brother emerged as the temporary man in charge? What were the odds on that one? He also recalled what James Grant had wanted him to explore.

“I’m told that the knights have a fascination with Mussolini?”

Gallo gave a slight shake of his head. “Not a fascination. More a historical interest. But that is a private matter, one we don’t discuss outside our ranks.”

Exactly what James Grant had warned they would say.

His host shifted slightly in the leather seat. Enough that Cotton caught a glimpse of what he thought might be a shoulder holster beneath the suit jacket.

Intriguing.

Why did a professed man of God carry a weapon? True, Hospitallers were once warrior-monks, defending the honor of Christ and the church.

But not anymore.

They were now climbing a ridge on a second switchback road. The Ligurian Sea stretched toward the western horizon, looking pale and weary in the faint red glow of the setting sun. The lights of Portofino could be seen in the distance. Ahead, he spotted an irregular group of buildings, perched on a precipitous neck of stone, facing the water. They had a fortresslike character from the crenellated walls to the distinctive towers, and seemed more hacked by the wind and rain from the rock than human-made.

“We’re headed for that monastery?” he asked Gallo.

“It was once a holy place. But we acquired the site about sixty years ago.”

The car kept climbing.

“When we were forced from Malta by Napoleon,” Gallo said, “we took some of our archives with us. They were stored in various places around Europe, sometimes not all that carefully. Finally we obtained this site, refurbished the old buildings, and consolidated everything. There is a small repository still on Malta, but the majority of our records and artifacts are kept here.”

The car turned onto a short drive, then passed through an open gate into an enclosed courtyard. Floodlights lit the cobbles to reveal another huge white Maltese cross etched into their surface.

The Mercedes stopped.

“You should feel privileged,” Gallo said.

“How so?”

“Few outside the knights are ever allowed here.”

But he was not comforted by the honor.

* * *

The knight lowered the binoculars.

His view of the old monastery, now an archival repository for the Knights of Malta, was unobstructed from his dark perch. He’d watched from the trees as the car entered the lit courtyard and Cotton Malone emerged.

He’d traveled south from Como at a leisurely pace with the elephant-skin satchel and its contents safe within his car. Before leaving Menaggio, he’d read all eleven letters between Churchill and Mussolini, learning enough of the details that he could now speak intelligently about them.

And he had.

Talking to the British by phone, informing them as to what he possessed, what he wanted, and learning what they desired in return.

Which had surprised him.

But it had been doable.

He glanced at his watch.

Time to go.

He had a meeting.

CHAPTER TWENTY

5:40 P.M.

Luke stepped out of the building onto one of Valletta’s quieter side streets. Actually, more an alley between two walls of stone. He saw traffic moving along perpendicular at either end. He’d followed Laura Price up from the tunnels into a basement full of wooden crates. Mostly wine. From the looks of things, it was some sort of storage room. She seemed to know her way around the nooks and crannies.

The evening was still warm from the sweltering day. They headed to one end of the alley. When he caught sight of the harbor he realized he was not far from his car. He’d always been blessed with a keen sense of direction. Numbers and names were tough to recall. Faces not much better. But where he’d been? That stuck with him.

“I need my phone,” he told her. “It’s in my car.”

“Can’t it wait?”

“No. It can’t.”

He led the way.

“Cardinal Gallo is currently in Mdina,” she told him. “That’s about twelve kilometers from here. The man who was on the Madliena Tower, Arani Chatterjee, is there in Mdina with him.”

Good. He owed that SOB.

“Chatterjee likes to call himself an archaeologist, and he has credentials, but he’s really just a grave robber, a dealer in stolen antiquities.”

They kept walking.

People filled the sidewalks, most dressed in T-shirts, shorts, and sandals. A brisk breeze swept in from the sea like an invisible river.

One question bothered him. “Why is everyone in such a panic over this conclave?”

“Picking a pope is a big deal.”

“Really? I hadn’t realized.”