The Malta Exchange (Cotton Malone 14)

Someone started down the steps to the crypt.

He peered around the edge, past the tombs, through the blackness. The tiny altar light offered little assistance. His emotions alternated between fear and excitement, his body alive with a strange kind of energy, an unexplained power that had always clarified his thoughts. In the archway, at the base of the stairs, stood the outline of one of the robed brothers.

The silhouette crept in, gun leading the way.

He tightened his grip on the iron stem and cocked his arms back. He knew he had to draw the guy closer, so he ground the sole of his right shoe into the grit on the floor. A quick glance around the pillar confirmed that the man was now moving toward him. Shadows bobbed, swelled, then lessened on the ceiling. His muscles tensed. He silently counted to five, clenched his teeth, then lunged, swinging the candelabrum. He caught the guy square in the chest, sending the shadow back onto one of the Romanesque tombs. He tossed the iron aside and swung his fist hard to the face. The gun left the man’s grip and rattled across the mosaics.

His pursuer shot up and pounced.

But he was ready.

A second facial punch and another to the midsection sent the man teetering. He then tripped the guy’s feet out from under him, which allowed the head to pop the flagstones hard.

The man’s body went still.

He searched the floor for the gun, finding it and curving his fingers around the butt just as another set of footsteps bounded down and into the crypt.

Two shots came in his direction.

Dust snowed down from the vault as bullets found stone. He sought cover behind the pillar, peered around the edge, and fired once. The bullet ricocheted off the far wall, a signal that he was armed and ready.

It seemed to get attention.

“There’s no way out.”

Gallo’s voice, lashing across the chamber with an icy menace, from a position behind the farthest tomb.

Between him and the only exit was an armed man bent on killing him. But Gallo was pinned, too. No way for him to get back to the stairs without being shot, either. He needed to draw Gallo out, cause a mistake.

He glanced around and spotted the thick candle on the floor.

He reached down and took hold of it, then focused across the dim nave, determining that there was enough darkness for the candle to be mistaken for something else. So he arced the wax cylinder across the open space between the pillars, flipping it end over end, hoping the diversion would draw fire.

And it did.

As the candle passed midway, Gallo stepped out and fired.

Cotton leveled the pistol and pulled the trigger twice, both rounds finding Gallo’s chest.

The man staggered back but did not fall. Gallo swung his weapon around, leveling the aim, and started firing. Cotton dove behind the pillar as bullets pinged off stone in all directions. He stayed close to the gritty floor, as there was a real danger of being hit by a ricochet.

The firing stopped.

He gave it a few more seconds, then came to his feet.

A quick glance toward the other side of the crypt and he saw no Gallo.

He heard the door above open.

Clearly he’d caught the guy solid with both rounds, which meant body armor beneath that tailored suit.

These knights came prepared.

He raced for the stairs and headed back to ground level. The chapel was empty. The oak door at the far end hung three-quarters closed. He approached and stared out into the cloister, catching a fleeting glance of Pollux Gallo on the opposite side, reentering the refectory. He headed after him but, by the time he arrived, Gallo was ninety seconds ahead and the refectory was empty.

A car cranked outside.

He bolted for the exterior door and opened it to see the Mercedes fleeing the courtyard through the main gate.

Gallo was gone.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

The knight abandoned his perch over the monastery as Malone entered the refectory. He climbed into his car and drove away, heading inland along the Italian coast.

The pope dying so suddenly had changed everything. He’d always thought there’d be more time to prepare. But that was not the case. Everything was happening fast. Luckily, Danjel Spagna had entered the picture. Usually, the archbishop lurked only in the shadows, never surfacing, working through minions. But not here. Obviously, the Lord’s Own wanted something, too. His presence both simplified and complicated things. But it was just one more challenge that would have to be met.

He kept driving, heading away from the archive.

The die was now cast. There was no turning back. Only going forward remained a viable option. The next forty-eight hours would determine everyone’s future. As much planning as possible had been imparted.

Now he just needed a little luck.

He checked his watch.

7:40 P.M.

He’d spent the past few years preparing for this moment. So much reading. Studying. Analyzing. And it all came down to the one man who’d stared down the Roman Catholic Church and won.

Benito Amilcare Andrea Mussolini.

To his good fortune, Mussolini rose to power as the church’s influence within Italy had begun to wane. No longer was it a political powerhouse. Pius XI wanted a reinvigoration and Mussolini wanted his rul

e legitimized by what had always been the most influential institution in Italy. To appease the pope and show the people his supposed graciousness, Il Duce negotiated the 1929 Lateran Treaty that finally recognized the full sovereignty of the Holy See over Vatican City.

Italians were thrilled with the concession.

So was Mussolini.

For the next nine years he enjoyed almost no interference from the Vatican, killing and torturing whomever he wanted. Even Catholics were harassed. Churches vandalized. Violence against clerics became commonplace.

He had free rein.

Finally, in 1939, Pius XI decided to make a public denunciation. A virulent speech was written, printed, ready to be delivered and distributed to the world.

Then Pius died.

All printed copies of the speech were seized and ordered destroyed by the Vatican secretary of state. No one ever heard or read a word of that papal repudiation. As was noted at the time, not a comma remained.

Three weeks later the man who accomplished that suppression became Pius XII. The new pope was suave, emollient, and devious. He immediately returned to the previously charted course of political appeasement, one that never directly confronted either Italy or Germany.

And the knight knew why.

The Nostra Trinità.

Which, by then, Mussolini either had in his possession, or knew where to find.

A fact that Pius XII well knew.

He was now beyond Rapallo along the coast.

Everything had led to this moment. He would now either succeed or die in the process. No third option existed. Not with the evils he was contemplating.

He stared out the windshield. A car waited ahead, its headlights off, a man standing outside in the blackness. He stopped his own vehicle, climbed out, and walked the ten meters over to where Sir James Grant waited alone. Somewhere, not far off, he heard the pound of surf on rock.

“Is Malone dead?” Grant asked.

“It’s being handled right now. I saw its beginning myself.”

“All this goes for naught if Malone leaves that archive unscathed.”

He actually didn’t give a damn about any threat Cotton Malone represented to Grant. He’d told his people to deal with it but, if problems arose, to withdraw and not take foolish risks. Malone was not his problem.