The Malta Exchange (Cotton Malone 14)

To this point he’d led what could only be described as a sedentary life, his battles nearly all intellectual and emotional. He’d patiently watched as others rose and fell in stature. He’d learned how desire could sometimes water down determination and that realization, more than anything else, explained his current irrevocable course. It had started this morning and continued when he spoke, by phone, with James Grant a few hours later. He’d made a bold move to secure the Churchill letters from that villa, then left three calling cards. The owner hanging by his arms. The ring on the dead knight’s hand. And Cotton Malone still breathing. All three messages had been received, and Grant had made contact.

Now it was time to make a deal.

“I want those letters,” Grant said. “Now.”

“And you know what I want.”

He’d never realized until recently that the British held the key. It had been Danjel Spagna who’d passed that piece of vital information along a few weeks ago, when he’d first approached the Lord’s Own for help.

“I know what you want,” Grant said. “You’ve been searching for it since Napoleon took Malta. I know the story of the knight captured in Valletta during Napoleon’s invasion. They took him to the grand master’s palace and nailed his hands to a table.”

“And the little general in chief skewered him. That man was Secreti. He wore the ring. He also kept the secret.”

That knight’s bravery had long been revered. With French troops bearing down on Valletta and the island doomed, he had been the one who oversaw the protection of the knights’ most precious objects. Books, records, and artifacts were trekked to the south shore and hastily shipped away. Some made it to Europe, some didn’t. A decision, though, was made to leave the most precious possession on the island.

The Nostra Trinità.

That doomed knight, foreseeing his own demise, had supposedly made sure the French would never locate the Trinity. But if the stories were to be believed, he’d also left a way for the right people to refind it.

“MI6 has long known about what Mussolini may have found,” Grant said. “He was intent on your Nostra Trinità.”

“I want what he found.”

“And you’ll have it,” Grant said, “when I get those letters.”

He pointed the remote toward his car and clicked the button. The interior lit up and the elephant-skin satchel could be seen propped on the passenger seat. “That’s everything Malone acquired. Everything the villa owner was trying to sell. There are eleven letters inside.”

“Did you read them?”

“Of course. They definitely change history.”

“I wish you hadn’t done that.”

He shrugged. “I could not care less about British pride or the reputation of Winston Churchill. Now tell me what I want to know.”

He listened as Grant explained all of what British intelligence had discovered in the 1930s. What had been hinted at in the phone call earlier.

He was amazed. “Are you certain of this?”

Grant shrugged. “As certain as decades-old information can be.”

He got the message. A risk existed. Nothing new about that. A fact Grant should have realized, too.

“Is that all?” he asked.

Grant nodded.

“Then the letters are yours.”

The Brit started to walk toward the car for the satchel. The knight reached beneath his jacket and found the gun. With it in hand, he stepped close and fired one round into the back of James Grant’s skull.

The shot cracked across the night.

The Brit collapsed to the ground.

One reason he’d chosen this spot for their meeting was the privacy it offered. Few people frequented this area after dark. He replaced the gun in its holster and hoisted Grant’s body over his shoulder. The man was surprisingly stout for an old codger. The other reason was its proximity to the sea. He walked through the dark toward the cliff and tossed Grant over the side. The car would be found tomorrow, but the body would take longer, if it ever was found. The tides here were swift and notorious.

He stared out at the black water.

What did Ecclesiastes say?

Cast the bread upon the waters, for thou shalt find it after many days.

He hoped not.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Luke wondered why Cotton Malone was involved with any of this, but knew better than to ask Stephanie questions. None of that mattered to his situation. He was apparently one segment of a larger mission. Nothing unusual there. The job was to get his part right. To that end Stephanie had given him a directive relative to Laura Price and she expected it to be done. So that’s exactly what was going to happen.

He made his way back toward Republic Street, which remained congested, the crowd still focused on the commotion. Dusk had passed toward darkness, the streets and squares all amber-lit. He kept to the alley and was able to see Laura, her arms being held by policemen, talking to the big man she’d identified as Spagna. The conversation did not seem amicable. Spagna continued to puff on the cigar. The local cops seemed to be taking their orders from him. Only two of the four were still there, while a fifth, the driver of the car that had brought Spagna, stood off to the side.

He liked the odds.

The head of Vatican intelligence had apparently come in search of both him and Laura. The big guy had specifically called out Mr. Daniels. So Spagna was privy to solid information. And what had spooked Stephanie? Her attitude had shifted 180 degrees. A lot was happening fast. But he was accustomed to the speed lane. In fact, he preferred it.

He watched as Laura was stuffed into the rear seat of the blue-and-white police car, its lights still flashing. Spagna hesitated outside the vehicle, speaking to one of the uniformed officers. The other uniform, the driver, climbed in behind the wheel. Finally, Spagna opened the passenger-side door and pointed with the cigar, barking something out to another policeman before folding himself inside.

They were apparently leaving.

But the going would be slow, considering the snaking current of pedestrians that choked the streets in both directions. They’d have to inch their way for a bit, until finding one of the alleys. He had his gun and could shoot his way in and out. But that could turn messy in an infinite number of ways.

Better to innovate.

He’d already noticed that the piazza near the cathedral and the grand master’s palace was dotted with vendor carts. Some selling food and drink, others arts and crafts. He counted ten. The police car had begun its departure, keeping the lights flashing and tossing out short bursts of its siren to clear a path through the crowd.

He fled the alley and sprinted into the melee, maneuvering his way toward one of the carts, this one hawking color prints of Valletta and Malta. It was wooden, its heft supported by four large, spoked wheels. He noticed that two bricks were wedged under a couple of those wheels, one front, the other back, to keep it in place. He kept a sharp eye out for any more police, but saw none in uniform. Of course, that didn’t mean they weren’t around.

Not to mention cameras.

Surely this hot spot was under constant video surveillance.

He told himself to hurry. Get it done. Indecision was what usually got you. He’d learned that early on from Malone. Be right. Be wrong. Doesn’t matter. Just don’t hesitate.

He crossed Republic and entered the piazza, hurrying toward its far end where the police car had stopped, the siren still bursting off and on. He came to the cart with the artwork, its owner talking with potential customers. Other folks admired the prints hanging from its display. He kicked one of the bricks aside, then swung around to the rear and grabbed the stout, wooden handles. The owner and the customers were momentarily caught off guard and he used that instant to shove the heavy bulk forward. He kept pushing, increasing speed and momentum, the wheels rattling across the old rutted cobbles, crashing the cart into the side of the police car, making sure he kept it nestled tight to the front passenger-s

ide door.

The collision grabbed everyone’s attention.

He realized there’d be a moment of confusion inside the car, but the driver would emerge quickly.

And sure enough, he did, opening his door.

Luke leaped onto the hood and pivoted across, planting both feet in the guy’s face, driving the cop backward then down. He landed on the hood and dropped to his feet ready to deal with the driver, but the cop was out cold. He reached back and found his Beretta, aiming it inside the vehicle.

“Let’s go,” he said to Laura.

He opened the rear door from the outside, keeping his gun trained on the Vatican spymaster.

“You live up to your advance billing,” Spagna said. “I was told you were one of Stephanie’s tough young bucks.”

“I get the job done.”

“Only because I let you.”

Laura stood beside him.

He couldn’t resist. “What does that mean?”

“We don’t have time for you two to spar,” she said. “Come on.”

And she motioned to Spagna, who climbed across the front seat and out the driver’s side, minus the cigar.

That was a shocker.

“I assume you know what you’re doing,” Luke asked her.

“I always do.”

The three of them pushed through the gawkers and headed for another of the alleys. No other police were in sight. A low, muted rumble of thunder shook the evening air.

“Mr. Daniels, I saw you watching and assumed you’d make a move,” Spagna said, as they hustled. “Tell him, Laura.”

He glanced her way.

“Before they put me in the back of that car, Spagna told me to be ready to go. He said you’d come.”