The Malta Exchange (Cotton Malone 14)

“Crawl past the counter,” Chatterjee said.

“What about the old man?”

“He’s not my problem. You are.”

Chatterjee reached back and found a gun he’d apparently been concealing. He gestured with the weapon. “Get going. I’m right behind you.”

He stayed low and made his way to the other side of the counter and through the thin curtain. Chatterjee returned fire, sending two shots out into the dark, then belly-crawling his way through the curtain.

“That should at least slow them down, knowing we’re armed. Let’s go.”

“And the clockmaker?”

“He’s dead.”

What was happening? Who was after him?

“How did these people know we were here?” he asked. “Where did they come from?”

“Eminence, this is not the time for analysis.”

He caught no measure of respect with the use of his title.

Chatterjee stood. He did, too. They were in a dilapidated back room littered with mounds of debris. Darkness loomed, except for the weak light of a freestanding lamp in one corner. A stairway led up. Two windows opened to the outside, both covered in thin cheesecloth. No rear door. Chatterjee stepped to one of the windows, stared out, then yanked the cloth coverings aside.

“Look out there.”

He came close and saw it. A dock. With a small boat bobbing at one side.

“That’s our ticket out of here,” Chatterjee said.

The storm was still raging, more rain than wind, thank God. The Med could be unforgiving in rough weather. For centuries the sea itself had been the island’s primary means of defense. The coastal currents were murderous, as was the rocky southern shoreline looming with deep gorges and bold headlands.

But all of that seemed far preferable to here.

The shop’s front door banged open.

“We need to leave,” he said.

But their path out was blocked by a filigreed iron grille. Chatterjee heaved at the inner wooden sash, which slid up with a protest, then he braced his feet against the wall and grabbed the iron with both hands. The grille gave a little from the tugs. He grabbed on, too, and together they forced the wet wood, crumbled with age, to release the screws, freeing the grille.

Chatterjee tossed the iron aside.

He clambered out over the sill. Chatterjee followed. The rain continued to fall with a monotonous determination out of a black sky. A path led from the shop to the dock. He was careful with his wild scramble across the wet rocks, his soles slipping with every step. He stole a few glances back over his shoulder at the threat behind. A sickening feeling of fear clawed at his stomach.

“Keep moving,” Chatterjee said.

They reached the dock and he saw that the boat was a typical dghajsa. Small. Sturdy. High stem and stern. They were mainly used as water taxis around the Grand Harbor and the other bays. More like a gondola, not meant for the open sea. Usually propelled by oars, this one came equipped with an outboard engine. He could see Chatterjee was likewise concerned.

But they had no choice.

“Get in,” Chatterjee said.

They hopped into the boat and he released the mooring lines. The choppy sea and wind pushed them quickly away from the dock. Chatterjee yanked on the outboard’s starting cord and the engine revved to life.

They sped off into the night.

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

Cotton sat in the helicopter, heading south to Rome, Pollux Gallo and Stephanie flying with him. At first Stephanie had wanted to remain behind to coordinate what he was doing with Luke’s activities on Malta. Gallo had offered her the Villa Pagana in Rapallo as her headquarters, and she’d nearly accepted his generosity, but in the end she opted to come along instead, wanting to be back in Rome.

“I know you must find this confusing,” Gallo said to him. “Brother against brother. And twin brothers at that.”

“Have you always been estranged?”

“Just the opposite, in fact. Our parents were killed when we were children, so we only had each other. We were raised in an orphanage, the nuns a poor substitute, but they did the best they could. Kastor and I clung to each other. But as we grew older, we drifted apart. Our personalities changed. Though we look alike, we don’t think alike. By the time we were twenty, he was off to seminary and I was in the army.”

“You said back at the archive that your brother wants to be pope. You know that for sure?”

“Without question. He told me so himself. He views this conclave as a gift from God, an unexpected opportunity that he must use to full advantage.”

“You spoke on the subject?”

Gallo nodded. “We had a heated discussion. One of many of late.”

“Is Archbishop Spagna his ally?” Stephanie asked.

“That’s what I’ve learned. Kastor traveled to Malta yesterday specifically to meet with Spagna.”

“And you know this how?” Cotton asked.

“Just like Spagna, we have spies, too.”

He did not doubt that observation and he was still troubled by the comment made at the archive, which had yet to be explained. “Why do you think your brother’s life is in danger?”

“We have people on Malta, inside Fort St. Angelo. Several knights are permanently stationed there. They’ve been watching my brother’s activities and report he might be in danger.”

“From who?” Stephanie asked.

“The Secreti. They’re on the island. We know that for sure.”

Cotton glanced across at Stephanie. “Nothing from Luke?”

She shook her head. “Silence. The GPS signal from his phone has also stopped. He’s working with a Maltese security agent named Laura Price. They’re both now with Spagna. The head of Maltese security tells me the situation is under control, so I have to trust Luke can handle himself.”

“He can.”

The chopper kept knifing through the night air. He glanced out the windows and spotted a dark rural landscape, broken occasionally by the lights of a village or a farmhouse. They were not yet to Rome, still north in Tuscany, he estimated.

“I see now,” Gallo said, “that my brother’s interest in the knights was totally self-serving, as is usual for him. He used his position to learn our secrets. To use them for his own advantage. Hopefully, we’ll be able to prevent any further harm and end his bid for the papacy before he ever begins.”

A canvas sack rested on the cabin floor. Gallo pointed toward it and said, “I brought what we’ll need. I’m guessing the legend is not true and there’s no need to destroy the whole obelisk to get to the codex, or whatever else Mussolini may have left inside. We’ve long thought a marked stone at the base could provide access to the repository.”

“Planning on blowing it open?” Stephanie asked.

Gallo chuckled. “I’m hoping a sledgehammer will do the trick. But there are a great many in Italy who would not be sad to see that obelisk fall. The government has tried several times to raze it.”

Yet it still stood. Like the flowers at the site where Mussolini had been shot.

“Why would the Secreti want your brother dead?” Cotton asked.

“He’s antagonized half of the knights into enemies.”

“But they’re not the kind who normally kill people.”

“The Secreti are fanatics, which makes them unpredictable and dangerous. They apparently view Kastor as a threat to the order. Their entire purpose is to eliminate threats. So the last thing they would want is for Kastor to become pope.”

“And they’ll kill to stop that?” Stephanie asked.

“I’m not sure what they’ll do. All I know is that they are on Malta.”

He felt the chopper start to descend and begin a wide turn. Outside the windows he saw they’d arrived on the outskirts of Rome. He caught sight of the forum, its two stadiums, running tracks, tennis courts, and other buildings, partially lit to the night, and the obelisk, rising at the entrance before an imposing avenue t

hat stretched to a far piazza.

He checked his watch.

Nearly midnight.

It had been a long day.

* * *

The knight stared at the lit obelisk, able to see in the dim wash of light the enormous inscription etched into its side.

MUSSOLINI DUX.

Finally. The truth may be told.

Was the map there? Or maybe the Nostra Trinità itself?

Waiting patiently?