The Malta Exchange (Cotton Malone 14)

He examined the exterior, gently running his fingers across the marble.

“That’s a valuable piece of history,” the curator said, in a tone that advised caution.

“I don’t have a good track record with those.” He’d already noticed that this clock had a glass front across the face that opened, exposing the hands—a way to wind it and surely to access the inner workings. The face was set to twenty minutes before two.

“Does this thing work?” he asked.

“Not to my knowledge. It’s sat here since the 18th century.”

Why was he not surprised. “You don’t change a lot of things, do you?”

“It’s important that the building remain as it was. History matters, Mr. Malone.”

That it did.

Something occurred to him. “I thought Napoleon looted everything?”

“I doubt a heavy marble clock that doesn’t work would have interested him. There’s nothing special about it, beside the fact that it’s old. It survived, as did a lot of other artifacts, because it carried no obvious value.”

No way to determine if there was anything rattling around inside, but he assumed if that had been obvious somebody over the course of the past two hundred years would have noticed. Within his eidetic memory he visualized the targeted memorial.

“On the cracked-open clock out in the nave,” he said, “if you close the hinge the time would read twenty minutes before two. Just like here. This one is also identical in size, shape, and color.”

“It was not uncommon for items in the cathedral to become part of the tombs,” the curator said. “Either the knight himself would fashion the memorial, or a relative or a friend would do it in honor of him. It all depended on the ego and resources of the knight.”

The cardinal examined the clock. “What we want is inside this thing?”

“It certainly seems that way,” Cotton said.

Though the sides and base were marble, the ornate, pointy top was fashioned of ceramic, cemented to the stone by a mortar joint.

Cotton examined the seam.

Solid and old.

“We’re going to need a hammer and chisel,” he said.

CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

Luke studied the buildings facing Republic Street. All were dark and quiet, most of their windows shielded by metal accordion screens. Few people milled about on the sidewalks. Valletta had finally settled down for the night. But Laura Price had not. What was she doing in that shop? She’d clearly wanted to get there, as it had been her idea back inside the cathedral to check outside. He’d been suspicious of her ever since the safe house. He could not isolate one particular thing that had tripped his suspicion button, but something about her simply had not rung right.

He kept the gun at his side, close to his thigh, the barrel pointed down as he left the square, crossed the street, and approached the door she’d entered. It sat ten feet past Republic, in a darker narrow alley that ran on forever to another distant street. He tested the knob. It turned.

The door was open?

Nothing about that was good.

Why would she use a key to gain entrance, then leave it unlocked? Was she expecting someone else who didn’t have a key? Or was this a trap laid just for him? Being the deer in the hunt was never fun. But like those cagey animals back in frigid Nebraska twenty years ago, he wasn’t stupid. He pushed open the door, entered, then closed it, leaving it unlocked.

Why not?

Just in case there were others invited to the party.

He stood inside a small foyer. A doorway to the right opened into what appeared to be a souvenir shop. A stone stairway directly in front of him led up at a steep angle. Since all was quiet in the shop, Laura had to have gone up. He brought the gun out before him and climbed the narrow risers. Not a sound betrayed his presence. The stairway was nearly pitch-dark, only scant residual light leaking in from the shop windows below. He seemed vulnerable, as those deer should have felt when they were flushed back to the draw.

He came to the top.

A short hall led past two more open doorways.

He approached the first, pressed his right shoulder to the wall, and stole a quick glance inside. The minuscule room was filled with chairs, stacked one onto another, and collapsed folding tables propped to one wall, its single window faintly lit from the street below. At the next doorway the room was of similar size, but empty except for a small table set before another window, with a rifle lying on it. He noticed a nightscope and the caliber. Heavy duty. Meant for power and range. He stepped over and gazed out the window. The vantage point offered a perfect view of St. John’s Square and the side entrance into the cathedral. In the dim light he saw a sound suppressor attached to barrel’s end. Somebody was ready to do some serious hunting.

He heard the distinctive click of a gun hammer snapping into place.

“Nice and slow,” Laura said. “Turn around. But first, let your gun hit the floor.”

“You really want to go there?’

“I really do.”

Okay. He released his grip and allowed the weapon to drop.

Then he turned.

“Kick the gun this way,” she said. “Real slow.”

He did as she requested.

“What gave me away?” she asked.

“Just a feeling.”

“Not the dumb country boy you want people to think you are.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment. Let me guess. You’ve been working for Spagna from the beginning.”

“Guilty as charged. When you showed up, he put me on you.”

“I kind of got that impression when your boss appeared at the safe house and I wasn’t part of the conversation. The cops on us, and Spagna taking you, that was all a dog-and-pony show?”

“Sort of. He needed to make contact, but not in a way that matched us together. He also needed you to stay in the dark. But you came to my rescue, as he predicted. So he decided to bring you on the team.”

“That was the first moment I had my doubts. Those two local cops took you down way too easy. But when Spagna died, that cinched it for me. Everything was way too nicely wrapped with a pretty bow. Too many coincidences usually add up to a plan. The guys who tried to kill me. Entity people?”

She stepped into the room, gun still aimed, standing six feet away, just out of strike range. “That’s the rub, Luke. They weren’t Spagna’s.”

He was intrigued.

“There’s so much more happening here,” she said. “Things you know nothing about.”

“Enlighten me.”

She chuckled. “This is a solo job now.”

He motioned to the rifle. “You planning on killing somebody? Is that what Spagna meant when he said to do what he told you?”

“That’s exactly what he meant.”

“I’m hurt. He only told me to find the cardinal.”

“The archbishop always looked after the church and, right now, the church is being threatened.”

“By Cardinal Gallo?”

“By what’s happening inside that cathedral. I can’t allow them to find the Nostra Trinità. It needs to stay gone.”

“How can you be so sure they’ll find it?”

“Spagna was aware of everything that happened in Italy with Malone and Pollux Gallo. He knew they were coming this way, to the cathedral, so he arranged for this perch. He, of course, had no way of knowing when the opportunity would present itself. But that’s where I came in. I could see Malone was making progress. He’s a smart fellow, or at least that’s what Spagna said about him. It won’t be long before Malone and the Gallos come out those doors.”

“Is Malone on your hit list?”

“The Nostra Trinità must stay gone.”

Not an answer, but close enough. “Who killed Spagna?”

“The same people who wanted you dead. The same ones who want Malone dead.”

He waited.

“The Secreti.”

“You still haven?

??t answered my question,” he said. “Is Malone on your hit list?”

Movement behind her caught his attention.

A man stepped into the doorway.

Short, stocky, of indeterminate age.