The Malta Exchange (Cotton Malone 14)

“No, Mr. Daniels,” a deep voice said. “We have no grievance with America.”

CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

Cotton accepted the hammer and chisel that the curator had located. While they’d waited he’d examined every inch of the clock’s exterior and determined there were no other seams, except at the corners, no visible way in, no hidden switches or levers. Whatever had been secreted away must have been sealed inside from the top. With the hammer, he gently tapped the exterior, the metal resonating off the stone with a dull uniform sound.

“It doesn’t appear to be hollow,” he said.

The others watched him with clear curiosity, the curator with a concerned look on his face. There seemed little choice except to delicately bust the mortared seam between the top and the rest of the clock.

“How old is this thing?” he asked.

“Four hundred years,” the curator noted. “It dates to a grand master in the early 17th century.”

But before he used any force, he opened the circular glass door on the front. The clock face was mounted by three screws that held it in place and surely allowed access to the workings beyond.

“We need to be sure,” he said.

The curator handed him a flat-head screwdriver, which he used to loosen all three. Behind the face was nothing but the gears and springs that would have powered the hands. He could see no access into the main part of the clock.

“Do it,” Pollux Gallo said, seemingly reading his diminishing hesitation.

He pressed the chisel’s metal tip to the mortar and started tapping. He took his time, careful that the lid would not be damaged and could be easily replaced. The mortar was hard and it took several blows at the same spot to produce results. Whether they were through-and-through fissures remained to be seen.

“Mr. Malone,” Cardinal Gallo said.

He stopped chiseling.

“I think I’ve noticed something. May I hold the hammer a moment.”

He was open to any better idea, so he handed over the tool. The cardinal studied the clock, then swung hard, slamming the metal end directly into the ceramic lid.

The curator gasped.

The lid shattered into several pieces, but those nearest the mortar joint remained in place.

He had to admit. That’ll work, too.

“We don’t have time for niceties,” the cardinal said. “I have to be back in Rome in seven hours.”

Pollux Gallo had remained silent, but nothing in his countenance or demeanor suggested he disagreed with the desecration.

“May I?” Cotton asked, wanting the hammer back.

Gallo handed it over, and he used it to tap away more of the ceramic, exposing enough of the lid so he could reach inside.

“Bring that chair over here,” he told the curator.

One sat near the oratory’s entrance, most likely for the docent to utilize during the day when visitors roamed. The curator retrieved the chair, which Cotton used to gain height on the exposed lid, allowing him to see down inside.

“It’s filled with material,” he said, carefully fingering the top layer, catching a glistening in the light. “You’d think it’s sand. But it’s broken glass, pounded to grains, packed tight.”

“A defense and preservation mechanism,” Pollux said. “Used by us in centuries past. I’ve seen other repositories with that packed inside.”

He certainly could not stick his hand in and see what was there. The glass was packed tight, wall-to-wall, which explained the lack of any hollow sound when he’d probed earlier.

“You’re going to have to be careful with any removal,” Pollux said. “The glass could destroy whatever is inside. That’s another security measure we’ve been known to use.”

“The Nostra Trinità,” the cardinal said, “would most likely be ancient parchments. They could sustain that kind of abuse.”

Pollux shook his head. “It’s not in there. The two papal bulls wouldn’t fit inside that chamber. We’ve both seen the copies in the Vatican. They’re much taller.”

“And you’re just now mentioning this,” Cotton said.

“The Constitutum Constantini could be smaller,” the cardinal said. “We don’t know what form it took.”

Pollux shook his head. “They would have never broken the Trinity. It’s all or nothing. My guess is, what’s inside this clock is a way to find the path to the Nostra Trinità.”

Cotton had no idea who was right, but he did have a thought as to how to settle the debate.

He faced the curator. “Do you have a shop vac?”

* * *

Kastor kept his frustration in check. This was dragging on forever and time was not on his side. It would take at least three hours to travel back to Rome, counting the time to and from both airports. He could slice that time in half if he could make a few calls. There were people in the private sector he knew, friends, who had access to jets. Perhaps one of those could be dispatched while the situation here played itself out.

“I need a phone,” he said.

“In my office,” the curator said. “You can make your call while I find the shop vac. We have several that we use to deal with water spills.”

He followed the curator from the oratory, leaving Malone and Pollux with the clock. The office sat just beyond the cathedral’s gift shop, on the back side of the building. The curator left him alone and he used the landline to make a call to Rome, waking up a longtime corporate ally, who agreed to send his corporate jet to Malta to wait for him, ready to go. Good to know that not everyone hated him. He’d actually amassed quite a roster of friends across a broad spectrum of government, banking, and industry. Men and women who believed, like him, that the Catholic Church had gone too far left. They were anxious for change, but smart enough to bide their time. What was the saying? Good things come to those who wait. Really? His experience had been that little to nothing came to those who wait.

Thankfully, his wait might soon be over.

He hung up the phone, his mind racing.

Normally, the power of a group soundly defeated that of an individual. And that, more than anything else, described a conclave. He’d planned to harness the power of that group through a select few individuals. The idea was both simple and time-honored. Infiltrate the adversary, learn everything possible, then turn that knowledge against them.

Which reminded him of the flash drive in his pocket.

He found it and studied the desktop computer that adorned the curator’s desk. Why not? He was desperate to know if this was his salvation. He heard no footsteps or voices beyond the office door so he slid the drive into the USB portal. The display called for a password, so he typed KASTOR I.

A menu appeared that indicated only one file.

Titled PROOF.

A good sign.

He opened it and the screen displayed a copy of the summary he’d read earlier, laid out in the same order, with the same verbiage, only this time there was additional text, in red, listing the names of the offending cardinals along with links to an appendix. He clicked on a few and saw scans of financial records, contracts, investigatory notes, and other incriminating documents. Three held embedded recordings of phone calls between cardinals discussing incriminating details. He recognized all of the voices. More than enough proof to use as blackmail. He closed the disk, then ejected it and cradled it in his clenched fist.

Spagna was gone.

But thank heaven his work lived on.

* * *

Cotton found his cell phone and called Stephanie, surprised at the signal strength from inside the cathedral. He’d excused himself from the oratory, leaving Pollux Gallo alone with the clock, stepping back into the main nave but maintaining a clear line of sight to make sure everything remained inviolate. He watched

through the open doorway as Gallo found a cell phone and made a call himself, stepping toward the altar and the Caravaggio painting at the far end. He explained to Stephanie what they’d found.

“We should know more in about an hour,” he said. “Emptying that clock has to be done slowly.”

“Where is Laura Price?”

“Outside with Luke.”

“There’s a problem with her. I was just told by Maltese security that they no longer sanction what she’s doing. She’s supposedly working with the Entity now. With Spagna dead, they decided to advise me of the situation.”

“Mighty generous of them.”

“I agree. I’m pissed, too. In the beginning, I thought she might be helpful. But Spagna played me. Maltese security played me. I have no idea what the hell is going on there. I need to get this info to Luke, but he has no cell phone. Spagna destroyed it.”

“I’ll deal with it, just as soon as I’m finished here.”

“The Vatican is in an uproar over Spagna’s death. There are a lot of nervous cardinals concerned about what’s going on. Thankfully it’s the Vatican, so they can keep a lid on things.”

He kept watching Gallo, who stood a hundred feet away, at the far end of the oratory. “I’ve got a set of identical twins who clearly don’t like each other. It’s a little freaky at times. It’s like the Roadrunner and Wile E. Coyote. One’s a fish on a hot dock, no telling what he’ll do. The other is semiconscious, on antidepressants, flat as Florida. Neither cares for the other, so there’s no telling where this will go if we find anything.”

“The Vatican tells me that whatever you find is a private matter. They want us to bow out at that point and let them resolve it among themselves. I have no problem with that. I just need you to make sure that whatever there is to find is found.”

He knew the correct response. “Yes, ma’am.”

“And get all that intel to Luke.”

Across the nave he saw Cardinal Gallo returning with the curator, a shop vac with an extension cord in his hand.

“Gotta go,” he told her.

CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN