The Malta Exchange (Cotton Malone 14)

“It’s like the X out there on the floor,” he said. “You connect them diagonally across the grid.”

He took a ruler the curator supplied and drew the lines.

“It’s a rough Maltese cross,” the cardinal said. “A bit stretched, but one nonetheless.”

“Which means where those lines intersect is where we have to go,” he said. “Somewhere near the northwest coast, not far from St. Paul’s Bay, if I’m not mistaken. Any idea what’s there?”

“It can only be one place,” the curator said.

Pollux Gallo nodded. “St. Magyar’s.”

* * *

Luke glanced out the window.

St. John’s Square fronting the cathedral still loomed dim and quiet. Malone and the Gallos had not, as yet, emerged.

He still had time.

“Mr. Daniels, the church is facing a direct threat,” Roy said, the voice resonant, controlled, logical. “This threat is made even more dangerous by the coming conclave. Once the cardinals are locked away inside the Sistine, we’ll lose all control. It has to be dealt with right now. Archbishop Spagna discovered the threat and was working, in his own way, to eliminate it. He came here, personally, to deal with the situation. He planned to enlist both you and Ms. Price with his efforts. Unfortunately, the threat found him first.”

“What threat?”

“I can’t say. But I assure you, it’s real.”

“You have one of the best intelligence agencies in the world at your disposal. Deal with any threat. There’s no need to kill anybody.”

“Sadly, given what’s happened this evening, only violence will end this now. Archbishop Spagna’s murder cannot go unavenged. These people have to know there are consequences to their actions.”

Something didn’t add up. He said to Laura, “You said Spagna set this kill up for you. But when that happened, nobody had died yet. So what is this? A hit?”

“Again,” Roy said, “this is not a matter that concerns the United States. Please, Mr. Daniels, you and Mr. Malone need to leave. Now.”

“And let you kill Cardinal Gallo?”

“Mr. Daniels, as you just noted, the Entity has many resources. It has existed for centuries. We’ve survived by always doing what has to be done.” Roy paused. “Killing is not unfamiliar to us. Never have we been afraid to do what was necessary. In centuries past, if the Holy Father ordered the elimination of someone in defense of the faith, we carried out that order. He is God’s voice and we are his hand.”

“This isn’t the Middle Ages, and the pope is dead.”

“Yet a threat remains.” Roy shook his head. “But killing a prince of the Church is not part of our agenda here.”

He’d assumed with the mention of the conclave that Cardinal Gallo was the target. That had been the entire reason for Stephanie Nelle involving him in the first place.

“His brother is our problem,” Roy said. “Archbishop Spagna dealt extensively with Pollux Gallo. Too much, in my opinion. But the archbishop was not a man who accepted much in the way of … counseling. Sadly, my personal suspicions regarding Pollux Gallo have proven true.”

Which Luke would love to know more about.

But that wasn’t going to happen.

“Leave this to us,” Laura said.

“I wish it were—”

Two pops broke the silence.

Like hands clapping.

Roy lurched forward, grabbing his chest, then collapsed to the floor, his face slamming the planks hard. Nothing had come through the window, so the attack had to be from outside in the hallway. Laura reacted by whirling around and aiming her weapon at the darkened doorway. Luke used the moment to drop to the floor and grab the rifle off the table on the way down, flattening himself out, becoming the smallest target possible. Before he could warn Laura to do the same, he heard another pop and her head snapped back as a bullet smashed through her face, up through the brain, and out the back of the skull.

Her body dropped to the floor beside the monsignor.

He sent three sound-suppressed rifle rounds into the blackness beyond the doorway.

Footsteps rushed away.

He sprang to his feet, pressing his body to the wall adjacent to the exit. Beyond, the corridor was much darker. But he neither saw nor sensed anyone. He switched the rifle for his pistol, which he grabbed from the floor. Then took a moment and checked for a pulse in Roy. None. Laura was clearly dead. Dammit. She hadn’t deserved that.

He made his way to the stairs, then down. The door leading out to the alley was partially open.

Careful. Trouble could be outside.

He used the building’s stone wall for protection and, with his right foot, kicked the door open. A few quick glances past the jamb and he still saw no one. He stepped outside. To his right, at the far end of the alley, a hundred feet away, where it merged with another street, he caught the image of a dark figure.

Running away.

He raced after it.

CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

Cotton could see that both Gallos and the curator seemed certain of the location.

“What is St. Magyar’s?” he asked.

“It’s one of the oldest chapels on the island,” Pollux said. “It was built in the mid-16th century, not long after the knights arrived.”

He listened as Pollux told him about the church. According to legend, in the 12th century a local maiden had been working the fields when she saw a number of Turks running her way. She fled, with the invaders in hot pursuit. Out of breath, she found refuge in a cave whose entrance was blocked by a mass of cobwebs. Inside, she dropped to her knees and prayed to the Madonna for help. The corsairs kept looking for her, even finding the cave and peering inside, but on seeing the veil of cobwebs they moved on.

“It was the cobwebs re-forming themselves after she passed through them that was considered a miracle,” Pollux said. “So a chapel was built in front of the cave, dedicated to the maiden, who became St. Louise Magyar.”

“Every church here has a story like that,” the curator said. “This island is littered with churches. Three hundred and fifty-nine at last count, a little over one per every square kilometer. Sixty-three different parishes. St. Magyar’s is one of the wayside chapels, off to itself, not open to the public.”

“It’s owned by the order,” Pollux said.

That was interesting.

“The original stone church was rebuilt by the knights in the 16th century,” Pollux said. “It stays sealed, but we maintain the site. I can call our representatives here on the island and have it opened, waiting for us.”

“Do it,” the cardinal said.

Clearly, Pollux did not appreciate being given an order by his brother, but no argument was offered and Pollux left the office to make a call.

Something was bothering Cotton.

“What is it about this church you’re holding back?” he asked the curator and the cardinal.

“When Napole

on ravaged the island,” the curator said, “he didn’t plunder St. Magyar’s. It’s always been a simple place, with no ornamentation. There was nothing there to steal. So it’s intact. Just as it was in the 16th century.”

“It was also the Secreti’s private chapel,” the cardinal added.

Now we’re talkin’.

Gallo explained that the Secreti had always maintained a certain distance from the rest of the knights. The whole idea of their select association was to be aloof. So after the order was gifted Malta, the Secreti constructed a chapel to be used only by members, the grounds declared off limits to all but those who wore the five-word palindrome that formed an anagram of Pater Noster. Our Father. The sign of Constantine.

“It was regularly used up to the time of Napoleon’s invasion,” the curator said. “Records show that French soldiers visited the site, but as I mentioned there was nothing there of value.”

Apparently they were wrong. Cotton decided to shift tacks and faced Gallo. “You can go back to Rome now.”

“I’ll head there as soon as this is finished.”

“Forgive me, Eminence, but what interest would a cardinal of the church have in all this? As I understand it, whatever there is to find belongs to the Knights of Malta.”

“That’s a matter of debate. And I’m the papal representative to that order. It’s my duty to see this through.”

“We can report our findings to you. Why does it require your personal involvement?”

He could see that scarlet feathers had been bristled by his directness. But he was pressing for a reason.

“I don’t have to explain myself to you,” Gallo said.

“No, you don’t. But by your own statement there are men on this island trying to kill you. A conclave starts in just a few hours. Yet you insist on staying around. Some might call that reckless.” He paused. “Or perhaps deliberate.”

Like a cold mist, anger rose in Gallo’s eyes.

“I’m a prince of the Roman Catholic Church, Mr. Malone, who customarily is shown respect. Even by those not of the church.”