The Malta Exchange (Cotton Malone 14)

He came over close and together they started clearing away the soil.

“The man who left here was Pollux Gallo,” Malone said. “He shot those men in cold blood, after praying with them. He had no idea I was down here. If he had, he would have shot me, too. But I wisely kept my mouth shut.”

Their excavations revealed skin.

A chest.

They cleared more of the gray dirt away to see a face.

Kastor Gallo.

“The only thing that makes sense,” Malone said, “is that Pollux is going to make a play for the papacy. As his brother, Kastor. I saw him. He physically changed himself. Cut his hair. Shaved the beard. He’s now a cardinal.”

“Pretty damn bold. You have to give him that.”

“I heard you’ve had a bold night, too. Sinking a boat. Taking out everyone aboard.” Malone paused.

He could see Malone was gnawing on something. “What is it?”

“Gallo has no idea we’re onto him. You saw him leave. Did he seem in a hurry?”

“Not at all.”

“That means we have the upper hand. He thinks he has an open-field run with no need for blockers. We’re now invisible.”

Malone began shoveling the dirt back into the hole. “We need this covered over, so no one will know we’re onto them.”

He pointed, remembering other times. “You like being a corpse.”

“It does offer a great advantage.”

* * *

Pollux stared out the window.

The sun had risen over southern Italy as the jet descended toward the airport. After he’d read through the two parchments, converting the words to a rough translation in his mind, he’d perused the flash drive in more detail, committing to memory many of the cardinal’s sordid details. He would start at the first moment possible to use the information. Unlike Kastor, he knew none of the men personally, though he would have to act as if he did.

In the distance, through the morning sun, amid the clutter of Rome, he caught sight of St. Peter’s dome. Impressive even from miles away, rightly bearing the label as the most renowned work of Renaissance architecture. And while neither a mother church nor a cathedral, it carried the distinction as the greatest of all sanctuaries in Christendom.

The same might one day be said of Kastor Pollux.

An obscure cardinal who rose to be a great pope.

He found it ironic that even with his transformation he was still dependent on Kastor for success. But at least he was now in total control. What kind of pope would he be? Hard to say. He possessed no faith and cared nothing for religion except for how to use it to his advantage. Thankfully, he’d studied the church in detail and had listened carefully to Kastor’s countless rants. He was ready to lead. And that he would. Being pragmatic and purposeful.

The Constitutum Constantini had proven eye opening.

A literal blueprint for religion.

First, establish a consistent doctrine called the New Testament with select gospels that speak to a universal belief, which was precisely what the bishops had done at Nicaea. Then decree that all other beliefs are heretical, unworthy of consideration, and all who don’t believe will be excommunicated. To further enforce dogma, create the notion of sin, adding that if it’s not forgiven, the soul will be sent to eternal damnation in flames. Never mind that the Old Testament mentioned nothing of any such place. Just create one in your New Testament, then use it to cement loyalty and obedience.

The fastest way to ensure a constant laity is to proclaim that every person is born with the sins inherited as punishment for Adam’s fall from grace. To purge that original sin a person must submit to baptism, performed only by a priest ordained by the church. A failure to rid that sin damns the soul to hell. To keep people dependent on the church for their entire lifetime, create more sacraments. Holy communion for children. Confirmation at puberty. Marriage for adults. Last rites on the dead. A womb-to-grave influence over every aspect of a person’s life, each milestone dependent solely on adherence to church doctrine. Along the way the sacrament of confession allows a chance to purge oneself of sin and temporarily avoid hell—that forgiveness, of course, coming only from one source.

The church.

If an individual, or a group, or a nation, or anyone rises in opposition, root that dissent out and deal with it in the harshest of ways, including torture, execution, and genocide.

If the times require a change, do it. Adapt all teachings, as necessary. Which the church had done. Many times. Starting with Nicaea and continuing through other ecumenical councils and countless papal decrees. Change was good—just not too quickly, as Constantine had warned.

To ensure the outcome of any debate, declare that in all things spiritual the pope is infallible, incapable of error.

He really liked that part.

And even if a mistake is made, blame it all on the devil. Another New Testament creation. A fictitious nemesis upon which all bad things can be laid. The faithful have to believe that listening to the devil was the surest way to get a ticket to hell.

What a perfect, self-perpetuating concept.

And not a soul, until Martin Luther in the 16th century, effectively questioned any of it.

Even the first words of the so-called Lord’s Prayer were pure hypocrisy.

Our Father who art in heaven …

What heaven? The Old Testament made no mention of any such place. It existed only because the early church fathers wanted to distinguish themselves from the Jews. So their God dwelled in heaven. And besides, if they’d told people that the kingdom of God dwelled solely within them, as the Bible said, it would not have been long before even the illiterate understood that there was no need for a church.

What a terrific concept. Done so effectively that few today, centuries later, had any clue as to how it all started.

Which would make the Constitutum Constantini pure poison.

He’d seen the numbers. Roman Catholic membership was dropping by double-digit percentage points annually. Of the Catholics that remained, less than 20 percent worldwide attended church regularly. Even more shocking, of the 20 percent that did participate, a recent survey showed that nearly 80 percent of them believed that people should arrive at their own spiritual beliefs, outside of organized religion. Imagine if they knew that a Roman emperor had suggested most of what they believed to be divine.

Yes, imagine.

Thankfully, they’d never know.

Once the conclave was over, and he was pope, Constantine’s Gift would be burned. Nothing, and no one, would exist to threaten his papacy.

But he’d hold on to it until then.

Just in case.

CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE

Cotton stood on the tarmac at Malta’s international airport. He and Luke had driven their vehicles here from the chapel and determined that a private jet had left the island three hours earlier and had already landed in Rome. On board had been Kastor Cardinal Gallo. He used his phone

to call Stephanie, whom he placed on speaker. They stood outside in the morning light.

“Gallo is now inside the Vatican,” Stephanie said.

“At least we know exactly where he is,” Cotton noted.

“Any idea on the guys I took out?” Luke asked.

“We’re still searching for names. Nothing pinged on their prints.”

“Surely they were hired help Pollux Gallo convinced to go along with him,” Cotton said. “Men who thought they’d be working for the next pope. Gallo has no money, so they had to be in it for other reasons. Unfortunately, their severance package is a bit permeant.”

He checked his watch.

8:45 A.M.

“The DOJ jet is still there in Malta,” Stephanie said. “I can have it fired up, ready to go in less than an hour.”

“Do it,” he said.

“And the cardinal?” Luke asked.

“Give him a long leash. Do nothing to spook him. We have to be sure before we do a thing.” Cotton paused. “Absolutely sure.”

“Then we split you two up,” she said. “Luke, go back and get Gallo’s body, and the other two, from that pit. Cotton, head to Rome. By the time you get here, we’ll be sure.”

* * *

Pollux stepped from the car and stood outside the Domus Sanctae Marthae. The five-story pale-yellow building sat in the shadow of St. Peter’s Basilica and normally served as a guesthouse for visiting clergy. Pope Francis had actually lived inside, preferring its bustle and austerity to the isolation and luxury of the papal apartments. During a conclave it served as the residence for the participating cardinals. A total of 128 rooms, run by the Daughters of Charity of St. Vincent, complete with a dining hall and two chapels. Nothing luxurious, by any means. Just a place to eat, sleep, and pray. Far preferable to stretching out on cots in spaces divided by hanging sheets, as previous conclaves had endured.

Its many rows of windows were all shuttered. He knew that internet and phone services would be switched off and blocked, all designed to keep the cardinals in isolation, as conclave rules required. Two Swiss Guards in colorful ruffs and capes and knee breeches stood guard on either side of the entrance. He was now inside the Vatican proper, beyond the gates and the crowds of St. Peter’s Square. Thousands of people had already congregated for the beginning of the conclave. They would stay there day and night, waiting for the white smoke to escape from the chimney above the Sistine Chapel, signaling the election of a pope.