The Malta Exchange (Cotton Malone 14)

Cotton Malone entered.

CHAPTER SEVENTY

Cotton had stood with Stamm and Stephanie as they spoke with the presiding cardinal.

He was not happy.

“Charles, do you have any idea what you have done?” the man whispered in English.

“Fully, my friend. But there’s a problem with the conclave. One that requires it be halted.”

They’d cleared the Sala Regia of the people who’d been milling about on the pretense of providing utter quiet to the men beyond the double doors. All of them had been ushered into an adjacent hall and the doors closed, leaving only the two Swiss Guards. Their boss had been informed of the situation and sworn to silence, he bowing to Stamm since, as the older man noted, no one inside the Vatican, save the pope, argued with the Entity. Cotton listened as Stamm explained the situation, the presiding cardinal’s eyes alighting with each revelation.

“Are you certain?” the older man asked when Stamm finished.

“There’s no doubt.”

And Stephanie showed the cardinal the image of Kastor Gallo’s dead face.

“We need to take the imposter into custody,” Stamm said.

The other man, clearly flustered, nodded. “Of course. Absolutely.”

Stamm motioned and Cotton pushed the doors open and stepped into the Sistine Chapel.

A sea of scarlet-and-white-clad men stood beyond an elaborate marble screen. He walked to an opening in the center, his eyes searching the faces. “Gentleman, I need Cardinal Gallo.”

The men seemed puzzled at first, then a few pointed at the tables.

“That’s his seat,” one of them said.

Empty.

Stamm and Stephanie came up beside him.

“Slippery thing, isn’t he,” Stamm whispered.

“I assume there’s another way out?”

“Behind the altar. Stairs up or down, both will lead you into the museums. They’re entirely closed for the conclave, the exits are manned by armed security. I can alert them to move in.”

“No. Let me go get him. Maybe we can contain this within the museums. Keep the guards on the exits so Gallo can’t leave, but alert them. They have radios?”

Stamm nodded. “Cardinals are not supposed to leave the museums. They are under seal.”

“I get it. So if he tries, have them detain him. How about the cameras in the museums?”

“Off during the conclave to preserve privacy. Which also helps keep this contained.”

He got the message. Stamm would like to keep them off. “I’ll find him.”

“Do that. I would prefer not to issue an apprehend order for a cardinal of the church.”

“He’s not a cardinal.”

“He’s worse. I’m relying on your abilities and discretion here, Mr. Malone.”

“Cotton can handle it,” Stephanie said.

Stamm gestured and one of the uniformed Swiss Guards hurried over. Cotton watched as the guard removed a radio that had been attached inside the costume, along with a small mike and earpiece.

Stamm handed them over.

“Go get him.”

* * *

Pollux descended the stairs to a gallery filled with paintings, sculpture, and graphic art. All modern. Contemporary. Ugly. He kept moving, turning left and heading for an open doorway, entering the old Vatican library. He passed through three rooms then found the famed Sistine Hall, which stretched some sixty meters ahead. Seven pillars sheathed with frescoes divided the ancient space into two wide aisles. The walls and ceiling were all colorfully decorated and gilded, furnished more like a reliquary than a library. Mosaic tables filled the spaces between the pillars and supported an array of porcelain vases. More tables displayed other precious objects under glass, similar to the knights’ archive at Rapallo.

He kept moving through the Sistine Hall, passing one pillar after another. He hated leaving the Constitutum Constantini, particularly after all he’d endured to find it. But there was no time to retrieve it from his room.

His freedom was now at stake.

He heard no one either behind or ahead of him. Malone would surely come in pursuit, but the American would have to decide if his quarry had gone up or down after leaving the Sistine.

He could only hope that Malone chose wrong.

* * *

Cotton fled the Sistine and hurried down a long corridor that led into the Apostolic Palace and a staircase.

Two, actually.

One up. The other down.

Where to? Good question.

He chose up and hopped the stone risers two at a time, exiting into a room filled with biblical allegories on the ceiling and obligatory frescoes on the walls.

“I’m upstairs,” he said into the mike clipped at his shoulder.

“Then you’re in the Room of the Immaculate Conception,” Stamm said in his ear.

A glass case stood in the center. He gave it a casual glance and noticed ornamented volumes dating to the 19th century dealing with, sure enough, the Immaculate Conception.

“Leaving there and entering a small room housing tapestries,” he said.

“The Apartment of St. Pius V,” Stamm added.

He passed through and entered the incredible Gallery of Maps. This place he knew about. Over 350 feet long, a straight, unobstructed line from one side of the palace to the other. The overhead vault was decorated with white and gold stuccos populated by people, coats of arms, allegories, and emblems. But the walls were its claim to fame. Enormous colorful panels alternated with the bright exterior windows. Forty maps all total, together depicting topographically the entire Italian peninsula of the 16th century. Eighty percent accurate. Remarkable given the state of cartography at the time.

“I’m in the map gallery,” he said. “There’s no one here.”

He ran down the marble floor. Out the windows, to his left, he caught glimpses of the Vatican Gardens with fountains and trees rising toward the observatory. On the right was an inner courtyard, with an enormous splashing basin, empty of people. Cameras were everywhere. All off, according to Stamm. He was on the third floor, more galleries and halls beneath him and on the other side of the building, beyond the courtyard. Those electric eyes might be needed.

“The exits remain manned,” Stamm said. “No one has reported anyone trying to leave.”

“I’m at the end of the map gallery,” he said into the radio. “There’s no way to go from here across to the other loggia?”

“Not on the third floor. There is a way below on the second floor to cross,” Stamm said. “Keep going. You can traverse over at the end, past the Room of Biga ahead. There’s also a stairway down to ground level.”

He entered the dome space of the Biga room. Four niches between pilasters and four arched bays formed the walls of a small rotunda. In the center stood a triumphal chariot. Definitely Roman. Complete with wheels, shaft, and horses. But no Gallo.

“I’m beginning to think I went the wrong way,” he said.

* * *

Pollux came to an intersection where another shorter loggia to his right led across to the other side of the palace. The library continued on there, as it did ahead, through a series of smaller collection rooms. His view through them was unobstructed. There had to be a way out at the end of those rooms, where the palace ended. Forward seemed the shorter and smarter play than heading for the other side. He could not afford to take any wrong turns. He needed to leave this building, and the Vatican, too.

Quickly and unnoticed.

The crowd out in St. Peter’s Square would provide more than enough cover. Becoming lost within tens of thousands of people would be easy. But getting to them not so much. Every gate out would be manned. Surely soon the word would be passed by radio to be on the lookout for a wayward cardinal. He kept going, walking through a series of galleries with familiar names. Pauline. Alexandrine. Clementine. Beyond them he came to the entrance for the Vestibule of the Four Gates and a stairway that led down.

r /> He started to descend.

On the landing he turned, but quickly halted.

At ground level he spotted a uniformed security guard manning the doors that led out. He assessed the situation and decided on his next move. Steeling himself, he continued down the wide marble staircase, his hands tucked into the roomy sleeves of his cassock. The guard had his back to him, staring out the glass doors, which made it easy to approach.

The man turned.

“Eminence—”

No hesitation. Move. Fast.

He removed his hands and grabbed the guard, wrapping his right arm around the man’s neck. He clamped his left hand to his right wrist and tightened the vise into a choke hold, cutting off the man’s breathing. The guard was younger but thirty pounds heavier and never anticipated a cardinal attacking him. Apparently, no arrest or detain order had yet been issued.

The man went limp.

He allowed the body to slump to the floor.

Immediately he removed his mozzetta and rochet, then unbuttoned the cassock. Beneath he wore an undershirt and trousers. They were dark, like the guard’s. Blue, not black, but they would do. It was the shirt and cap he needed, along with the radio and gun. He slipped on the shirt, a little big, but a tuck of the tail into his pants handled the excess. He clipped the radio to his belt and popped in the ear fob. The microphone he stuffed into a pocket. He doubted he’d be making any transmissions. He buckled the holster to his waist. Grabbing hold of both arms he dragged the guard out of the vestibule and through an open doorway, leaving him stretched prone behind a statue that filled one corner of the nearest gallery. He rushed back and retrieved his robes, which he tossed over the guard’s body.

He stepped back to the exit doors and smoothed his clothes.

Then he left the palace.

CHAPTER SEVENTY-ONE

Cotton stood in the Room of Biga considering his options. The word meant “chariot” in Italian, pretty much the only name for this space considering the huge one that dominated it.