The Malta Exchange (Cotton Malone 14)

Its motto?

With the Cross and the Sword.

Never once had the Holy See acknowledged the Entity’s existence, but those in the know regarded it as the oldest and one of the best intelligence agencies in the world. A model of secrecy and efficiency. Respected. Feared. Overseen for the past thirty-six years by Archbishop Danjel Spagna.

The pope’s spymaster.

A Belgian, Spagna first came to the attention of John Paul II when, as a young priest, he learned that the Vatican might be bugged. Eight listening devices were found inside the Apostolic Palace, all of Soviet origin. The world was never told, but a grateful pope elevated Spagna to monsignor and assigned him to the Entity. There he became the Pole’s personal envoy, a conduit between Rome and Warsaw, making many clandestine visits to Eastern Europe. Some said he was the one who secretly worked with the Americans to help bring down the Soviet Union, ferrying information to and from Washington. But again, nothing was ever confirmed or denied. After the Soviet Union fell, Spagna was elevated to archbishop and given full operational control of the Entity. A cardinal served as its titular head, but Spagna ran things on a daily basis. No publicity had ever surrounded him. No scandal. No controversy. Only the strongest had run with John Paul II, and Spagna may have been the toughest of them all. He’d even acquired a label.

Domino Suo.

Lord’s Own.

“What do you want with me?” Kastor asked. “I worked in the Vatican a long time, and never once did we speak.”

“Don’t be offended,” Spagna said, his aging eyes the color of lead. “I only speak to a red vulture when absolutely necessary. They don’t care for me, and I don’t care for them. You, though, I have studied in detail.” Spagna’s lips twitched into an ironic smile. “You were born and raised on this barren rock of an island. A true Maltese. There aren’t many of those left in this world. You said mass right in this church, as a young priest, back when you were fresh and new—and silent.”

Kastor caught the jab.

“You have superb academic credentials from the finest institutions. A credit to a superior intelligence. You’re handsome, photogenic, and articulate. Together those are rare qualities among the red vultures. In many ways you are almost too good to be true. That raised warning flags with me. So I took the time to look deeper.” Spagna pointed. “That’s where you really learn about someone.”

He agreed.

“I spoke with one of the nuns who raised you. She’s an old woman now, living out her retirement in Portugal, but she remembers you from the orphanage. Amazing how some things can stick in the mind.” Spagna pointed again. “You stuck in hers. She told me a story about the festival of Our Lady of the Lily. Every town on this island holds at least one big festival each year. Quite the celebrations, I’m told. Seems like a lovely tradition. You were thirteen at the time, I believe. That nun watched as you stole three pasti from one of the street vendors. The owner never saw what you did. But she did. Halliel ftit, she called you. Little thief.”

He said nothing.

“She told me how you took those pastries, went off, and devoured them like a rat. Amazingly, all of the nuns at the orphanage knew you liked to steal. Did you know that?”

No, he didn’t.

“Some of them wanted to punish you. But the mother superior forbid it.”

He was surprised at the show of generosity. He remembered that cranky old woman as a cold bitch.

“The old nun told me the mother superior wanted to see how far you’d go,” Spagna said. “And you showed her. You stole trinkets, clothes, books, money, and never once did you show an ounce of remorse. The old nun said that the mother superior wanted you to destroy yourself. To be caught, chastised, shamed, ridiculed. She wanted you to mete out your own punishment. Yet that never happened. Instead, you left the orphanage and went off to become a priest. The mother superior thought perhaps God himself had decided to intervene, so she let you go and never said a word. Now here you are, poised to steal the papacy.”

This man’s interest in him was frightening. So for once he decided to keep his mouth shut and see where this led.

“That mother superior was right,” Spagna noted. “You are, indeed, your own worst enemy. As an adult you managed to do what you failed to achieve as a child. You meted out your own punishment. To your credit, you achieved a position only a few of the red vultures have ever attained. Prefect of the Apostolic Signatura. That’s a lofty post. Enabling, in so many ways. But your mouth. That foul, vile mouth of yours got you fired. For some odd reason you thought people cared what you had to say.”

“Maybe I cared.”

Spagna laughed. “That was never in doubt. I’m sure you cared a great deal. Which, dear Kastor Gallo, is another of your problems.”

“Eminence. That is my title, Archbishop.”

The older man flicked a hand, as if swiping the rebuff away. “You are a fool. Nothing more. Nothing less. Just a plain, ordinary fool.”

He’d not risked this journey from Rome to be chastised by a subordinate. But he was damn curious as to what was going on. He’d been told to come to Malta immediately and meet with someone at the Madliena Tower. Since the person who’d sent the message was trustworthy and understood what was at stake, he’d not questioned the request. But never had he thought the Lord’s Own would be the person he’d be seeing.

“Say what you have to say,” he said.

“I want to find the Nostra Trinità. You’ve searched a long time. Now I want to join with you. I know things you don’t.”

He did not doubt that observation and was surprised by the request. This man had kept the Vatican’s secrets for decades. Too long, if the murmurs he’d heard within the curia were to be believed.

“Why do you want it?” he asked.

“It’s the church’s ultimate secret. The one that has eluded us. Every organization has secrets. Ours is seventeen hundred years old. Before I die, or am fired like you, I want this secret secured.”

He decided to be clear. “I want to use it to become pope.”

Spagna nodded. “I know. You want to be pope. I want you to be pope.”

Had he heard correctly? “Why?”

“Is that important? Just be grateful that I do.”

Not good enough. “Why help me?”

“Because you actually have a chance at winning.”

Really? “How? As you’ve just noted, I’m a thief and a fool.”

“Both attributes are common to the red vultures, so neither is a liability. I also know for a fact that your ultra-orthodox views are shared by a great many. I’m assuming that, as prefect of the Apostolic Signatura, you amassed the necessary damning information on your colleagues.”

He had, so he nodded.

“I thought as much. I’m privy to some of the same information.”

That didn’t surprise him.

“John Paul II wanted the world to think him a reformer, but he was a real hard-liner. There was nothing progressive about that Pole,” Spagna said. “The Soviets tried to kill him, but he survived and stayed the course, held the line, and brought Moscow to its knees. I liked him. He loved to say one thing publicly, then privately do another. He was really good at that, and I learned from him. The church was stronger then. We were feared. We were also much more effective on the world stage. We destroyed the Iron Curtain and crushed the Soviet Union. We were a power. Not anymore. We’ve waned to nothing. And though I do consider you a fool, you’ll be my fool, Kastor.”

He didn’t like the sound of that. “I doubt it.”

“Don’t be so hasty. I have something you don’t.”

He was listening.

“The leverage to bring the undecided cardinals over to your side. Enough to garner the magic two-thirds vote.”

“The Nostra Trinità can do that.”

“Maybe. But it’s a bit of an unknown. And that’s all contingent on you finding it. I can provide something more tangible. More recent. Something you can

use either in addition to, or in lieu of, what you’re after.”

He liked what he was hearing.

Still—

“What do you want?”

“That blood vessel bursting in the pope’s brain offers us both an opportunity,” Spagna said.

Not an answer.

He needed to make a phone call. He’d apparently been kept in the dark about a great many things. Why? He wasn’t sure. Having Spagna as an ally could indeed change everything. In some ways they were alike. Both pariahs. Everyone avoided the Entity, except the pope and the Secretariat of State, which had no choice but to work with it.

“What does it feel like to be alone?” he asked Spagna.

“You tell me.”

“I’m not. I have friends. Supporters. As you said, there are many who agree with me. You have no one.”

“He has me,” Chatterjee said.