The Malta Exchange (Cotton Malone 14)

He glanced down at the plastic binder.

Thank God one truth remained inviolate.

Powerful men wanted only one thing.

To keep their power.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Cotton took a suite at Rome’s Hotel d’Inghilterra, on the top floor with a balcony that ran the length of the building, spring geraniums bursting from its planters. He was being paid top dollar, so, as with the Alfa Romeo, he decided to splurge. He sat on the bed and stared out the terrace doors. Golden blocks of sunshine washed in through the clear glass. Beyond the railing stretched the city’s trademarked irregularly shaped roofs, with their gnarled pipe vents and ceramic-crowned chimneys, satellite dishes the only nod to the 21st century.

He’d flown south with Sir James Grant in a private jet, the trip a quick seventy minutes, during which he’d learned little more about what was happening. Their talks had been about books and world affairs. Along the way he’d confirmed a transfer of one hundred thousand euros into his Danish account. Not that the Brits didn’t have credit with him. It was just always better to be paid in advance.

He needed a shower and a change of clothes, so he took advantage of the hotel’s amenities, the spacious bathroom an amalgam of shiny marble and mirrors. He’d chosen the Inghilterra not only for its reputation but also for its location. It sat only a short distance away from the Via Condotti, the most popular shopping street in Rome, an endless panorama of high-end clothes, leather, silver, glass, jewelry, and stationery. Also on the Via Condotti, at number 68, sat the Palazzo di Malta.

In 1798, when the Hospitallers were tossed from Malta by Napoleon, they wandered the world searching for a home. Finally in 1834 they found one in Rome. Two villas, one here, the other—Villa del Priorato di Malta—a few miles away atop Aventine Hill. About an acre and a half of territory between the two, both independent, holding allegiance to no one, a Roman Catholic country unto itself, making up the smallest sovereign nation in the world.

On the flight south he’d also made use of the onboard WiFi, learning as much as possible about the Hospitallers. Incredibly, they still existed, over nine hundred years after their founding. They were governed by a chapter general of the membership that met once every five years to choose a sovereign council of six members and six high officers who administered things on an everyday basis. The grand master supervised it all, elected for life, holding the rank of cardinal but with no conclave vote for pope. No longer warrior-monks, today they were a quiet, pious, humanitarian organization supporting international health care, operating war zone refugee camps, caring for South American slum children, treating leprosy in Africa and Asia, managing first-aid clinics in the Middle East, running blood banks, ambulance services, soup kitchens, and field hospitals worldwide. Their help was extended to all, regardless of race, creed, or religion. Membership, though, came by invitation only, with a current roster of over thirteen thousand men and women divided into two classes of knights and dames. Protestants, Jews, Muslims, and divorced people were not allowed. More than 40 percent of the members were connected in some way with Europe’s oldest Catholic families. Over one hundred thousand people worked for the organization, 80 percent of those volunteers.

Fifty-five members, though, were special.

Knights of Justice.

Professed men who took religious vows of poverty, chastity, and obedience, they were the last remnants of the former Hospitallers. They were also its ruling class, holding all of the important positions of power.

The order itself was impressive.

One hundred and four countries maintained formal diplomatic relations, including an exchange of embassies. It possessed its own constitution and actively operated within fifty-four nations, having the ability to transport medicine and supplies around the world without customs inspections or political interference. It even possessed observer status in the United Nations, issuing its own passports, license plates, stamps, and coins. Not a country, as there were no citizens or borders to defend, more a sovereign entity, all of its efforts focused on helping the sick and protecting its name and heritage, which members defended zealously.

But the knights were troubled.

Big time.

He’d read several news accounts from L’Osservatore Romano about recent internal strife. Major stuff. The now deceased pope had even been drawn into a civil war within the knights’ hierarchy that involved a cardinal, Kastor Gallo, and the grand master, a Frenchman. Gallo served as the Vatican envoy to the knights, a largely ceremonial post with supposedly little to no influence, there to promote the spiritual interests of the Order, its members, and its relations with the Holy See. But Gallo had interjected himself into the order’s internal affairs. The dispute centered on an obscure Hospitaller program that had distributed condoms in certain parts of the world to help with the combat of sexually transmitted diseases and AIDS. Problem was, that conflicted with clear Vatican policy forbidding the use of contraception. Gallo used that error to drive a wedge between the grand master and the pope, forcing the former’s resignation. That led to conflict among the professed knights, compelling the fifty-six to choose sides. They’d split almost fifty–fifty over the issue. Half supporting their grand master, the other half disagreeing. The pope had tried to counter the chaos, ordering a reversal of the grand master’s resignation, but that effort failed. And though fighting among themselves, the knights had collectively resented both the pope’s and Gallo’s interference. One article from a few months back made the point crystal clear.

The Holy See has a unique relationship with the knights in that the pope appoints a cardinal patron to promote amicable relations between the Order and the Vatican. Cardinal Gallo was chosen for that position, after the pope removed him as head of the Vatican’s supreme court. But Gallo and the pope have never been friends. In fact, Gallo has emerged as one of the pope’s top critics and the Knights of Malta have now found themselves in the middle of that dispute. In an extraordinary rebuke of both Gallo and the pontiff, the Hospitallers said that the replacement of its grand master was an “act of internal governmental administration of the Sovereign Order of Malta and consequently falls solely within its competence. The Holy See, or any representative thereof, has no say in such matters.”

The whole thing seemed a nasty business.

But he assumed that boys would be boys, politics the same everywhere.

According to other newspaper reports, there’d recently been a wholesale purge within the knights, with many of the highest-ranking officers replaced and the entire organization still reeling from the turmoil. Everyone seemed to be awaiting the next pope for guidance, as the current Vicar of Christ had died before the dust had fully settled. What remained unclear, at least to Cotton, was how a squabble within a modern-day charitable organization, albeit one nine hundred years old, had become a security concern of the United Kingdom.

* * *

Cotton entered the Palazzo di Malta, a tall archway opening from the street and draining into an enclosed courtyard lined with parked cars, mainly black Mercedes coupes, each with a similar license plate.

SMOM, followed by a single number.

Sovereign Military Order of Malta.

A giant eight-pointed, white Maltese cross adorned the dark cobbles. The buildings around him rose three stories, all of the windows shuttered and closed. James Grant had told him that this was the Hospitallers’ main administrative headquarters—its magisterial palace, the seat of the grand master and where the sovereign council convened.

Waiting for him was a man, looking prim in a three-buttoned, dark suit. Cotton had worn only a pale-blue button-down with the sleeves rolled up, khaki trousers, and loafers. Seriously underdressed. But at least he was showered and shaved. Grant had called ahead and secured the necessary clearances to allow him into the courtyard. He was right on time and a little surprised at the lack of security, but the whole place was the definition of low-key. Only a small plaque on the wooden gates at the

archway denoted who occupied the building.

He approached the man in the suit. “I’m Cotton Malone. I have an appointment.”

The man bowed his head in a timid indication of welcome. “I was sent to meet you.”

He wondered about the courtesy. “Is that customary?”

“Only for visitors that MI6 asks us to accommodate, on short notice.”

He caught the unshielded wave of irritation that floated across the words. “Are you aware of why I’m here?”

“Definitely. May I see it?”

He fished the ring from his pocket and displayed it.

“Quite a special piece of jewelry,” the man said.

“Care to offer more?”

Both arms were withdrawn from behind the man’s back to display his right hand. On one finger he saw an identical ring with the same palindrome of five words.

“It’s a badge,” the man said. “From another time. A responsibility that is no longer relevant.”

“And yet I retrieved this one and you’re still wearing one. Two in a single day—from something, as you say, that is no longer relevant.”

No reply.

“Are you a knight?” he asked.

“I am.”

“Professed?”

The guy nodded. “You’re familiar with us?”

“Actually, I knew little to nothing about you until a couple of hours ago. And I still know zero about this ring.”

He displayed it again for the man to see.

“Where exactly did you get it?” the man asked.

He’d come here for answers, and to receive, sometimes you gotta give. “Off a dead man.”

“Did he have a name?”

“MI6 is working on supplying one. He carried no identification.” He found his cell phone and showed a head shot of the corpse that Grant had sent. “One of yours?”

“I’ll find out. Can you provide me with this photo?”

“Absolutely. Do I get to speak with the grand master?”

“We don’t have one at present. Only a lieutenant ad interim. A temporary replacement. We’re awaiting the conclave and a new pope before choosing a permanent leader.”

He’d read earlier that grand masters were elected by the professed knights, in secret. But before they assumed office, the election had to be communicated in writing to the pope. That, of course, presupposed that a pope existed.

“Do I get to speak with the lieutenant ad interim?” he asked.

The man nodded. “He’s waiting for you.” Then he motioned at the stone stairway to their right. “Follow me, please.”

Twelve years he worked for the Magellan Billet. Stephanie Nelle had recruited him straight out of the navy and he’d come with little to no training, learning everything on the job. Along the way he’d acquired a set of instincts that kept him alive and allowed him to quit on his own terms, retiring early, able to buy a bookshop in Denmark, fulfilling a lifelong dream. One of those instincts had flared earlier in Milan when James Grant so easily agreed to double his fee. Another arose when the money was promptly paid. Now a third festered with the bad vibes he was receiving from this emissary. Luckily, this was not his first briar patch, and he knew how to walk among thorns.