The Malta Exchange (Cotton Malone 14)

She caught his sarcasm.

“That’s not the only thing in play,” she said. “Gallo came here to meet with an archbishop named Danjel Spagna.”

That name he knew. “He manages the Entity. I assume that’s unusual.”

“To say the least.”

He loved a good book and spent much of his mandatory downtime reading. History was a favorite subject. He especially enjoyed books that dealt with the intelligence business. The exploits of the Entity were legendary, dating back centuries. It had been involved in one way or another with Britain’s Elizabeth I, France’s St. Bartholomew’s Eve Massacre, the Spanish Armada, the assassinations of a Dutch prince and a French king, the attempted assassination of a Portuguese ruler, the War of Spanish Succession, the French Revolution, Napoleon’s rise and fall, Cuba’s war against Spain, several South American secessions, the fall of Kaiser Wilhelm during World War I, Hitler in World War II, and communism in the 1980s.

An amazing résumé.

He recalled what Simon Wiesenthal, the famed Nazi hunter, once said. The best and most effective espionage service in the world belongs to the Vatican.

Now here he was, at odds with it.

Ahead, he spotted the small parking lot where he’d started this morning. He hurried over and found his phone inside the rental, along with his Beretta, which he tucked at the base of his spine beneath his shirt.

“You do know that it’s illegal to carry a weapon on this island without a special permit, which they rarely grant,” she said.

“It’s also illegal to assault and kidnap somebody. But that didn’t stop you.”

“I had no choice.”

Maybe. But he was still pissed about it.

“Don’t let the local police see that gun. Agent or no agent, they’ll arrest you, and I don’t have time to get you out.”

“Not a problem.”

“We need to head toward central downtown.”

He wondered if Stephanie Nelle had really approved this joint operation. His last instructions had been to get rid of Laura Price. He should call in, but he decided to give this little venture a bit more time and see where things led before bothering the boss.

A few minutes’ walk and they found themselves on busy Republic Street, which ran from the southern city gate, past Freedom Square, to bastions at the water’s edge. An impenetrable mass of people had taken possession of it, many surely from the cruise ships he’d seen earlier. Cars were obviously not allowed. The steady breeze sponged away what would surely be the cloying, musty smell of crowded humanity. The shops and eateries, lined one after the other like rabbit hutches, were all doing a brisk business. The co-cathedral and grand master’s palace were closed, but the cobbled squares radiating from both were choked with visitors. Valletta seemed to be living up to its reputation as a popular tourist destination.

“Where are we going?” he asked.

But she did not answer him.

Instead they plunged into the chaos.

Among the crowd he spotted three uniformed police on Segways, one of whose gazes lingered a bit longer in their direction than it should. He might have dismissed it as paranoia, but that same officer found a handheld radio and started speaking into it. His gaze raked more of the faces around him and he spied another uniformed officer, on foot, who also stared their way just long enough to grab his attention.

“You catching this?” he said to her.

“I count four. They’re definitely watching.”

He liked that she was alert, aware of what was around her.

He surveyed the crowd again, his professional curiosity at its max. The nearest threat was fifty feet away, but the cops were situated in every direction, blocking the alleys radiating off Republic Street.

“I’ll identify myself and deal with them,” she said.

Seemed like the right course. One good guy to another. Surely she was known to the locals. There might be some animosity between law enforcement agencies, like back home, but in the end everyone tried to get along. What bothered him was that none of the police had approached. Instead they’d assumed a perimeter, held their positions, and used their radios.

Calling who?

“Stay here,” she said.

Thirty yards away a blue-and-white police car turned out of one of the alleys, lights flashing, and inched its way through the pedestrian-only crowd toward the square that fronted the co-cathedral. From its front passenger side a man emerged. Tall, older, heavily built, with a mat of silver-white hair and white sideburns, dressed casually. He paused to look around and sniff the air, as if he knew someone was watching. He then found a cigar from his back pocket, snipped the end with a gold-colored guillotine, and lit the tip as he continued to survey the scene.

“Get out of here,” she said, under her breath.

“You know that guy.”

“That’s Danjel Spagna. Get out of here.”

Not his style to cut and run.

The officers were converging, all four closing the circle, coming straight for them.

Spagna blew a cloud of bluish smoke to the sky, then pointed with the cigar and called out, “Ms. Price. I need you and Mr. Daniels to come with me.”

“I vote no,” Luke said.

“Ditto.”

“Two each?” he whispered.

“Absolutely.”

He whirled and pounced on the officer closest, kicking him off the Segway. A second cop rushed forward, but Luke was a step ahead, planting his shoulder into the man’s chest with a quick charge that lifted the guy off his feet, flinging him backward and down hard to the cobbles. Turning, he saw that Laura was not having the same success. One of her two targets had tackled her to the ground and the other, whom initially she’d managed to take down, had rebounded. Now they were subduing her. He could intervene, but it would only be another few moments before all four cops were up and in the mix and who knew how many more would arrive.

She’d been right.

One of them had to get out of here.

And he was elected.

He dissolved into the sea of people that had parted when the confrontation started, tucking his head and elbowing his way forward, layering bodies between him and trouble. He heard shouts behind him and managed a quick peek over his shoulder, seeing Laura being yanked to her feet and led toward the man she’d identified as Spagna. He escaped the crowd at its outer fringes and made his way down one of the alleys. No one was in pursuit. He ducked into a recessed doorway and found his cell phone, connecting to Stephanie’s direct line. She answered and he filled her in on all that had happened, including the latest dilemma.

“Things have changed, Luke. I need you to work with Ms. Price.”

“So you okayed this partnership?”

“I went along with it. Temporarily.”

“Ordinarily I’d be a good little soldier and do exactly as you say. But I need to know what the hell is going on. I’m flying blind here.”

“All I can say is that Danjel Spagna being there, in Valletta, is proof enough that something big is brewing. Earlier I thought Ms. Price just an irritant. Now we need her help. She has institutional knowledge that can speed things up for us.”

Stephanie’s tone was slow and even, just like in every crisis. That’s what made her so good. She never lost her cool.

But he was beginning to lose his. “Spagna has her.”

“You’re a smart guy. Change that.”

He started to toss her a wisecrack but he knew what she wanted to hear. “I’ll make it happen.”

“Good. I have a two-front war at the moment, and the other end is in big trouble.”

The last thing he ever wanted was to add to her problems.

His job was to solve things.

“It’s Cotton, Luke. He’s walked into a hornet’s nest.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

ITALY

Cotton crossed the paved courtyard, following Pollux Gallo into the monastery’s refectory, a spacious room of plastered limestone blocks and a tile floor littered with workstations.

“We spent a lot of money refurbishing this complex,” Gallo said. “It was nearly falling in on itself. Now it is the Conservatory of Library and Archives. A state-of-the-art facility.”

And unknown to the world, Cotton silently added. But he assumed a lot about the Knights of Malta would fit into that category.

His original greeter from Rome had accompanied them inside, the driver remaining with the car. Waiting in the refectory were two brown-robed monks. Both were young and short-haired, with a no-nonsense glint in their eyes. Not exactly the religious type. They stood quiet and attentive.