The Malta Exchange (Cotton Malone 14)

He’d heard that tone before and knew what it meant.

Shut up and listen.

“Grant sent you here for Gallo to kill you.”

“I already figured that out.”

“Grant is also going to trade for the Churchill letters, the ones that were taken from you this morning. I’m not sure where or how, but that’s his plan.”

He’d known at the breakfast table in Milan that Grant was holding back. He should have said no thanks and headed back to Copenhagen. But he’d kept going. Why? For the money. What else? And that wasn’t like him. But a hundred thousand euros would go a long way to handle the overhead at his bookshop. And the bills had to be paid.

“Who’s Grant going to trade with for the letters?” he asked. “And what does he have to offer?”

Behind Stephanie, in the doorway, a man appeared. A new face. Tall, broad-shouldered, thick brown hair falling to his ears, a monk’s beard dusting his chin and jaw.

“Cotton,” Stephanie said. “This is Pollux Gallo. The lieutenant ad interim of the Knights of Malta. I think he can answer both of your questions.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Kastor rode with Chatterjee.

A torrent of rain glistened beyond the car windows with each stab and flash of blue-white lightning. The steady slapping of the wipers worked to dull his senses.

They’d left Mdina in Chatterjee’s vehicle, heading toward Marsaskala, an ancient town nestled close to a sheltered bay on the eastern shore. A familiar place, with buildings that stretched on both sides of the water with a promenade that offered views of low shelving rocks, colorful fishing boats, and the old saltpans. He knew its name derived partly from marsa, Arabic for “bay,” and skala, Italian for sqalli, meaning “Sicilian.” In years past, Sicilian fishermen often sought harbor there, as it was less than a hundred kilometers south of their home. Summer was its busy time. Many Maltese families owned vacation homes there, its array of bars and restaurants catering to a seasonal crowd.

As a boy he’d come here often to swim, drying off on the warm rocks after a dousing in the cold Mediterranean. Back then the journey took a while, as the roadways were nothing like today. Few outside of Valletta were paved and none led anywhere except to dead ends, mostly at the water’s edge. All that changed in the 1970s when tourism exploded. Despite the modernization, though, history still tugged at every glance around the island. The knights’ presence remained strong, more, he knew, for the tourists than for any genuine love.

The Maltese and the Hospitallers never got along. They’d been resented from the start as foreigners who’d been given their land by another foreigner. The knights had not helped matters by bringing nearly continuous war to the island, their occupation deemed a constant threat to the Arab world. Even worse, they treated the local population more as tenement workers and soldiers in need than fellow citizens.

The knights never understood how to rule a place so small as Malta. People living so close to one another for so long had learned to appreciate the needs and desires of their neighbors. It was a kind, cooperative society, which the knights governed with heartless tyranny. By 1798 the Maltese were fed up and the French had been welcomed as liberators, with Napoleon lauded as their champion. Few on Malta had been sad to see the knights tossed out. But that joy had quickly been replaced with loathing, and the same mistake was not made twice. The French were vanquished within two years. Eventually, with the defeat of Napoleon in 1814, the British gained the island and maintained control until 1964.

September 21.

Independence Day.

That old nun from the orphanage had been wrong about the festival of Our Lady of the Lily and the three stolen pasti. All that had happened at an Independence Day celebration. He’d not corrected Spagna, but he remembered every detail. What had she called him?

Halliel ftit. Little thief?

His cell phone vibrated in his pocket. He removed the unit, noted the caller, and answered.

About time.

“I have good news,” the voice said in his ear. “I now know where Mussolini hid what he found.”

He closed his eyes in relief. “Tell me.”

“The British have had the information all along. I was able to use the Churchill letters to obtain what we need from James Grant.”

“Where is it hidden?”

“I can’t say on an open cell line.”

“Can you get it?”

“It might be a challenge, but it’s obtainable.”

“And the man you just mentioned?”

“No longer a factor.”

He, too, was being careful with his words, but he was able to say, “I’m with a man named Chatterjee. He works with a friend from Rome. We have a problem. There’s an American and a Maltese agent watching me.”

“Has the friend you mentioned made contact with you?”

“A bit of a surprise. But yes. You could have warned me.”

“It’s better this way. He’s the best in the world, and now he’s on your side.”

“Which came as news to me.”

“But welcomed, I’m sure. I arranged it, so please take advantage of the situation. Only a few more hours remain. Stay anonymous and above the fray. Let your new friend handle the dirty work.”

He did not need to be reminded. He’d begged for a fight with the last pope and had been given one. Unfortunately—though he foolishly thought otherwise at the time—that war had been over before it even started.

This one would be fought far differently.

He felt safe to say, “I’ve been supplied with some new information, the kind that will be powerful and persuasive. It involves a great deal of personal scandal. More than enough to get what we want.”

“I’ll be anxious to hear more about that.”

“Is there a reason you withheld the identity of our new friend? He was never mentioned when you told me to come here.”

“I apologize. It was a condition of his involvement. But take heart. In just a few days you will be his superior.”

He loved the sound of that.

“Find whatever there is to be found,” he said into the phone. “And quickly.”

“I intend to do just that. One thing. Where is this new powerful and persuasive information you just mentioned?”

He glanced across the car. “Chatterjee has it.”

A pause, then the voice said, “Take care.”

He ended the call.

They motored out of Marsaskala and headed toward St. Thomas Bay, the snug anchorage protected by steep cliffs on three sides. A jumble of lit buildings lined the narrow lane on both sides.

“Where are we going?” he asked, glad that Chatterjee knew better than to inquire about the phone conversation.

“To speak with someone who knows things.”

He was annoyed by the secretive reply. He should be in Rome. Cardinals were surely arriving by the hour, being assigned their rooms in the Domus Sanctae Marthae, readying themselves to be sealed away in conclave.

Yet he was here, in the rain.

“When do I get that flash drive in your pocket?”

Chatterjee chuckled. “The archbishop wants this hunt to play itself out first.”

He was finding it hard to disguise his mounting frustrations. “Is finding the Nostra Trinità a condition for that to happen?”

“Not at all. If this effort fails, then it fails. But the archbishop doesn’t see the need, at the moment, to hand over the details of the curia’s corruption. You’ll have the flash drive before you enter the conclave.”

Then he saw the point, his thoughts borne along on a surge of revelation. “He thinks I’ll use it beforehand. He wants all of the blackmail to happen inside the conclave, where no one can speak of it once things are over.”

“A wise precaution, don’t you think. Though he has full confidence in your ability to persuade the right cardinals to support your candidacy, if something goes wrong at least it will remain a private ma

tter, the cardinals bound by their oath to secrecy.”

“And I take all the blame.”

“There’s an element of risk in everything we do.”

“Except for your boss.”

“Quite the contrary. The archbishop has taken a huge risk backing you.”