The Malta Exchange (Cotton Malone 14)
Inside was empty and quiet, the same lights from earlier still burning. He hustled toward the far apse and through the concealed panel, which also remained opened.
The inner chapel was likewise empty. This was as far as he’d gone earlier. The reliquary remained on the altar. He noticed chucks of red wax lying beside it and realized one end had been opened, but the parchments were still safe inside. He scanned the interior and noticed that the chapel extended farther into the limestone ridge. He followed its path and spotted another oak door, half open. Beyond, a spiral staircase wound down. He descended to a narrow, lit corridor. Immediately he was uncomfortable with the tight, enclosed space.
Not his favorite.
He sucked a deep breath and walked ahead to where he found a more spacious chamber with a black hole in the earthen floor. Everything was illuminated by honey-colored light, as thick and sickly sweet as the confined air around him. He glanced down into the hole and saw only blackness. A rope snaked a path from a wooden pillar embedded into the ground down into the void. He wondered how deep the thing was and its purpose.
He heard voices.
Coming from beyond a half-open door at the other end, about fifty feet away.
He crept toward the sound.
CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE
Pollux sat in the metal chair.
His man found a pair of shears in the duffel bag and began to trim his hair. To help, he held up the image of Kastor, taken a few minutes ago on his cell phone, and they took care to make sure his new cut mimicked that look. He’d not worn his hair so short since his teenage years.
His man finished the trim and he admired the work on his phone screen, the camera switched to selfie mode. He nodded and a bowl was removed from the bag, which he filled with water from a jug. He handed over the cell phone, then lathered his chin with shaving cream. He found a razor and carefully began to shear the monk’s beard away, again using the phone as a mirror. No nicks. No cuts. It had to be a clean shave. He focused on the sound of blade to whisker, keeping the strokes short and light. He also constantly rinsed the blade in the water so the metal remained moist. When he was finished, he grabbed a towel from the bag and swiped away the last remaining bits of lather.
His man nodded.
He agreed.
Not since they were teenagers had he looked so much like Kastor. They were born identical and remained identical until they left the orphanage. Nearly forty years had passed. Now they were identical again.
He stood, undressed, and donned his brother’s clothes, shoes and underwear included. He found the flash drive in his old clothes, then cleaned out Kastor’s pockets, retrieving a wallet and cell phone, but no passport. It must be with the overnight bag in Mdina. Then he slipped on a pair of eyeglasses, identical to what his brother had worn, only with the lenses clear.
Kastor Cardinal Gallo lived again.
He felt free, untethered, in rhythm, doing what God and nature had surely intended. He was also rested, healthy, and finally worry-free. Danger lurked, for sure. But he was fully immersed in the moment, each second precious, fulfilling, and ordained.
His time had come.
He motioned and his man emptied the bowl to the floor, replaced all of the supplies inside the bag, along with his clothes, then refolded the chair.
“We can go,” he said.
* * *
Cotton heard the words.
We can go.
Pollux Gallo’s voice.
No question.
He hadn’t been able to get close enough to see what was happening, and precious little had been said. He retreated to the room with the open pit, intent on leaving through the other exit and heading back up to ground level. But as he approached the door he caught sight of another man in the narrow tunnel beyond, headed his way.
He was trapped.
Danger on both sides.
He could simply reveal himself, but something told him that was not the smart play. Not yet. There seemed only one choice. He stepped to the pit, grabbed hold of the rope, and eased himself over the edge. Hand over hand he descended and found the bottom, about fifteen feet down.
* * *
Pollux reentered the guva chamber with his minion.
His second acolyte joined them.
“All is quiet outside,” the man reported. “I also loaded the reliquary and one of the shovels into the car.”
The other rested against the wall where he’d asked it to be placed.
“What of our brothers who died on the boat?”
“I checked. Their bodies are with the authorities. They’ll surely be identified soon.”
He’d already considered that possibility. But any trail would lead to the Knights of Malta. Which was no longer a problem for him, since Pollux Gallo would not exist after tonight.
“We’ll deal with that once it happens,” he said. “There’s little that can be done about the situation now.”
“The jet the cardinal mentioned is waiting at the airport,” one of his men told him.
Excellent. He’d head there and fly on to Rome. Kastor had already told him that an aide had delivered what would be needed in the way of personal belongings to the Domus Sanctae Marthae. His room was ready, simply waiting on an occupant. His first test would come with convincing that aide as to his authenticity, but he’d practiced being Kastor for a long time.
“Did you bring the laptop?” he asked.
The brother nodded and found the device in the duffel bag. He’d need it on the trip to Rome. He wanted to study, firsthand, the flash drive.
“And the other item?” he asked.
His man produced a Glock from the bag.
He accepted the weapon.
Everything had come down to this moment. Initially he’d intended on keeping his faux Secreti intact as a personal police force. Those men would come in handy, working outside the Entity, providing him with an immediate way to deal with problems.
And the concept was not without precedent.
In the 16th century Julian II maneuvered his way into the papacy, then safeguarded his hold against rival cardinals by raising his own armed regiment of 150 Swiss mercenaries. The best fighters in the world at that time, they’d served popes ever since as the Swiss Guard. But five of his eight men were dead. Recruiting more could prove problematic, and on reflection he’d decided they might not be necessary.
“Let us kneel,” he said. “We should give thanks.”
He laid the laptop and gun on the ground and dropped to his knees, as did his two brothers.
“Centuries ago the founding bishops of our faith proclaimed what we should believe. The great Council of Nicaea settled all debate as to what was holy and sacred, and the Emperor Constantine, in thanks, bestowed upon us a great gift. Tonight, through the grace of God, we have retrieved that sacred gift. It finally, once again, is safe in our hands. Let us give thanks by reaffirming that great Nicaean Creed.
“We believe in one God the Father Almighty, Maker of heaven and earth, and of all things visible and invisible. And in one Lord Jesus Christ, the only-begotten Son of God, begotten of the Father before all worlds, God of God, Light of Light, Very God of Very God, begotten, not made, being of one substance with the Father by whom all things were made.
“Who for us men, and for our salvation, came down from heaven, and was incarnate by the Holy Spirit of the Virgin Mary, and was made man, and was crucified also for us under Pontius Pilate. He suffered and was buried, and the third day he rose again according to the Scriptures, and ascended into heaven, and sitteth at the right hand of the Father. And he shall come again with glory to judge both the quick and the dead, whose kingdom shall have no end.
“And we believe in the Holy Spirit, the Lord and Giver of Life, who proceedeth from the Father and the Son, who with the Father and the Son together is worshiped and glorified, who spoke by the prophets. And we believe one holy catholic and apostolic Church. We acknowledge one baptism for the remission of sins. And we look
for the resurrection of the dead, and the life of the world to come.
“Amen.”
His men had repeated every word. He nodded and stood, the lust inside him breaking free of the decorum he’d always felt obliged to show.
He bent down and regripped the Glock.
Then fired twice.
One bullet pierced the forehead of each of the brothers, collapsing them instantly in death.
The trail had to be painted cold.
True, the cathedral curator remained, but the new Kastor Cardinal Gallo would deal with him, nothing there to arouse any suspicion. Eventually, a letter would come, in his hand, writing as Pollux, explaining his resignation from the knights and his retreat from the world. He doubted anyone would miss either his men or Pollux Gallo.
Sad.
But true.
He laid the Glock down and dragged both bodies to the pit.
He crouched down and cleaned out their pockets, finding the key for the chapel’s front door and the car outside.
Then he rolled each over the edge.