The Malta Exchange (Cotton Malone 14)

He stepped toward them.

“We have a big problem,” she said.

CHAPTER SIXTY-EIGHT

Pollux entered the Sistine Chapel, following in the procession with the other cardinals, two by two, all in their scarlet splendor, their hands folded in prayer. The chapel was forty meters long, thirty wide, and twenty tall, divided into two unequal parts by an elaborate marble screen, a loose interpretation of a Byzantium iconostasis. From the screen to the altar a raised dais had been built on each side to accommodate two tiers of cardinals sitting side by side in long rows. Each had a chair and desk space. All he needed now was a little luck, and the information on the flash drive, which rested safely in his trouser pocket beneath his cassock.

He’d visited the Sistine several times, but there was a special majesty about the chapel for a conclave. It owed its celebrity to the frescoes, where the great masters of the 15th century had left their most magnificent works. His eyes focused on the far wall and Michelangelo’s Last Judgment. The largest painting in the world. At first glance it appeared confused and chaotic, but careful study allowed one to appreciate its mystic inspiration.

The singing stopped. The line dissolved.

He glanced up, past the arched windows on either side, at the flattened barrel-vaulted ceiling. He agreed with the critics. It may well be the most powerful piece of art ever created. When the despotic Julius II ordered the chapel redecorated, Michelangelo had rebelled. He was a sculptor, not a painter. But once inspired he’d entered into his commission with great enthusiasm. Four years he’d labored, creating a stupendous undertaking.

He studied the panels.

The Intoxication of Noah. The Great Flood. God Creates Eve. God Hovering Over the Waters. God Separates Light from Darkness. His gaze focused on one in particular. The Brazen Serpent. And the Lord sent fiery serpents, and much people of Israel died, and Moses made a serpent of brass and those who beheld the serpent of brass lived. He took comfort from Numbers 21. Some of the cardinals around him were about to behold a brazen serpent.

The presiding cardinal called out from the altar. “Please take a seat so that we may begin, brothers.”

He found his assigned spot along the left wall, beneath Rosselli’s Passage of the Red Sea. He settled into the chair, made comfortable by a red cushion and a pillow for the spine. So far his charade had worked perfectly. A few of the cardinals had approached him and made small talk. Some clearly were Kastor’s friends, others not so much. He’d kept his comments short and vague, citing the distraction of all that was happening around him. Thankfully, the vast majority had ignored him.

The presiding cardinal, an Italian, the most senior in attendance, stood before the altar and told the assembled that they would now swear the oath, pledging to observe the norms prescribed by the various apostolic constitutions and rules laid down by previous popes. The process would take some time to complete as each cardinal, in order of seniority, would be required to step forward, place his hands on the gospels, and publicly swear.

He was going to enjoy watching that spectacle.

* * *

Cotton stood with Stephanie and Charles Cardinal Stamm, an Irishman, the man in charge of the Entity. He was thin, pinched in the cheeks, with a pockmarked face and a hooked nose. Just a trace of a scarlet bib showed below the white clerical collar above the top button of a plain black cassock. No signet ring. A simple brass pectoral cross was the only sign of his high office. Though Danjel Spagna had operational control, this man was the chair of the board, appointed too many popes ago to count. He was an older man, clearly past the age of eighty, which disqualified him from actively participating in the conclave.

“Luke called in,” Stephanie said.

She showed him an image on her phone of the top half of a dead body.

“That’s Cardinal Gallo,” Cotton said. “Doubtful somebody killed Pollux Gallo, then cut his hair and shaved off the beard before dumping him in the ground. The guy inside the Sistine Chapel is an imposter.”

They were huddled together inside the basilica, not a soul in sight. Both the uniformed guard and the priest who’d escorted him had retreated to the other side of the exit door.

“The head of Maltese security has confirmed to Luke that the Gallo brothers switched places,” Stephanie said. “That man was also in league with Pollux Gallo. Now Gallo is inside the Sistine, pretending to be his brother.”

“He must have a plan,” Cotton said.

“He does.”

And she explained about a damaging flash drive that Gallo had obtained from Spagna.

“Luke has been most persuasive in getting his prisoner to talk,” she said. “He has him at the bottom of what he called a guva. He mentioned that you were familiar with the locale.”

He chuckled. “I’ll never hear the end of that one. But yes, I’ve visited the place.”

“I’m aware of Archbishop Spagna’s internal investigation,” Stamm said. “It was done at the pope’s specific request. But I was never privy to the results. Spagna falsely told me the investigation was still ongoing. Thankfully, I concluded he was lying. I suspect his plan was to use what he’d learned and have himself elevated to cardinal and replace me, taking both jobs for himself.”

“Sounds like you didn’t care for the guy,” Cotton said. “Why keep him around?”

“Because he was extremely good at what he did. And the late pope liked him.” Stamm shrugged. “This is not a democracy. There was nothing I could do. Except tolerate … and watch him.”

“Cardinal Stamm is why the Magellan Billet is involved,” Stephanie said.

“You knew Spagna was going rogue?”

“I strongly suspected. When some of my subordinates confirmed that he was on Malta, I knew there was a problem. But once I found out Cardinal Gallo was headed there, too, I decided to recruit some outside help.”

“He quietly asked me to send an agent to keep an eye on the cardinal,” Stephanie said. “Of course, we had no idea of the full extent of what was going to happen.”

“To say the least,” Stamm added. “I’ve lost my operational head and second in command.”

“I’m glad you’re here,” Stephanie said to Cotton. “This is going to require care, skill, and experience.”

“We need to get Gallo. Now,” he said.

Stamm shook his head. “The sanctity of the conclave cannot be broken.”

“The sanctity is already broken,” Stephanie said. “The whole thing is a sham. It needs to end.”

“We can simply wait until they break for the day, then move on Gallo,” Stamm said.

But Cotton knew something about conclaves. “And what do you do if they elect him pope this afternoon? They’ll take a vote today, won’t they?”

Stamm went silent for a moment, then said, “Yes. They will. Probably sometime in the next hour.”

“We have no idea what Gallo has done,” Cotton said. “If the information he has is as bad as you say, he may have already applied pressure. He’s been in Rome for several hours. This conclave has to end. I’m sorry if that’s going to be a PR disaster, but the man is a murderer. Are the doors to the Sistine closed yet?”

“They are about to be.”

“We need to move.”

* * *

Pollux watched as, one by one, the men in scarlet lined up and approached the lectern to take the oath. At his turn, he stood, laid his hand on the gospels, and swore to obey the Apostolic Constitution. Again, no one gave him a second look or even seemed to care.

But by tomorrow evening they would.

After the last man swore allegiance, the papal master of ceremonies uttered the classic words.

“Extra Omnes.”

Everybody out.

The public portion of the conclave had concluded and the functionaries at the back, beyond the marble screen—photographers recording the oath swearing, officials from the Vatican offices, along with various archbishops, priests, and monsignors who had helped pr

epare the event—left. Then the tall wooden doors were eased shut for the cameras beyond and latched from the inside. In centuries past it had been the opposite. That was when there were fewer cardinals, and such a small electorate magnified each vote and amplified the amount of corruption. Conclaves sometimes lasted months, even years. The bargaining among the participants anything but subtle. Finally, in 1274, Gregory X ordered that electors be locked in seclusion, their food severely rationed, until they came to a consensus. Needless to say, things began to happen faster.

This would be a short conclave, too.

Two days at best.

His election had to be viewed as one of divine inspiration, since Kastor’s reputation was hardly papabile. The selection would be shocking to the world. He wondered if any of the offending cardinals would resist him. Maybe. But he’d make clear that they would end their tenure as princes of the church in disgrace, perhaps even in jail, with the world media knowing exactly what they’d done and the new pope forced to deal with their indiscretions. So why not have a friend on the throne of St. Peter. Albeit one who owned them. But nonetheless a friend.

Surely every one of them had realized the risks they were taking when they decided to break not only God’s law but the laws of every civilized nation. The last thing they would want was to be exposed, but if that was their desire, he’d accommodate them. Instead of pope he would become God’s Whistleblower. That should do wonders for the tarnished image of Kastor Cardinal Pollux.

But he doubted that would be the route they’d take.

Just a simple vote, in secret, one they could actually disavow later if they so desired, and all would remain as it was now.

If nothing else, cardinals were practical.