Cotton kept enjoying his breakfast, waiting for the pitch.
“We need someone, other than us, to look into this,” Grant said. “That’s why I hired one of the best intelligence operatives in the world.”
He grinned. “Now you’re blowing smoke up my ass.”
“Just being honest. You do realize that there are people at MI6 who still hold a grudge your way.”
He knew what Grant was referring to. An incident that involved his son, Gary, and a former head of British intelligence. “I did what I had to do.”
“Which is exactly why I want you on this. I have a situation here, Cotton. One that may be wider than I first thought. I need your help. I’ll double your fee.”
Music to his ears and, luckily, he had a few days free. But he wanted to know more. “What do you want me to do?”
“Make contact with the Knights of Malta.” Grant laid the ring on the table. “Start with inquiring about why the dead man in that villa was wearing this. Then find out anything you can on their Mussolini collection. And I’m not particular on how you accomplish that objective.”
Which meant the local criminal codes did not have to be observed. But he had to ask, “Is that all I get from you? Pretty damn vague.”
“I would ask that you allow me the luxury of withholding further facts until I’m sure of a few matters. There is a possibility this might be nothing at all. That we are on the wrong trail.”
“Looking for what?”
Grant did not reply.
He shrugged. “Okay. For a hundred thousand euros, I can be a good bird dog. I’ll sniff around and see where it leads.”
“Excellent. Hopefully, I’ll have some clarity shortly that I can share.”
“Can I at least know what you’re waiting for?”
“A situation on Malta to resolve itself.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Kastor emerged from the car.
He’d ridden from the Madliena Tower with Chatterjee, following the north coast highway to the town of St. Paul’s Bay. It began as a sleepy fishing village, the adjacent shoreline one of the easier points on the island from which to gain land. Now it was a popular tourist spot, its unstylish concrete buildings overflowing with an overpriced array of restaurants, cafés, and boutiques, the mass-market hotels and nondescript apartments packed with people year-round.
He caught sight of one of the coastal towers, high above, standing guard from its lofty perch. Another grand master creation, this one in 1610 by Wigancourt, who built six facing the sea. He knew about the famed Frenchman. A knight his entire adult life, including during the Great Siege, he was popular with the Maltese, which was rare for grand masters. The viaduct he completed delivered water to Valletta until the 20th century.
Out in the calm bay boats lay at anchor, so many that their bulk formed a carpet on the water. Beyond them, he spotted the small island where the faithful believed that Paul himself first came ashore. What a tale. In A.D. 60 275 prisoners were being ferried toward Rome to be tried, Paul included. Their ship was ruined in a dreadful storm, drifting two weeks before breaking up just off the coast. Despite not knowing how to swim, miraculously all of the prisoners made it to shore. The Bible itself recounted the event, noting that later we learned that the island was named Malta. The people who lived there showed us great kindness and they made a fire and called us all to warm ourselves. As the story went, while Paul was ashore a poisonous snake bit him but he survived, which the locals took as a sign that he was no ordinary man.
No. That he was not.
More a brilliant rebel.
Like himself.
Kastor stood before a formidable church, one of 360 that dotted the island, this one a high building of burnt ocher, with a graceful spire and a beautiful cupola, vivid against the drabness of the shady street. Not much had changed in thirty years. As a young priest, serving his first parish, he’d said mass here many times. He noticed that the same two clocks remained in the tower. One real, the other a trompe l’oeil, installed by overly superstitious locals to supposedly confuse the devil when he came to collect souls.
He and Chatterjee entered through the front doors. Inside was the same low roof supported by arches, with little pomp or circumstance, shadows still the only adornment. A solitary figure stood beside the front pew.
“Come in, my friend. Please. We have much to discuss.”
A tall, stout, older man, with a noticeable midsection, paraded down the center aisle. He was robust, with a thick patch of pale-white hair and features framed by a pair of wispy white sideburns. Few angles defined the round face, the skin streaked by veins of yellow and purple, perhaps the lasting effects from years of smoking.
Danjel Spagna.
The few times Kastor had seen him at the Vatican, Spagna had worn the black cassock, purple skullcap, and silver pectoral cross of an archbishop. Today he was dressed casually, nothing reflecting any ecclesiastical status.
He’d never actually met Spagna, only heard the tales.
The press called it all the Vatican, but the Holy See was not the Vatican City State. The latter came into existence as sovereign territory only in 1929 because of the Lateran Treaty. It consisted of chapels, halls, galleries, gardens, offices, apartments, and museums. The Holy See, the episcopal seat of Rome and the pope, dated back to Christ, and was an independent sovereign entity that did not end at the death of a pontiff. The Holy See acted and spoke for the whole church, currently maintaining diplomatic relations with 180 nations. Ambassadors were officially accredited not to the Vatican City State, but to the Holy See. The pope was its unchallenged head, but it was administered by the curia, with the secretary of state acting like a prime minister, a buffer between the over two thousand employees and the pope. The old joke came from John XXIII. When asked how many people worked at the Vatican, he quipped about half of them.
As in any other nation, security had always been a concern.
The most secret agency within the Holy See had existed since the 16th century, created specifically by Pius V to end the life of the Protestant Elizabeth I and support her cousin, the Catholic Mary, Queen of Scots, for the English throne. Though it failed in that mission, ever since it had served popes through schisms, revolutions, dictators, persecutions, attacks, world wars, even assassination attempts. First called the Supreme Congregation for the Holy Inquisition of Heretical Error, then the much shorter Holy Alliance. In the 20th century it was changed to the Entity.
Its motto?
With the Cross and the Sword.
Never once had the Holy See acknowledged the Entity’s existence, but those in the know regarded it as the oldest and one of the best intelligence agencies in the world. A model of secrecy and efficiency. Respected. Feared. Overseen for the past thirty-six years by Archbishop Danjel Spagna.
The pope’s spymaster.
A Belgian, Spagna first came to the attention of John Paul II when, as a young priest, he learned that the Vatican might be bugged. Eight listening devices were found inside the Apostolic Palace, all of Soviet origin. The world was never told, but a grateful pope elevated Spagna to monsignor and assigned him to the Entity. There he became the Pole’s personal envoy, a conduit between Rome and Warsaw, making many clandestine visits to Eastern Europe. Some said he was the one who secretly worked with the Americans to help bring down the Soviet Union, ferrying information to and from Washington. But again, nothing was ever confirmed or denied. After the Soviet Union fell, Spagna was elevated to archbishop and given full operational control of the Entity. A cardinal served as its titular head, but Spagna ran things on a daily basis. No publicity had ever surrounded him. No scandal. No controversy. Only the strongest had run with John Paul II, and Spagna may have been the toughest of them all. He’d even acquired a label.