Fifty-five members, though, were special.
Knights of Justice.
Professed men who took religious vows of poverty, chastity, and obedience, they were the last remnants of the former Hospitallers. They were also its ruling class, holding all of the important positions of power.
The order itself was impressive.
One hundred and four countries maintained formal diplomatic relations, including an exchange of embassies. It possessed its own constitution and actively operated within fifty-four nations, having the ability to transport medicine and supplies around the world without customs inspections or political interference. It even possessed observer status in the United Nations, issuing its own passports, license plates, stamps, and coins. Not a country, as there were no citizens or borders to defend, more a sovereign entity, all of its efforts focused on helping the sick and protecting its name and heritage, which members defended zealously.
But the knights were troubled.
Big time.
He’d read several news accounts from L’Osservatore Romano about recent internal strife. Major stuff. The now deceased pope had even been drawn into a civil war within the knights’ hierarchy that involved a cardinal, Kastor Gallo, and the grand master, a Frenchman. Gallo served as the Vatican envoy to the knights, a largely ceremonial post with supposedly little to no influence, there to promote the spiritual interests of the Order, its members, and its relations with the Holy See. But Gallo had interjected himself into the order’s internal affairs. The dispute centered on an obscure Hospitaller program that had distributed condoms in certain parts of the world to help with the combat of sexually transmitted diseases and AIDS. Problem was, that conflicted with clear Vatican policy forbidding the use of contraception. Gallo used that error to drive a wedge between the grand master and the pope, forcing the former’s resignation. That led to conflict among the professed knights, compelling the fifty-six to choose sides. They’d split almost fifty–fifty over the issue. Half supporting their grand master, the other half disagreeing. The pope had tried to counter the chaos, ordering a reversal of the grand master’s resignation, but that effort failed. And though fighting among themselves, the knights had collectively resented both the pope’s and Gallo’s interference. One article from a few months back made the point crystal clear.
The Holy See has a unique relationship with the knights in that the pope appoints a cardinal patron to promote amicable relations between the Order and the Vatican. Cardinal Gallo was chosen for that position, after the pope removed him as head of the Vatican’s supreme court. But Gallo and the pope have never been friends. In fact, Gallo has emerged as one of the pope’s top critics and the Knights of Malta have now found themselves in the middle of that dispute. In an extraordinary rebuke of both Gallo and the pontiff, the Hospitallers said that the replacement of its grand master was an “act of internal governmental administration of the Sovereign Order of Malta and consequently falls solely within its competence. The Holy See, or any representative thereof, has no say in such matters.”
The whole thing seemed a nasty business.
But he assumed that boys would be boys, politics the same everywhere.
According to other newspaper reports, there’d recently been a wholesale purge within the knights, with many of the highest-ranking officers replaced and the entire organization still reeling from the turmoil. Everyone seemed to be awaiting the next pope for guidance, as the current Vicar of Christ had died before the dust had fully settled. What remained unclear, at least to Cotton, was how a squabble within a modern-day charitable organization, albeit one nine hundred years old, had become a security concern of the United Kingdom.
* * *
Cotton entered the Palazzo di Malta, a tall archway opening from the street and draining into an enclosed courtyard lined with parked cars, mainly black Mercedes coupes, each with a similar license plate.
SMOM, followed by a single number.
Sovereign Military Order of Malta.
A giant eight-pointed, white Maltese cross adorned the dark cobbles. The buildings around him rose three stories, all of the windows shuttered and closed. James Grant had told him that this was the Hospitallers’ main administrative headquarters—its magisterial palace, the seat of the grand master and where the sovereign council convened.
Waiting for him was a man, looking prim in a three-buttoned, dark suit. Cotton had worn only a pale-blue button-down with the sleeves rolled up, khaki trousers, and loafers. Seriously underdressed. But at least he was showered and shaved. Grant had called ahead and secured the necessary clearances to allow him into the courtyard. He was right on time and a little surprised at the lack of security, but the whole place was the definition of low-key. Only a small plaque on the wooden gates at the archway denoted who occupied the building.
He approached the man in the suit. “I’m Cotton Malone. I have an appointment.”
The man bowed his head in a timid indication of welcome. “I was sent to meet you.”
He wondered about the courtesy. “Is that customary?”
“Only for visitors that MI6 asks us to accommodate, on short notice.”
He caught the unshielded wave of irritation that floated across the words. “Are you aware of why I’m here?”
“Definitely. May I see it?”
He fished the ring from his pocket and displayed it.
“Quite a special piece of jewelry,” the man said.
“Care to offer more?”
Both arms were withdrawn from behind the man’s back to display his right hand. On one finger he saw an identical ring with the same palindrome of five words.
“It’s a badge,” the man said. “From another time. A responsibility that is no longer relevant.”
“And yet I retrieved this one and you’re still wearing one. Two in a single day—from something, as you say, that is no longer relevant.”
No reply.
“Are you a knight?” he asked.
“I am.”
“Professed?”
The guy nodded. “You’re familiar with us?”
“Actually, I knew little to nothing about you until a couple of hours ago. And I still know zero about this ring.”
He displayed it again for the man to see.
“Where exactly did you get it?” the man asked.
He’d come here for answers, and to receive, sometimes you gotta give. “Off a dead man.”
“Did he have a name?”
“MI6 is working on supplying one. He carried no identification.” He found his cell phone and showed a head shot of the corpse that Grant had sent. “One of yours?”
“I’ll find out. Can you provide me with this photo?”
“Absolutely. Do I get to speak with the grand master?”
“We don’t have one at present. Only a lieutenant ad interim. A temporary replacement. We’re awaiting the conclave and a new pope before choosing a permanent leader.”
He’d read earlier that grand masters were elected by the professed knights, in secret. But before they assumed office, the election had to be communicated in writing to the pope. That, of course, presupposed that a pope existed.
“Do I get to speak with the lieutenant ad interim?” he asked.
The man nodded. “He’s waiting for you.” Then he motioned at the stone stairway to their right. “Follow me, please.”