They would all go down.
But only after they voted for his papacy.
Every damn one of them would write his name on their ballot.
“What does Revelation warn?” Chatterjee asked. “That a corrupt church sits on the city of seven hills?”
Which is what Rome had long been called.
“And its corruption will grow and finally be destroyed,” Chatterjee added, repocketing the flash drive.
All well and good, but, “I need to know what Spagna wants in return for this—invaluable—help.”
“Right now? Simply that you find the Nostra Trinità. As he told you, he wants that secured. He understands that you want to use it to make you pope. If the legends are to be believed, it might have a certain value. But seventeen hundred years have passed since its creation. What you just read, though, is more immediate and has a far greater value. So he wants a trade. Let him have the Trinity, and you get all that,”—Chatterjee pointed at the pages—“plus the flash drive.”
“Will he destroy the Nostra Trinità?”
“Absolutely.”
He didn’t necessarily disagree with that course. That had been his intention, too. Once he achieved the papacy, the last thing he’d want was for anything to cast doubt.
“Also,” Chatterjee said, “after an appropriate time, no more than ninety days beyond your coronation, you will make the archbishop a cardinal. He wants to die with a red hat on his head.”
“He doesn’t seem to like the ‘red vultures.’”
“He despises them. But he still wants to be one.”
“He’s a bit old.”
“You will likewise appoint him head of the Entity, dismissing the current cardinal who oversees that department. He’s no friend of the archbishop’s and, by the way, no friend of yours, either.”
“Making Spagna a cardinal will raise a lot of questions.”
“So? Only a pope chooses a cardinal and that is not subject to question or review. It’s solely your decision. And no secret appointments. This one is all public.”
It was almost like this demon was reading his mind. Popes had the power to name cardinals in pectore, in the breast, with only the pope knowing of the appointment, in his heart. But in pectore cardinals could only function after the appointment became public. In modern times it had been used to protect an appointee from hostile political situations in places like China, Ukraine, Latvia, and Russia. Once the pope made the appointment public, the secret cardinal would then assume his duties and be ranked within the cardinalate back to the time of his selection. However, if a pope died before revealing the in pectore cardinal, the appointment died, too.
“John Paul II gave Archbishop Spagna an in pectore appointment, but died before revealing it,” Chatterjee said. “Not this time. He wants the red hat and the investiture ceremony. He wants all of the red vultures to be there and watch as he joins their ranks. The one thing you and he agree on is a mutual hatred of the curia.”
For so long the taste of failure had lingered in his mouth. Becoming pope would, in one stroke, regain everything he’d lost. He’d once said that the church’s greatest sin of modern times was an unwillingness to become involved.
The sin of omission.
Popes had grown soft, their voices devoid of thunder.
He would change that.
He’d originally thought that what he sought might be the best weapon to use in the coming conclave to sway votes. Now it seemed only a means to a better end. And he had no problem with any of Spagna’s demands.
But there were two things.
First—
“As head of the Entity, Spagna will do whatever I need done. No questions. No debate. Just do it.”
“Of course, that goes without saying.”
And second—
“What happened with the woman in the boat and the American parasailer?”
Chatterjee nodded. “Alea jacta est.”
He grinned at the irony.
The die is cast.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Cotton felt the swoop as the helicopter began to descend toward the Italian countryside. His greeter had led him to the top of the Palazzo di Malta, where a black-and-white AgustaWestland AW139 bearing civilian markings had landed on a small pad. He’d been under the mistaken impression that the interim grand master would be at the palazzo. Instead he’d been informed that the lieutenant ad interim waited at Villa Pagana, a seaside residence in Rapallo, about 250 miles to the north.
Evening was approaching, the late-afternoon sun hanging solemn in the western sky. Being transported a long way from Rome only raised more red flags in his already suspicious mind. True, the pessimist might be right in the long run, but he’d come to know that the optimist had a better time along the way. So he decided to keep an open mind.
He stared down at Rapallo, which looked like a typical seaside Italian town. An amphitheater of hills faced the sea supporting a jumble of whitewashed houses with red-tile roofs that funneled downward to a stark stretch of sandy beach. A promenade lined the shore, flanked by a small castle. Boats and yachts rolled at anchor in the blue waters of the Ligurian Sea.
The chopper came in low over the shoreline and flew inland, angling toward one of the villas, an impressive three-story battlement of ocher stone, set among a thick stand of maritime pines dominating a rocky promontory. A red flag with a white Maltese cross flew above its parapets.
“The villa was built in the 1600s,” his escort told him. “But it has only been the summer residence of the grand masters since the 1950s.”
They sat in a comfortable rear compartment, free of vibration, with black leather seats and enough insulation that their voices could be heard over the rotors.
He glanced out the window and noticed the manicured grounds, dotted with cacti, palm trees, and a carpet of flowers. At the promontory’s tip he spotted a ruined fortification. A small grassy clearing not far from the house seemed to serve as a landing pad, and the pilot eased the helicopter down to a gentle stop.
A black Mercedes coupe waited beyond the wash of the blades, and he followed his host to the car. In the backseat, across from him, sat a broad-shouldered man with neatly combed dark hair. He was clean-featured with a hard, lanky build. He sat straight with a military bearing, his jaw stretched forward, the face as bland as milk. As with his escort from Rome, this one wore a three-buttoned dark suit and striped tie, a pale-blue handkerchief providing a discreet contrast of color at the top of the breast pocket.
“I’m Pollux Gallo, the lieutenant ad interim.”
No hand was extended to shake, but his host did offer a slight smile of welcome.
“Cotton Malone. Sir James Grant sent me.”
The car drove across the grass and found a paved drive, heading away from the villa.
“Where are we going?”
“To obtain the answers you seek.”
He’d immediately noticed the ring on Gallo’s right hand. He found the one he’d taken from the dead man in his pocket.
“I was briefed by the British on what happened to you earlier today,” Gallo said. “They told me about that ring. I believe I can shed some light on the matter.”
“Were you shown a photo of the dead man?”
Gallo nodded. “He’s not one of us. But we’ve seen these copied rings before. There are jewelry stores across France and Italy that sell them. The palindrome is called a Sator Square, after the first word in the line of five. It has existed for a long time, with Roman origins.”