“Why is a Maltese cross inside?”
Gallo shrugged. “A good question.”
“I bet the one on your finger has a cross inside it, too. My guess is those copycats don’t have that addition.”
Finally a slight rise of the eyebrows signaling irritation. Good. This guy needed to know that he wasn’t dealing with an amateur.
He’d always hated funerals and only attended them when absolutely necessary. His first had been as a teenager, when his grandfather died. His own father disappeared when he was ten, lost at sea in a navy submarine. As a teenager, he and his mother moved back to Georgia and lived on the family’s onion farm. He and his grandfather grew close, and eventually seeing the old man in that coffin had hurt more than he’d ever imagined. He also remembered the funeral director. A dour man, not much different in looks and bearing from the statue sitting across from him, uttering predictable words.
So he told himself to stay alert.
“In 1957,” Gallo said, his voice lowered, “a trial occurred in Padua, Italy, where some of the partisans involved in the 1945 disappearance of Mussolini’s gold were prosecuted. Rumors had been rampant for years of how the gold might have been kept by the locals. Twelve years of investigation led to thirty-five defendants being charged with theft. Three hundred witnesses were subpoenaed. The trial was expected to last eight months, but was abruptly halted by the presiding judge after only twenty-six witnesses testified. It never reconvened and no further official inquiry was ever made into the gold’s disappearance. The presiding judge at that trial resigned his post in 1958. Interestingly, afterward he lived a posh life in a villa. That judge’s grandson was the man killed this morning. The owner of the villa by Lake Como.”
“Obviously, the judge was paid off.”
“I have no idea. I can only tell you what happened. We know that, on April 25, 1945, Allied forces were less than fifty miles from Milan. Mussolini called an emergency meeting of his cabinet and told them he was fleeing north to Switzerland. He then ordered what was left of the Italian treasury brought to the cabinet meeting. It consisted of gold ingots, currency, and the Italian crown jewels. He distributed the cash and jewels among his ministers and ordered them to leave the city with their caches. He kept the gold, some of the currency, and a few of the jewels. The best estimate is that about a hundred million U.S. dollars’ worth, in 1945 values, came north with him. Most of the currency would be worthless today. But the gold and jewels are another matter. Surely worth over a billion euros in today’s value.”
That was indeed an impressive treasure.
“Which answers your question,” Gallo said. “The Italian justice system leaves a lot to be desired. Corruption is common. There is little doubt that judge was bribed. But again, we’ll never know the truth, as the matter was not investigated. But part of that 1957 trial record consists of depositions detailing the inventory of two elephant-skin satchels, which were taken from Mussolini when he was captured. Both had the party’s symbol etched on the outside. An eagle clutching a fasces.”
One of which he’d held in his hands earlier.
“Both of those satchels disappeared,” Gallo said. “They have not been seen since 1945. By 1960 nearly everyone associated with what had been found with Mussolini had either died or disappeared. Ever since, men have searched. Now, today, you apparently found one of the satchels.”
They were following a two-lane switchback road that descended from the promontory. The man who’d brought him from Rome sat in the front passenger seat, a third man in another dark suit driving. Neither had spoken, or even acknowledged that there was someone else in the car.
“What do you know about the letters between Mussolini and Churchill?” he asked Gallo.
“I’m familiar with the speculation. The British have long believed Mussolini brought some, or all, of his correspondence with Churchill north during his escape attempt. That is a possibility. There was an emissary of ours present both in Dongo and at the villa where Mussolini and his mistress were kept the night before they died. Mussolini spoke of documents he had that the British might find embarrassing. He even offered them in return for safe passage out of Italy. But he did not elaborate on what those were and, by the time he spoke of them, they were no longer in his possession. The partisans had them in Dongo.”
“Why was an emissary of the Hospitallers talking to Mussolini?”
“We wanted something he stole from us returned. We hoped he’d brought it north, too.”
Cotton motioned with the ring. “Something like this?”
Gallo nodded. “One of these rings was involved. Taken from a professed knight whom Mussolini had ordered killed. We definitely wanted it returned.”
He waited for more, but nothing was offered. So he tried something easier. “I need to know more about this ring.”
“It represents a sect that once existed within our ranks called the Secreti. They date back to the Crusades and our time in Jerusalem, and they were a part of us in Rhodes and Malta. Only the highest-ranking knights were invited to join, their numbers small. For a long time not even the grand masters were privy to their activities. That was because grand masters only lived a few years, or even a few months. Many of them inept and corrupt. The Secreti lasted longer and kept true to their vows. They became a law unto themselves, trusting no one, using their own methods, their own rules, their own justice to keep the order’s secrets safe. The only thing those men trusted was God. For all intents and purposes, though, they ended when Napoleon claimed Malta. The knights dispersed across the globe, our secrets going with them. They were formally disbanded just after World War II.”
“Yet you, the guy in the front seat, and the dead man back at Como are all still wearing the ring.”
Gallo smiled. The effort seemed almost painful. “Merely ceremonial, Mr. Malone. A hark back to another time. We Hospitallers are appreciative of the past. We like to recall it. And to answer your question from earlier, there is a Maltese cross etched inside my ring. But the Secreti no longer exist. Our rings are mere copies, made by a Roman jeweler. I can provide his name and address, if you like.”
It all sounded so innocent, so correct, but nothing about this man rang right. Particularly annoying was the lowered voice, which seemed a means of ascendancy, a way to shrink others down and control the conversation.
“You’re in temporary charge of the Hospitallers?” he asked.
Gallo nodded. “I was selected to fill the position after the grand master was forced to resign. We planned on making a permanent choice two weeks ago, but the pope’s death changed that. We will convene after the conclave and select a new leader.”
He was curious, “Your last name. Gallo. Any relation to Cardinal Gallo?”
“He is my brother.”
Now that was convenient. From the media accounts he’d read the cardinal had wreaked havoc within the Hospitallers, essentially masterminding the grand master’s ouster. Then his brother emerged as the temporary man in charge? What were the odds on that one? He also recalled what James Grant had wanted him to explore.
“I’m told that the knights have a fascination with Mussolini?”
Gallo gave a slight shake of his head. “Not a fascination. More a historical interest. But that is a private matter, one we don’t discuss outside our ranks.”