All printed copies of the speech were seized and ordered destroyed by the Vatican secretary of state. No one ever heard or read a word of that papal repudiation. As was noted at the time, not a comma remained.
Three weeks later the man who accomplished that suppression became Pius XII. The new pope was suave, emollient, and devious. He immediately returned to the previously charted course of political appeasement, one that never directly confronted either Italy or Germany.
And the knight knew why.
The Nostra Trinità.
Which, by then, Mussolini either had in his possession, or knew where to find.
A fact that Pius XII well knew.
He was now beyond Rapallo along the coast.
Everything had led to this moment. He would now either succeed or die in the process. No third option existed. Not with the evils he was contemplating.
He stared out the windshield. A car waited ahead, its headlights off, a man standing outside in the blackness. He stopped his own vehicle, climbed out, and walked the ten meters over to where Sir James Grant waited alone. Somewhere, not far off, he heard the pound of surf on rock.
“Is Malone dead?” Grant asked.
“It’s being handled right now. I saw its beginning myself.”
“All this goes for naught if Malone leaves that archive unscathed.”
He actually didn’t give a damn about any threat Cotton Malone represented to Grant. He’d told his people to deal with it but, if problems arose, to withdraw and not take foolish risks. Malone was not his problem.
To this point he’d led what could only be described as a sedentary life, his battles nearly all intellectual and emotional. He’d patiently watched as others rose and fell in stature. He’d learned how desire could sometimes water down determination and that realization, more than anything else, explained his current irrevocable course. It had started this morning and continued when he spoke, by phone, with James Grant a few hours later. He’d made a bold move to secure the Churchill letters from that villa, then left three calling cards. The owner hanging by his arms. The ring on the dead knight’s hand. And Cotton Malone still breathing. All three messages had been received, and Grant had made contact.
Now it was time to make a deal.
“I want those letters,” Grant said. “Now.”
“And you know what I want.”
He’d never realized until recently that the British held the key. It had been Danjel Spagna who’d passed that piece of vital information along a few weeks ago, when he’d first approached the Lord’s Own for help.
“I know what you want,” Grant said. “You’ve been searching for it since Napoleon took Malta. I know the story of the knight captured in Valletta during Napoleon’s invasion. They took him to the grand master’s palace and nailed his hands to a table.”
“And the little general in chief skewered him. That man was Secreti. He wore the ring. He also kept the secret.”
That knight’s bravery had long been revered. With French troops bearing down on Valletta and the island doomed, he had been the one who oversaw the protection of the knights’ most precious objects. Books, records, and artifacts were trekked to the south shore and hastily shipped away. Some made it to Europe, some didn’t. A decision, though, was made to leave the most precious possession on the island.
The Nostra Trinità.
That doomed knight, foreseeing his own demise, had supposedly made sure the French would never locate the Trinity. But if the stories were to be believed, he’d also left a way for the right people to refind it.
“MI6 has long known about what Mussolini may have found,” Grant said. “He was intent on your Nostra Trinità.”
“I want what he found.”
“And you’ll have it,” Grant said, “when I get those letters.”
He pointed the remote toward his car and clicked the button. The interior lit up and the elephant-skin satchel could be seen propped on the passenger seat. “That’s everything Malone acquired. Everything the villa owner was trying to sell. There are eleven letters inside.”
“Did you read them?”
“Of course. They definitely change history.”
“I wish you hadn’t done that.”
He shrugged. “I could not care less about British pride or the reputation of Winston Churchill. Now tell me what I want to know.”
He listened as Grant explained all of what British intelligence had discovered in the 1930s. What had been hinted at in the phone call earlier.
He was amazed. “Are you certain of this?”
Grant shrugged. “As certain as decades-old information can be.”
He got the message. A risk existed. Nothing new about that. A fact Grant should have realized, too.
“Is that all?” he asked.
Grant nodded.
“Then the letters are yours.”
The Brit started to walk toward the car for the satchel. The knight reached beneath his jacket and found the gun. With it in hand, he stepped close and fired one round into the back of James Grant’s skull.
The shot cracked across the night.
The Brit collapsed to the ground.
One reason he’d chosen this spot for their meeting was the privacy it offered. Few people frequented this area after dark. He replaced the gun in its holster and hoisted Grant’s body over his shoulder. The man was surprisingly stout for an old codger. The other reason was its proximity to the sea. He walked through the dark toward the cliff and tossed Grant over the side. The car would be found tomorrow, but the body would take longer, if it ever was found. The tides here were swift and notorious.
He stared out at the black water.
What did Ecclesiastes say?
Cast the bread upon the waters, for thou shalt find it after many days.
He hoped not.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Luke wondered why Cotton Malone was involved with any of this, but knew better than to ask Stephanie questions. None of that mattered to his situation. He was apparently one segment of a larger mission. Nothing unusual there. The job was to get his part right. To that end Stephanie had given him a directive relative to Laura Price and she expected it to be done. So that’s exactly what was going to happen.
He made his way back toward Republic Street, which remained congested, the crowd still focused on the commotion. Dusk had passed toward darkness, the streets and squares all amber-lit. He kept to the alley and was able to see Laura, her arms being held by policemen, talking to the big man she’d identified as Spagna. The conversation did not seem amicable. Spagna continued to puff on the cigar. The local cops seemed to be taking their orders from him. Only two of the four were still there, while a fifth, the driver of the car that had brought Spagna, stood off to the side.
He liked the odds.
The head of Vatican intelligence had apparently come in search of both him and Laura. The big guy had specifically called out Mr. Daniels. So Spagna was privy to solid information. And what had spooked Stephanie? Her attitude had shifted 180 degrees. A lot was happening fast. But he was accustomed to the speed lane. In fact, he preferred it.
He watched as Laura was stuffed into the rear seat of the blue-and-white police car, its lights still flashing. Spagna hesitated outside the vehicle, speaking to one of the uniformed officers. The other uniform, the driver, climbed in behind the wheel. Finally, Spagna opened the passenger-side door and pointed with the cigar, barking something out to another policeman before folding himself inside.