He stopped his creep along the edge above the gable.
The one thing he could not do was land directly on the ridge.
That would be life changing.
He jumped, angling for one of the sides, and his feet found hard slate. He had only a moment to secure a grip before he rebounded and slid off. His fingernails tore against the warm stone, then his hands caught on the ridge where he held on tight.
Releasing his grip, he scuttled down the slope of the slate toward guttering, his legs extended, using the soles of his shoes as brakes until he found the copper. The gutters squeaked in protest and shifted from his weight, but held. He lowered himself over the edge, clinging to it, wincing at every groan of protest the metal supports uttered. From there he dropped to the ground, landing in the grass near a copse of shrubbery.
Unfortunately, he had to go back inside the villa.
He could wait until the bear moved on, but that could take a while. The owner might return and find the body. The police would then be called and this would become a crime scene, preventing any attempt at finding those letters.
Now was the time, bear or no bear.
But he wasn’t going to be foolish.
He hustled around to the front door. Earlier, he’d noticed a gun case in the ground-floor salon. He reentered the villa and heard the bear foraging upstairs. He found the case, which was locked. Eight rifles stood at attention inside. He grabbed a nearby chair and shattered the glass, removing one of the single-barreled shotguns. In a cabinet beneath he located shells. He slid five inside, then pumped the weapon, chambering a round, readying himself for the climb to the third floor. He didn’t want to kill the animal but would if necessary.
He climbed the stairs again to the third-floor landing.
The bear remained in the bedroom from which he’d escaped out to the ledge. Judging by the noise, the animal was continuing to wreak havoc on the décor. He approached the open door. The bear’s attention was elsewhere, which allowed him to scoot past to the other side, near the open window at the end of the hall. He was cornered, but it seemed the only way to herd the animal toward the stairway and down to the front door, which he’d left wide open.
A quick count to three and he stepped back into the doorway, firing a blast of the shotgun into the far wall. The bear jumped with a start, then roared in fright. Cotton fled back toward the open window in the hall, pumping another round into the chamber. The bear rushed from the bedroom, tossed a quick glance his way, then turned and loped down the third-floor hall in the opposite direction. To make sure the animal kept going, he fired again into the ceiling. Wood splinters and plaster dust showered down.
The bear disappeared onto the stairs.
He followed to the second-floor landing and watched as the animal rushed out the front door.
That worked.
But at a cost of noise that somebody might have noticed.
* * *
The knight heard two gun blasts.
The villa’s owner had told him that what he sought waited inside a small study on the third floor. He’d watched as Malone had worked his way off the ledge, found solid ground, then reentered the house. The two gunshots were surely Malone’s, so he had to assume his adversary was now armed.
At least the bear was gone.
The animal had fled the villa, running as fast as its bulk would allow into the trees beyond.
He was pleased. This might be the place.
Everything pointed in the right direction.
In his escape attempt Mussolini had taken many documents north with him, presumably those of the greatest importance, papers that could be used for political advantage. He’d been seeking refuge in a neutral country, one that had worked hard to stay out of the war. Hitler had wanted to invade Switzerland, but Mussolini had taken the credit for stopping him. Il Duce had been betting that Swiss authorities would be grateful enough to grant him political sanctuary. Historians all agreed that he probably brought with him written proof of his efforts to save the Swiss from the Germans. But apparently he’d also brought his legendary correspondence with Churchill, which had drawn the current interest of the British.
His hope?
Maybe, just maybe, there might also be something else within the villa owner’s cache. Something special. What he’d sought for a long time. The appearance of the ring had encouraged him. This could, indeed, be the right place.
Was it there?
Only one way to find out.
* * *
Cotton set the shotgun down and lifted one corner of the Turkish rug that covered the third-floor study. He examined the wooden floor planks, each pitted and weathered, and at first glance nothing seemed unusual.
Everything nailed in place.
He dropped to his knees and began to softly tap the surface, searching for the hiding place that he’d been told was there. Finally he detected a hollowness. He kept tapping, defining the outline of a square-shaped cavity. To get it open he’d brought along a hefty pocketknife he’d bought yesterday on his way north from the airport.
He opened the blade.
It took a few minutes but he managed to free a panel composed of fused planks. From the lack of dirt and grit in the joints it seemed that it had recently been removed, then replaced. Below the floor he discovered a small cavity that contained a tattered satchel, made of elephant skin, he’d been told, with a broken clasp bound by a sash cord.
He lifted it out.
Etched into the side was a perched eagle, wings extended, clutching a bundle of sticks with an ax.
It was an ancient symbol from imperial Rome, reflecting power over life and death. Nineteenth- and early-20th-century Italian political organizations had routinely adopted it as their emblem. Eventually it appeared on the flag of the National Fascist Party, which took its name from the fasces symbol.
He opened the satchel.
Inside was a well-preserved treasure trove of documents sealed within a thick fold of oilskin. He was fluent in Italian, and several other languages, one of the benefits of having an eidetic memory, so he took a quick inventory, flicking through the brittle sheets. Most dealt with the war, partisan activities, and military reports. There were a few typed letters from Hitler, originals, with Italian translations pinned to them, and some carbons sent to Germany. A few had postscripts and marginal notations in longhand. At the bottom of the stack lay a sheaf of prewar letters between Mussolini and Churchill.
More than five, though.
Eleven total.
Seemed the seller was holding a few in reserve.
Jackpot.
He replaced the documents and closed the satchel. All had remained quiet inside the villa. The bear was long gone. He should follow suit. He left the study, turning toward the staircase, passing several of the open third-floor doors. His orders called for him to drive to Milan and promptly turn over whatever he obtained.
Suddenly he was struck hard from behind.
His body jerked forward, as though hit by an explosion at his right ear. Trails of light arced before him. His legs caved. He quickly realized there’d been no explosion, only a blow to the back of his head. He tried to rebound, but collapsed, consciousness drifting in and out.
He hit the floor hard against his right shoulder.
Then all daylight vanished.
CHAPTER FOUR
MALTA
9:50 A.M.
Luke Daniels loved the sea, which was strange for an ex–Army Ranger. Most of his service to the country had occurred on dry land. But ever since leaving the military and joining the Magellan Billet, he’d found himself on water more often than not. He’d first met Cotton Malone in the cold chop of the Øresund off Denmark, and only recently he’d completed risky assignments in the Indian Ocean and Java Sea. Now he was bobbing along off the north coast of Malta, sitting in the bow of a twenty-five-foot, deep V-hull, his short hair and open shirt damp with salt spray. He’d found an advertisement yesterday for a local water sports business, one of a zillion vendors that ran out of the many seaside resorts, each catering to the thousands of tourists who came here year-round.