He slowed and navigated through the narrow streets of St. Julian’s, arriving at the hotel a little before 6:00 A.M. He valet-parked the car and headed for the front desk, where he was pleased to learn a room was available.
“Did you see the explosion?” the clerk asked. “Quite the excitement tonight.”
That was true, but he was sure this guy had no idea how exciting his past few hours had been. So he asked, “What do you mean?”
“Big explosion out on the water a couple of hours ago. The boat burned for half an hour before sinking. We don’t see that here often.”
“Any idea what happened?”
The clerk shook his head. “I’m sure the morning Independent will let us know.”
He accepted the room key and drifted from the front desk. Before going to bed he needed to make a report. He found his phone, connected to Stephanie, and explained what had happened at the cathedral and the chapel.
She told him, “Luke took down a yacht outside the Valletta harbor. He drove his boat right into it. Four men are dead. Luke’s in custody. The harbor police are holding him. Unfortunately, none of the bodies carried any identification, but we’re working on that now through fingerprints. And there’s more.”
He was listening.
“Luke says Laura Price switched teams and was working with the Entity. She was ready to take a rifle shot when you and the Gallo brothers exited the cathedral, a shot that Spagna himself arranged. The Secreti interrupted, killing her and the temporary head of the Entity, who’d come to Malta to oversee the hit.”
“Who was the target? Me or the cardinal?”
“Neither one.”
And there it was.
One of those wandering thoughts just found a home. “The Entity was taking out Pollux Gallo?”
“That’s right. Which raises a whole host of questions.”
More thoughts dropped into place. The subterfuge and organized attack at the Hospitaller archive by the so-called Secreti. The sudden appearance of the real Pollux Gallo. His gracious cooperation. The lack of any outside interference at the obelisk, though the Secreti had been on the move at Lake Como and in that villa. Then the curious lack of concern at St. Magyar’s chapel. Isolated and out in the middle of nowhere, with plenty of vulnerabilities, Pollux Gallo had seemed totally at ease.
Why would a mere lieutenant ad interim of a benign charitable organization be a greater threat than a cardinal who had, at least on paper, a chance to be pope?
“Where is Luke now?” he asked.
“In Valletta. I’m dealing with it.”
“Get him out.” He told her the chapel’s name and where St. Magyar’s was located, indicating that the curator at the co-cathedral could provide exact directions. “When he’s free, send Luke my way.”
“What are you going to do?”
“Head back there. I may have misjudged the wrong Gallo.”
CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN
Pollux waited for his men from outside to make their way through the outer chapel and into the inner sanctuary, their movements calculated but quick. He’d delayed a few minutes before telling them to enter.
A little time alone with his departed brother seemed in order.
Their relationship had always been an illusion. Kastor had thought himself the better of the two, superior, a touch above. It had been that way their entire lives, even more so after their parents died and they moved to the orphanage. Kastor the talker, thinker, scholar—while he was the athlete and soldier. He doubted anyone at that orphanage even remembered he existed. But Kastor? No one would forget him. They couldn’t. He made a lasting impression, sucking every drop of oxygen from every room he ever entered.
But none of that would have been possible without his help.
When Kastor had first come and said he wanted to be pope, Pollux had thought the idea ridiculous. Especially considering the mess made of his ecclesiastical career. Sure, there were people who agreed with him in their heart, but none were going to openly challenge the pope. He’d reviewed the dirt Kastor had amassed on some of the cardinals. Not bad. There was some clearly incriminating material. But not near enough to change a conclave. And with Kastor’s loss of position and access, the prospects of acquiring more information seemed remote. That’s when Kastor focused on the Nostra Trinità.
Thinking it might be enough.
He, too, had been intrigued by the Trinity, especially the Constitutum Constantini, which had certainly proved useful in centuries past. Kastor had discovered quite a bit of useful information from the Vatican archives. He’d supplemented that with annals the knights had long kept under lock and key. Together they’d made progress. The call from the greedy Italian at Lake Como had been one of those fortuitous events that sometimes made one think that there actually might be a God directing things in some sort of divine plan. He’d known for some time the British had information on Mussolini and the Trinity. There’d just not been anything to bargain with. So he’d headed to Como. Which had been fruitful since it led to Sir James Grant, which had sent him to the obelisk, then on to the cathedral in Valletta, and finally to here.
All had dropped right into place.
And while the pope’s body had lain on view inside St Peter’s Basilica and hundreds of thousands filed by, Spagna had appeared at the Palazzo di Malta with an intriguing offer.
A way to make Kastor pope.
The Lord’s Own had become aware of Kastor’s private investigations and his interest in the Trinity. But Spagna was several steps ahead, though he’d refused to share the details. Cardinals had long been bribed and coerced. Nothing new there. Before the 20th century the college had been small enough that it was easy to alter its course with just a few moves. Modern conclaves were different. 100 to 150 cardinals participated, which added mathematical challenges. But cardinals were men and men were flawed. So while the pope was buried beneath St. Peter’s, he and Spagna had schemed. It had been Spagna who insisted Kastor be sent to Malta. He wanted to make a deal face-to-face, and he wanted Kastor out of Rome so he could not do anything stupid to ruin things.
And he’d made that happen.
Then, once the greedy Italian at Como had contacted the knights and wanted to sell the letters, a path opened to the Trinity. So he’d improvised and used the opportunity to finally bring the Brits to the table by acquiring the Churchill letters. James Grant had been easy to manipulate. The Americans, too. But Kastor the easiest of them all. Whoever exalts himself will be humbled, and whoever humbles himself will be exalted.
The Bible was right.
Kastor never learned humility.
Neither had Spagna, which was why he had to die, along with his minion Chatterjee and Roy, his second in command. Spagna wanted the Constitutum Constantini destroyed. The Entity considered it a direct threat to the church, one that should be eliminated. Whether it was destroyed or not mattered little to him. But that flash drive.
It mattered the most.
So he’d allowed Spagna to play his hand. The fool had apparently wanted to be the pope-maker. And what better way than by providing a cardinal, with little to no moral structure, the ammunition needed to blackmail his way to the papacy. One who’d owe him big time.
What better way, indeed.
The only unexpected occurrence had been the Americans. But Spagna had assured him he had them under control.