“Seems the rat finally found the trap,” Stamm said.
Stephanie tossed him a grateful smile.
“Good job.”
CHAPTER SEVENTY-THREE
Cotton waited in Cardinal Stamm’s office, located in one of the many buildings that filled the Vatican, this one on the north side of the Apostolic Palace amid the post office, pharmacy, media outlets, grocery store, and barracks of the Swiss Guards. It was an odd location for the world’s oldest intelligence agency. Reminiscent of the Magellan Billet, which was headquartered in a nondescript government building in Atlanta.
Stamm had ordered the train to reverse down the tracks, back to the Vatican station. The loading platform had been cleared of the white van and freight wagons, no one around except two men who, Stamm had explained, worked for him. Gallo was taken into custody, hustled to a waiting car, then driven away. The conclave had been halted with the story of a mechanical failure within the Sistine Chapel affecting the air-conditioning and electrical systems. It had been deemed a possible fire hazard so the extraordinary measure of interrupting the cardinals had been ordered. Luckily, nothing had, as yet, occurred relative to voting so it was decided that the conclave would reconvene tomorrow. The press was consumed with the story, but the cardinals were sequestered inside their rooms at the Domus Sanctae Marthae, unavailable for comment, including the presiding cardinal, whom Stamm had assured would never reveal a thing.
He and Stephanie had walked with Stamm back across the grounds. The injured guard had been located and taken to the hospital. He’d been partially asphyxiated but should be okay. Both he and his company had been sworn to secrecy. Cotton still felt bad that he hadn’t been able to do something for the guy sooner, but if he’d delayed any longer he would have lost Gallo. Hopefully the guard would understand.
He was tired, his face deep in stubble and in need of a shave. Some sleep and a good meal would be great, too. Stamm’s office seemed the picture of efficiency. Nothing fancy. Just what he needed to get the job done. Which seemed to fit the man. No nonsense, but fully capable. Cotton was glad this was over. Time to head to southern France and a few days with Cassiopeia. Strange that his thoughts now included another person. He’d been a loner a long time. But not anymore. A woman was again part of his life.
Which wasn’t a bad thing.
Stephanie entered the office. “I really appreciate what you did.”
“All part of the job, and I got paid.”
“Speaking of that. James Grant’s body was found in the Ligurian Sea, with a hole in his head.”
“Gallo?”
“No doubt.”
“Lot of dead people,” he said.
“I agree. This one came with a cost.”
“What about the Churchill letters?”
“Disappeared. But the Knights of Malta are cooperating and conducting searches of Gallo’s rooms. He most likely has them hidden somewhere. They’re appalled that all this has happened. But Gallo was working rogue. He recruited his Secreti on the promise of Vatican positions. Proof positive that you can hire anybody to do anything.”
“I understand that concept fully,” he said, adding a smile.
“I know you do.”
Stamm reentered the office and walked behind his desk, sitting in a plain, high-backed wooden chair, which had to be uncomfortable. But the guy seemed right at home.
“The situation is control. The Vatican press office is dealing with the conclave interruption. The cardinals are tucked away. The two guards at the railway gate have been told that this was an internal matter and that you were working with us.”
“The guy I tossed from the car okay?”
“He’s fine.” Stamm paused. “We were lucky today. An untenable situation has been resolved. Thanks to you, Mr. Malone.”
“And a guy named Luke Daniels on Malta,” Cotton added.
“I’ve already told him the same thing,” Stephanie added. “Luke is on his way here with a prisoner. They landed a couple of hours ago.”
He was perplexed. “Why here?”
“It was at my request,” Stamm said.
Cotton realized the implications. He was sitting on sovereign soil. Stamm intended on treating both Gallo and Hahn as Vatican prisoners and dealing with them per canon law.
“For obvious reasons, we cannot allow the Italian, Maltese, British, or … Americans to deal with these crimes.” Stamm stood. “Would you come with me?”
They left the office and walked to the elevator. Once inside the car, Stamm inserted a key into the control panel then pushed an unmarked button. The building had four floors and a basement. The button that lit up was below the one for the basement.
“This is an old building,” Stamm said. “Built in the 1970s over a part of the grottoes.”
They descended and came to a stop. The elevator doors opened. They were underground, a tall, well-lit corridor stretching ahead. All painted concrete with a tile floor.
“These subterranean chambers have proven useful,” Stamm said.
The cardinal led the way and they followed him toward an iron door. Stamm approached and rapped twice. A lock was released from the other side and the panel swung inward. They stepped into a long room, one side lined with bars separated by stone pillars.
Cells.
Stamm dismissed the man who’d been stationed inside.
A table stood before one of the cells. The reliquary from the Church of St. Magyar’s sat on it with parchments inside and another roll lying outside. Cotton walked over to see Pollux Gallo behind bars. The cardinal and Stephanie joined him.
“These cells have been used by us for a long time,” Stamm said. “Mehmet Ali Ağca was held here for a time after he tried to kill John Paul II.”
Cotton couldn’t help but think of the infamous Lubyanka prison in Moscow beneath the old KGB headquarters building, where political dissidents, artists, writers, and reporters had been tortured. He wondered why the Roman Catholic Church would need underground cells with restricted access.
“Is that the Constitutum Constantini?” he asked, pointing to the parchment.
“It is,” Stamm said.
“I don’t suppose you’d tell me why it’s so important?”
“It proves that all of this is a fraud,” Gallo said, approaching the bars. “The Roman Catholic Church is fake. Tell him, Cardinal. Tell him the truth.”
He waited for more.
“There’s an African proverb. Until the lions have their historians, tales of the hunt shall always glorify the hunters. It’s so true. In our case, the glory went to those who took the lead.” Stamm paused. “Constantine the Great changed the world. He first united the Roman Empire, then divided it into two parts. Emperors ruled the eastern half. Popes eventually dominated the western. But not until they heeded his advice.”
Stamm pointed at the parchments.
“It’s a blueprint for a new religion,” Gallo said. “Instructions on how to make Christianity important. How to involve it in every aspect of people’s lives. How to use it to dominate followers. How even to kill them, if necessary, to preserve its existence.”
Stamm seemed unfazed. “I’ve read it and he’s right. Constantine wanted a religion of his own making, a mechanism whereby the people were kept away from revolt. All without them, of course, ever realizing they were being dominated. Unfortunately, that never happened during his life, or in the centuries after his death. Only bits and pieces of his ideas were implemented. No grand scheme. Not until his gift was rediscovered in the 9th century. Popes had, by then, become intoxicated with ambition. They were more than religious leaders. They were military and political leaders. By the 11th century the Catholic Church became the richest and most powerful institution in the world. All thanks to Constantine’s Gift.”