MALTA
Kastor had listened as Chatterjee spoke to the parasailer. He then watched as the unidentified man hit the water and eventually overpowered two men in a boat. Then another boat had given chase, firing shots as the parasailer sped away, confronting him farther down the coast. The last thing he saw was the parasailer heading off toward Valletta.
Alone.
“What was that about?” he asked Arani.
“People are interested in what you’re doing, Eminence.”
News to him. “What people?”
No reply.
So he asked, “Who was that parasailer?”
“An American agent, sent here to spy on you. We learned of his involvement yesterday. Thankfully I was able to get ahead of him and paid off that parasailing crew. Those other two men should have dealt with him but, as you saw, he escaped.”
“Who was the woman in the other boat?”
“A good question. I have to make a call.”
Chatterjee retreated to the far side of the parapet and used a cell phone.
He’d not liked any of what he’d just heard and resented being treated like an inferior. And who was the we, as in we learned.
He stared back out to the sea.
The north shore had always been different to him. He and his brother had been born on the south side of the island, on a plot of land overlooking another swath of the Mediterranean. The old farmhouse had been built of the local coralline limestone, an interesting compound that emerged from the ground soft and damp but eventually, after age and sun, turned hard and white.
Like himself. Pliable as a child.
Unbending in adulthood.
His father had fished the Med all of his life, back when it was still possible to make a living. Both of his parents had been good people, neither one of them going out of their way ever to make an enemy. Sadly, they died in a car crash when he was twelve. It happened in April, just after the alfalfa had bloomed, blanketing the ground in color and the air with an aromatic scent.
To this day he hated spring.
With no family willing to take them, he and his brother had been sent to St. Augustus orphanage, on the east side of the island, a dreary, unimpressive place run by the Ursuline Sisters. There he grew to know the church. Its stability. Rules. History. Along with the many opportunities it presented. And where some at the orphanage rebelled, he’d come to appreciate the nuns’ insistence on discipline. Those cold, bland women were, if nothing else, consistent. They made their point only once and you were expected to obey. Three years ago he’d forgotten a few of the lessons those unbending women had taught him and overplayed his hand, allowing the pope to cut his legs out from under him.
A stupid, stupid error.
He’d held a position of great power and influence. Prefect of the Apostolic Signatura. In charge of the highest judicial authority of the Catholic Church. When it came to ecclesiastical matters only the pope’s word ranked higher. That position had also made him privy to a wealth of confidential information on laymen, priests, bishops, and cardinals. He’d amassed a treasure trove of confidential files. The plan had been to eventually use that knowledge to privately elevate his stature within the College of Cardinals. And if played right, he might be able to adapt his colleagues’ gratitude into a serious run at the papacy.
Any Catholic male who reached the age of reason, not a heretic, not in schism, and not notorious thanks to simony, could be elected pope. But in reality, only cardinals had a chance. The last non-cardinal elected was in 1379. Without question, certain cardinals were more likely than others to be chosen. The fancy word was papabile. Able to be pope. That used to mean Italian. Not anymore, thanks to a succession of foreign popes. Still, there was no way ever to know who would emerge as a favorite. What was the saying? He who enters the conclave as pope, comes out a cardinal. History had proven that nine times out of ten a non-favorite won. Which made sense. Every so-called favorite had his own carefully crafted support group. Many of those formed shortly before or during a conclave, and rarely did one group ever sway another to accept their candidate. Which meant the man finally elected was never everyone’s favorite. Instead, he was just a compromise that two-thirds of the cardinals could agree upon.
Which was fine.
He wasn’t interested in being anyone’s favorite.
Contra mundum.
Against the world.
His motto.
Chatterjee returned after ending his call. “I’ll deal with our American spy in the boat.”
“In what way?”
The man chuckled. “Do you really want to know? Just accept that I’m here, at your service, Eminence.”
He felt another rush of anger at the patronizing tone. But the past few years, if nothing else, had taught him some measure of patience.
“And the woman?” he asked.
“I’m working on that, too.”
“Are you Hindu?”
“I’m an atheist.”
He needed to calm himself and expunge the growing rancor simmering inside him. This conversation was going nowhere. But he needed to know, “What are your qualifications to deal with my current needs?”
Chatterjee stared him down. “I can fight, shoot, and don’t mind killing someone if the need arises.”
“Are we going to war?”
“You tell me, Eminence. As you pointed out, people have been searching for the Nostra Trinità a long time.”
“And what do you know about it?”
“Quite a bit. I hold a doctorate in medieval history from the University of York. My dissertation was on Jerusalem between the times of the Jews, Muslims, and Christians, from the 1st to 5th centuries, with an emphasis on European brotherhoods and their effect on intersect occupation. The Sovereign Military Hospitallers Order of St. John of Jerusalem, of Rhodes, and of Malta being one of those. I’m also quite good at scouring and stealing from archives, libraries, and newspaper morgues. I have few to no morals, and will do whatever is necessary to get the job done. I wrote a book on the Hospitallers. Didn’t sell all that well, but it did draw the attention of certain people likewise interested in the knights.”
“Can you name a few names?”
Chatterjee chuckled. “Never kiss and tell. First rule of my business.”
He could see that this man masked a tough and sinewy intelligence beneath an overabundance of carefully cultivated rudeness. Ordinarily, he would not waste time with such arrogance. But nothing about this situation was ordinary.
He bought a few moments to think by watching the swift passage of a gull, its wings set, as it rode the thermals and glided out to sea. What it must feel like to be that unencumbered. Finally he turned toward Chatterjee and said, “You realize that the conclave begins in a little over twenty-four hours. There is no time for nonsense.”
“How about I whet your appetite with something I’m sure you don’t know. A good-faith offering, if you will.”
He’d been told to come here and all would be explained.
So he had to trust that this was not a waste of time.
“I’m listening.”