Cotton felt the swoop as the helicopter began to descend toward the Italian countryside. His greeter had led him to the top of the Palazzo di Malta, where a black-and-white AgustaWestland AW139 bearing civilian markings had landed on a small pad. He’d been under the mistaken impression that the interim grand master would be at the palazzo. Instead he’d been informed that the lieutenant ad interim waited at Villa Pagana, a seaside residence in Rapallo, about 250 miles to the north.
Evening was approaching, the late-afternoon sun hanging solemn in the western sky. Being transported a long way from Rome only raised more red flags in his already suspicious mind. True, the pessimist might be right in the long run, but he’d come to know that the optimist had a better time along the way. So he decided to keep an open mind.
He stared down at Rapallo, which looked like a typical seaside Italian town. An amphitheater of hills faced the sea supporting a jumble of whitewashed houses with red-tile roofs that funneled downward to a stark stretch of sandy beach. A promenade lined the shore, flanked by a small castle. Boats and yachts rolled at anchor in the blue waters of the Ligurian Sea.
The chopper came in low over the shoreline and flew inland, angling toward one of the villas, an impressive three-story battlement of ocher stone, set among a thick stand of maritime pines dominating a rocky promontory. A red flag with a white Maltese cross flew above its parapets.
“The villa was built in the 1600s,” his escort told him. “But it has only been the summer residence of the grand masters since the 1950s.”
They sat in a comfortable rear compartment, free of vibration, with black leather seats and enough insulation that their voices could be heard over the rotors.
He glanced out the window and noticed the manicured grounds, dotted with cacti, palm trees, and a carpet of flowers. At the promontory’s tip he spotted a ruined fortification. A small grassy clearing not far from the house seemed to serve as a landing pad, and the pilot eased the helicopter down to a gentle stop.
A black Mercedes coupe waited beyond the wash of the blades, and he followed his host to the car. In the backseat, across from him, sat a broad-shouldered man with neatly combed dark hair. He was clean-featured with a hard, lanky build. He sat straight with a military bearing, his jaw stretched forward, the face as bland as milk. As with his escort from Rome, this one wore a three-buttoned dark suit and striped tie, a pale-blue handkerchief providing a discreet contrast of color at the top of the breast pocket.
“I’m Pollux Gallo, the lieutenant ad interim.”
No hand was extended to shake, but his host did offer a slight smile of welcome.
“Cotton Malone. Sir James Grant sent me.”
The car drove across the grass and found a paved drive, heading away from the villa.
“Where are we going?”
“To obtain the answers you seek.”
He’d immediately noticed the ring on Gallo’s right hand. He found the one he’d taken from the dead man in his pocket.
“I was briefed by the British on what happened to you earlier today,” Gallo said. “They told me about that ring. I believe I can shed some light on the matter.”
“Were you shown a photo of the dead man?”
Gallo nodded. “He’s not one of us. But we’ve seen these copied rings before. There are jewelry stores across France and Italy that sell them. The palindrome is called a Sator Square, after the first word in the line of five. It has existed for a long time, with Roman origins.”
“Why is a Maltese cross inside?”
Gallo shrugged. “A good question.”
“I bet the one on your finger has a cross inside it, too. My guess is those copycats don’t have that addition.”
Finally a slight rise of the eyebrows signaling irritation. Good. This guy needed to know that he wasn’t dealing with an amateur.
He’d always hated funerals and only attended them when absolutely necessary. His first had been as a teenager, when his grandfather died. His own father disappeared when he was ten, lost at sea in a navy submarine. As a teenager, he and his mother moved back to Georgia and lived on the family’s onion farm. He and his grandfather grew close, and eventually seeing the old man in that coffin had hurt more than he’d ever imagined. He also remembered the funeral director. A dour man, not much different in looks and bearing from the statue sitting across from him, uttering predictable words.
So he told himself to stay alert.
“In 1957,” Gallo said, his voice lowered, “a trial occurred in Padua, Italy, where some of the partisans involved in the 1945 disappearance of Mussolini’s gold were prosecuted. Rumors had been rampant for years of how the gold might have been kept by the locals. Twelve years of investigation led to thirty-five defendants being charged with theft. Three hundred witnesses were subpoenaed. The trial was expected to last eight months, but was abruptly halted by the presiding judge after only twenty-six witnesses testified. It never reconvened and no further official inquiry was ever made into the gold’s disappearance. The presiding judge at that trial resigned his post in 1958. Interestingly, afterward he lived a posh life in a villa. That judge’s grandson was the man killed this morning. The owner of the villa by Lake Como.”
“Obviously, the judge was paid off.”
“I have no idea. I can only tell you what happened. We know that, on April 25, 1945, Allied forces were less than fifty miles from Milan. Mussolini called an emergency meeting of his cabinet and told them he was fleeing north to Switzerland. He then ordered what was left of the Italian treasury brought to the cabinet meeting. It consisted of gold ingots, currency, and the Italian crown jewels. He distributed the cash and jewels among his ministers and ordered them to leave the city with their caches. He kept the gold, some of the currency, and a few of the jewels. The best estimate is that about a hundred million U.S. dollars’ worth, in 1945 values, came north with him. Most of the currency would be worthless today. But the gold and jewels are another matter. Surely worth over a billion euros in today’s value.”
That was indeed an impressive treasure.
“Which answers your question,” Gallo said. “The Italian justice system leaves a lot to be desired. Corruption is common. There is little doubt that judge was bribed. But again, we’ll never know the truth, as the matter was not investigated. But part of that 1957 trial record consists of depositions detailing the inventory of two elephant-skin satchels, which were taken from Mussolini when he was captured. Both had the party’s symbol etched on the outside. An eagle clutching a fasces.”
One of which he’d held in his hands earlier.
“Both of those satchels disappeared,” Gallo said. “They have not been seen since 1945. By 1960 nearly everyone associated with what had been found with Mussolini had either died or disappeared. Ever since, men have searched. Now, today, you apparently found one of the satchels.”
They were following a two-lane switchback road that descended from the promontory. The man who’d brought him from Rome sat in the front passenger seat, a third man in another dark suit driving. Neither had spoken, or even acknowledged that there was someone else in the car.
“What do you know about the letters between Mussolini and Churchill?” he asked Gallo.
“I’m familiar with the speculation. The British have long believed Mussolini brought some, or all, of his correspondence with Churchill north during his escape attempt. That is a possibility. There was an emissary of ours present both in Dongo and at the villa where Mussolini and his mistress were kept the night before they died. Mussolini spoke of documents he had that the British might find embarrassing. He even offered them in return for safe passage out of Italy. But he did not elaborate on what those were and, by the time he spoke of them, they were no longer in his possession. The partisans had them in Dongo.”
“Why was an emissary of the Hospitallers talking to Mussolini?”
“We wanted something he stole from us returned. We hoped he’d brought it north, too.”
Cotton motioned with the ring. “Something like this?”
Gallo nodded. “One of these rings was involved. Taken from a professed knight whom Mussolini had ordered killed. We definitely wanted it returned.”
He waited for more, but nothing was offered. So he tried something easier. “I need to know more about this ring.”
“It represents a sect that once existed within our ranks called the Secreti. They date back to the Crusades and our time in Jerusalem, and they were a part of us in Rhodes and Malta. Only the highest-ranking knights were invited to join, their numbers small. For a long time not even the grand masters were privy to their activities. That was because grand masters only lived a few years, or even a few months. Many of them inept and corrupt. The Secreti lasted longer and kept true to their vows. They became a law unto themselves, trusting no one, using their own methods, their own rules, their own justice to keep the order’s secrets safe. The only thing those men trusted was God. For all intents and purposes, though, they ended when Napoleon claimed Malta. The knights dispersed across the globe, our secrets going with them. They were formally disbanded just after World War II.”
“Yet you, the guy in the front seat, and the dead man back at Como are all still wearing the ring.”
Gallo smiled. The effort seemed almost painful. “Merely ceremonial, Mr. Malone. A hark back to another time. We Hospitallers are appreciative of the past. We like to recall it. And to answer your question from earlier, there is a Maltese cross etched inside my ring. But the Secreti no longer exist. Our rings are mere copies, made by a Roman jeweler. I can provide his name and address, if you like.”
It all sounded so innocent, so correct, but nothing about this man rang right. Particularly annoying was the lowered voice, which seemed a means of ascendancy, a way to shrink others down and control the conversation.
“You’re in temporary charge of the Hospitallers?” he asked.
Gallo nodded. “I was selected to fill the position after the grand master was forced to resign. We planned on making a permanent choice two weeks ago, but the pope’s death changed that. We will convene after the conclave and select a new leader.”
He was curious, “Your last name. Gallo. Any relation to Cardinal Gallo?”
“He is my brother.”
Now that was convenient. From the media accounts he’d read the cardinal had wreaked havoc within the Hospitallers, essentially masterminding the grand master’s ouster. Then his brother emerged as the temporary man in charge? What were the odds on that one? He also recalled what James Grant had wanted him to explore.
“I’m told that the knights have a fascination with Mussolini?”
Gallo gave a slight shake of his head. “Not a fascination. More a historical interest. But that is a private matter, one we don’t discuss outside our ranks.”
Exactly what James Grant had warned they would say.
His host shifted slightly in the leather seat. Enough that Cotton caught a glimpse of what he thought might be a shoulder holster beneath the suit jacket.
Intriguing.
Why did a professed man of God carry a weapon? True, Hospitallers were once warrior-monks, defending the honor of Christ and the church.
But not anymore.
They were now climbing a ridge on a second switchback road. The Ligurian Sea stretched toward the western horizon, looking pale and weary in the faint red glow of the setting sun. The lights of Portofino could be seen in the distance. Ahead, he spotted an irregular group of buildings, perched on a precipitous neck of stone, facing the water. They had a fortresslike character from the crenellated walls to the distinctive towers, and seemed more hacked by the wind and rain from the rock than human-made.
“We’re headed for that monastery?” he asked Gallo.
“It was once a holy place. But we acquired the site about sixty years ago.”
The car kept climbing.
“When we were forced from Malta by Napoleon,” Gallo said, “we took some of our archives with us. They were stored in various places around Europe, sometimes not all that carefully. Finally we obtained this site, refurbished the old buildings, and consolidated everything. There is a small repository still on Malta, but the majority of our records and artifacts are kept here.”
The car turned onto a short drive, then passed through an open gate into an enclosed courtyard. Floodlights lit the cobbles to reveal another huge white Maltese cross etched into their surface.
The Mercedes stopped.
“You should feel privileged,” Gallo said.
“How so?”
“Few outside the knights are ever allowed here.”
But he was not comforted by the honor.
The knight lowered the binoculars.
His view of the old monastery, now an archival repository for the Knights of Malta, was unobstructed from his dark perch. He’d watched from the trees as the car entered the lit courtyard and Cotton Malone emerged.
He’d traveled south from Como at a leisurely pace with the elephant-skin satchel and its contents safe within his car. Before leaving Menaggio, he’d read all eleven letters between Churchill and Mussolini, learning enough of the details that he could now speak intelligently about them.
And he had.
Talking to the British by phone, informing them as to what he possessed, what he wanted, and learning what they desired in return.
Which had surprised him.
But it had been doable.
He glanced at his watch.
Time to go.
He had a meeting.