The knight was pleased to see his targets leave the co-cathedral and head for a car parked in a small lot across the street, toward the rear of the building. His men had already taken out Spagna and his minion, and they’d surely dealt with Laura Price by now. He’d severely underestimated the Lord’s Own, not grasping the full extent of Spagna’s passion and desires. But that problem was now solved.
The Americans, though, remained.
Killing both agents currently on the ground seemed the simplest solution, but that would only bring more inquiry. The Knights of Malta and the Roman Catholic Church were two huge, impersonal, monolithic objects, one unstoppable, the other unmovable. But the United States was something altogether different. He’d not expected their involvement and remained unsure exactly how to move them off the scent. Harold Earl “Cotton” Malone seemed highly capable, and the younger Luke Daniels had clearly held his own. But killing one or both of them seemed unwise, especially at this critical juncture. An ordered universe was always the goal. Everything to a certain arrangement according to set rules, all focused on a single goal. The route to that goal was fully prescribed within his mind. He’d been thinking about what was coming for a long time. Visualizing. Planning. Hoping.
Now he could see the end.
Not exactly how he’d envisioned it a few days ago.
But the end nonetheless.
Kastor rode in back of the car. Malone drove with Pollux occupying the front passenger seat. It was the same vehicle they’d used to drive from the airport to the cathedral. They were minus two others, though, as Luke Daniels and Laura Price had disappeared.
Good riddance.
The less involved the better.
They were headed out of Valletta along the north coast highway. Soon they would pass the Madliena Tower, where all of this had started yesterday. His right hand felt the flash drive through his trousers where it rested safely in his pocket. He’d been considering how best to use it. He probably would not make it back to Rome until just before the 10:00 A.M. reporting deadline. There would not be time to do much more than shower and change into his scarlet cassock before the cardinals assembled in St. Peter’s for mass. No privacy or meaningful opportunity to speak to anyone would be available. Then they would all gather in the Pauline Chapel before walking in a televised procession to the Sistine while collectively singing the Litany of the Saints. All part of the required tradition adhered to at every modern conclave.
Then the hypocrisy would start.
Beginning after the doors to the Sistine were sealed, when they would each take an oath to observe the Apostolic Constitution, maintain secrecy, never allowing anything to influence their voting save the Holy Spirit, and, if elected, to defend the Holy See. Some of that was going to be a stretch for a few of them, though none of the guilty parties knew that as yet.
Then the cardinal dean would ask if any questions relating to the procedures remained. After the clarification of any doubts, the first scrutiny, the first vote, would commence. Ordinarily a few of the minor rules that rarely came into play would be unimportant. But not here. An ill cardinal was allowed to leave the conclave and could be readmitted later. A cardinal who left for any reason other than illness could not return. No attendants accompanied the cardinals, except a nurse for one in ill health. Priests were available to hear confessions. Two doctors were also there, along with a strictly limited number of staff for housekeeping and preparing meals. All potential problems once the pressure started to be applied.
Just three cardinals were permitted to communicate with the outside world, and only under the gravest of circumstances. The major penitentiary. The cardinal vicar for the Diocese of Rome. And the vicar general for the Vatican City State. None of whom were on his hit list.
Thank God.
But he had to make sure not a one of the dirty cardinals tried to seek help or feign illness. Everything had to stay contained within the conclave.
The first scrutiny always came quickly.
And was meaningless.
Few ever achieved election then. Most cardinals voted for either themselves or a close friend. A few would collate and cast their ballots for their favorite candidate, sending an early message. Generally, the votes were scattered across a wide spectrum and not until the second scrutiny would patterns begin to emerge.
The rules stated that if a scrutiny took place on the afternoon of the first day and no one was elected, a maximum of four ballots were held on each successive day. Two in the morning, two each afternoon. If no result came after three days of balloting—twelve votes—the process was suspended for one day of prayer. After seven further scrutinies, the process again would be suspended. If after another seven no result was achieved, a third suspension came for another day. After a final seven and no election, a day of prayer, reflection, and dialogue occurred. For any voting thereafter, only the two names who received the most votes in the last scrutiny were eligible in a runoff.
In modern times the voting had never even approached such lengths. But nothing about this conclave would be normal.
The critical moment?
After the first scrutiny, when the conclave recessed for the day and the cardinals headed back to their rooms, there would be a few hours between dinner and when everyone had settled down for the night when he could make the rounds and have a private talk with the ones who mattered. By then there would be a lot of chatter happening. That was the whole idea of the conclave. For the cardinals to be sequestered alone, where they could make up their minds among themselves. He was just going to provide some added incentive. Each offender would be told what he knew, what he could prove, and what would happen if he did not hear his name announced as having achieved a two-thirds majority.
He also didn’t care how it was done.
Just that it happened.
And fast.