Luke kept the wheel straight and the bow pointed out to sea. The inflatable ahead continued to speed through the water with little noise, the engine barely audible thanks to the half-mile distance between them. Its destination seemed to be a glossy, light-colored hull with a clean, slick outline. A main cabin projected above the gunwale extending maybe fifty feet. Lights illuminated the hull, cabin area, and aft deck, where a shadow could be seen walking around.
The inflatable eased up to the stern and stopped. Two men hopped from the Zodiac and cinched the craft tight to an aft swim step. Luke glanced back and saw he was five hundred yards offshore, due north of Fort St. Angelo, which was lit in its full golden glory to the night. He had a tough decision to make, one with enormous ramifications if he was wrong. The men on that boat had killed four people, that he knew of, tonight. They’d even tried to make him the fifth. Laura had wanted them stopped, and though her methods were questionable she hadn’t deserved to die. Shooting it out with these guys seemed nonsensical. This wasn’t a Bond movie. There were far more of them than there was of him, and they certainly could see him coming as he was a mere quarter mile away and closing.
Three figures now stood on the aft deck.
He saw bursts of muzzle fire and realized they were shooting his way. Volleys of automatic weapons rounds kicked up the water around him like giant raindrops. He ducked low enough for cover, but still high enough that he could see beyond the windscreen. The closer he got the easier a target he would make. The smart play was to take these guys out and find out who they were after they were in the water, either dead or rescued.
His best weapon roared beneath his feet.
The boat itself.
His target rested at anchor.
He aimed the bow straight for the yacht’s midsection, the throttle full out. He knifed across the calm surface, cutting a path straight for the darkened hull. He’d have to time his move perfectly as he could not risk the rudder not staying straight.
New gunfire came his way.
Rounds thudded into the fiberglass hull.
One hundred yards.
He needed to be closer.
More rat, tat, tat from automatic fire.
One last look.
On course.
People liked to say he was sometimes two fries short of a Happy Meal, but what had his father liked to say? Your strings have to all be in tune for folks to pick on you.
Hell yeah.
He leaped from the boat, hitting the water with his right shoulder, his forward momentum skipping him across the surface before he sank. He stayed down, beneath the surface, but gazed upward as the pewter-black night transformed into a blinding light.
Cotton stepped from the car and stared at St. Magyar’s. The squatty church seemed scooped out of the bow of the hill, tucked away under a rocky outcrop, hidden by both nature and the night. He didn’t have to see to know that the ancient stone walls were likely twisted and discolored by centuries of bakery heat.
He was still concerned about Luke, who’d been nowhere to be found when they’d left the cathedral. He understood Stephanie’s urgency at dealing with Laura Price, but he had problems of his own. Surely Luke would head back inside the cathedral, where the curator had been told to direct him this way. He’d commandeered the car they’d used to travel from the airport to the cathedral. The curator had said that he would make his personal vehicle available to Luke when he showed up.
Another set of headlights pierced the night, and a small SUV approached the church and parked. A younger man climbed out, whom Pollux identified as one of his colleagues from Fort St. Angelo. The newcomer opened the vehicle’s hatch where there were two shovels, a pick, a sledgehammer, and some rope.
“I wasn’t sure what to expect,” Pollux said. “So I told him to bring what they had.”
Cotton grabbed the shovels, Pollux the sledgehammer and pick. The cardinal brought the coil of rope.
“Wait outside,” Pollux told his man. “I’ll call you in if needed.”
The younger man nodded and handed over a key to the front door.
The terrain around them was hilly, fading down into a valley that stretched farther south. Scattered lights indicated people. The church sat on the knob of one of the steeper hills with a graveled path serving as a driveway. There were two barred windows and a small bell cot. The main door was an arched oval, unusually low. Above it, an encircled eight-pointed Maltese cross was carved into the stone. The dial of Cotton’s luminous watch read 4:40 A.M.
Another all-nighter.
Thankfully, he’d grabbed an hour’s nap on the flight from Rome.
Pollux used the key and opened the oak door. He heard a click and lights came on inside. Not many, and not all that bright, which allowed his eyes to adjust easily. The interior was rectangular with a circular apse at the far end. Simple and bare, with stone benches lining the exterior walls, the floor a mixture of flagstones and beaten earth. Only faint remnants of wall frescoes remained. Empty niches accommodated no statues. Everything a bland, sandy gray.
“The main reason there are so many churches on Malta,” Pollux said, “is isolation. Roads were few and terrible, so every town and village wanted its own church. Incredibly, the vast majority of those buildings have survived. This one, though, was built for a select few. The locals were forbidden to come anywhere near it, on pain of imprisonment.”
Cotton noticed the plain stone altar at the apse end, another Maltese cross carved into its front. The lack of any pews seemed curious. “Did they stand to worship?”
“There was no worship here,” Cardinal Gallo said.
He’d suspected as much. There had to be more to this place.
Pollux stepped beyond the altar into the apse. Three stone panels formed the curved walls, separated by moldings, with limestone benches wrapping the semicircle. Cotton watched as Pollux laid the pick down and knelt, reaching beneath one of the stone benches and pressing something.
The center panel released inward a few inches.
“Centuries ago there was a manual winch,” Pollux said. “But today we’re a bit more modern.”
“Napoleon never found the door?” he asked.
Pollux shook his head. “The French were in a hurry and not all that smart. They came, saw nothing, and left. We installed the electric lock about five years ago. The stone is balanced at its center of gravity, on a lubricated center post. You can push it open with one hand.”
The cardinal stepped forward and did just that, exposing two blackened rectangles, about two feet wide, centered by the short side of the stone wall.
They stepped through and Pollux activated another light switch.
A tunnel stretched ahead.
Tall. Wide. Spacious.
“Where does it lead?” he asked.
“To a wondrous place,” Pollux whispered.
During the car trip Kastor had admired the Pwales Valley, a picturesque region of timeless wetlands that dominated Malta’s northern corner. The land undulated with hillocks of lichens and foul-smelling mushrooms. It stayed carpeted with cape sorrel, crow daisies, borage, and spurge. Unusual for Malta, which was not all that hospitable to plants. Some of the most stunning views on the island could be seen here, though darkness prevented him from enjoying any of them now.
People had lived on the land for over five thousand years and there were cave paintings in the nearby ridges to prove it. Its many bays had long made it prone to outside attack. The knights had fortified the whole area against Muslim corsairs with coastal towers and garrison batteries. The British manned a fort nearby during, and after, World War II. As a kid he’d visited it several times. The nuns would buy them sweets and sodas. They’d also taken swimming lessons in the nearby harbor.
Those nuns.
They’d at least tried to make things bearable, which was hard to do given all of their children were orphans. Few ever left until they were old enough to walk out as adults. He’d always wondered how many ever ventured back for a visit. He never had.
He knew all about the Church of St. Magyar’s, which was actually two chapels in one. The outer portion had served as an overt wayside chapel and gathering place for the Secreti. But it was the inner portion—the Church of St. John—that had held a special place.
But not John the Baptist.
John of Nepomuk, the patron saint of Bohemia, drowned in 1393 in the Vltava River at the behest of King Wenceslaus for refusing to divulge the secrets of the confessional. He was often depicted in statues with a finger to his lips, indicating silence, keeping a secret. The Jesuits spread the story of his martyrdom that eventually elevated him to sainthood. A cult devoted to his worship flourished on Malta in the 16th century, so it was easy to see why the Secreti would have named their chapel for him.
Kastor had never visited St. Magyar’s, nor, he assumed, had 99 percent of the knights’ membership. As with its patron saint, the secrets within this place had stayed secret. Why Pollux had chosen to reveal this sacred location to an outsider remained a mystery.
They carried the tools and walked down the lit tunnel.
“This is a man-made extension of the original natural cave,” Pollux said. “The exterior sanctuary was built to conceal the true chapel of the Secreti.”
The path was lit by a series of incandescent fixtures attached to the ceiling, connected by an exposed electrical cable. The floor was flat, hard-packed earth, dry as a desert. The air was noticeably cooler the farther inside they walked. The tunnel ended at a set of arched, oak double doors hung on heavy iron hinges. No locks, just two iron rings that Pollux used to push open both panels. Not a sound betrayed the hinges. Obviously, things around here were dutifully cared for.
Beyond was a towering space that stretched in three directions, two lateral vaults off a central core. Arches and pillars supported the rock overhead. Statues dominated every nook and cranny. Not separate additions, either—as in the co-cathedral, each had been carved from the surrounding stone. He saw Madonnas, saints, Christ, animals. Most were freestanding. A few stood alone in niches, while others emerged from the walls in three-dimensional façades. Carefully placed floor and ceiling lights illuminated everything, casting the stone in varying hues of brown and gray, all combining for a hauntingly ominous atmosphere.
“All right,” Kastor said to Malone. “What now?”