Pollux stared at the parchments.
Everything pointed to their authenticity. Including where they’d been found. Here, inside the sacred chapel, at the end of a trail created by the Secreti.
“There’s no time right now to study this,” he said. “We can deal with that between now and this afternoon. I’ll photograph and translate it myself and have an English and Italian version provided to you before you head into the Sistine Chapel.” He allowed the parchment to recede back into a roll. “You’ll take the original in with you.”
“It’ll be good to have it,” Kastor said. “Cardinals have a natural affinity for the past. But the flash drive. That’s what will win the day.”
“It is that good?”
Kastor nodded. “Even better.”
They’d planned so carefully. Years in the making, it all started when the pope fired Kastor from his post as prefect of the Apostolic Signatura. Where Kastor had seen that as a rebuke, a setback, possibly even the end, Pollux had realized the possibilities and insisted that Kastor seek out the position of patron of the Sovereign Military Order of Malta. Kastor, being Kastor, had thought the idea insane.
Until he explained.
Kastor never had been able to see the grand picture. Time had been a friend Pollux had willingly embraced, but never surrendered to, always being able to restrain his impatience. Kastor was a different story.
The elimination of the grand master had been a necessity. No way they could have enjoyed any freedom of movement with that man in charge. Too many of the order’s officers were loyal to him.
Better to just eliminate the problem.
In any other situation a bullet would have solved things with haste. But killing the leader of 13,000 knights, 25,000 employees, and 80,000 volunteers would have drawn far too much attention. Shame had seemed a better weapon. Especially once the careless distribution of condoms had been discovered. It happened in Myanmar. Thousands were handed out by one of the knights’ charitable arms. How it happened no one knew, since the church banned the use of contraception in any form. The program was stopped but Kastor, as patron, the pope’s emissary to the Hospitallers, conducted an investigation and laid the blame at the top, forcing the grand master to resign.
Then out of nowhere the pope died.
Like a godsend.
In the chaos it had been easy to secure Pollux’s temporary appointment as lieutenant ad interim. Many of the order’s officers had been wanting to appease Kastor, fearing his growing influence. It helped that the late pope had stayed out of the fight and allowed Kastor to handle things, perhaps hoping for another misstep, but things had played out perfectly. Added to the charade was their supposed sibling rivalry and personal dislike, which comforted those knights who had supported the disgraced grand master. After that, Pollux’s unassuming mask had misled everyone, Cotton Malone and Stephanie Nelle the latest to fall for his performance. “He was there only temporarily.” “Until a new pope was chosen.” “He had no interest in being grand master.”
All true.
Only the Entity had seen through things.
“Spagna never told me about having that level of incriminating information,” Pollux said.
“You sent me here,” Kastor said. “I came and met that man Chatterjee at the Madliena Tower, exactly as you told me to do. He took me straight to Spagna, who was anxious to make a deal. You knew nothing of that?”
He shook his head. “Spagna was only supposed to make a deal with you to find the Trinity. That was what he and I agreed upon. I told him you knew things that no one else did.”
Which was true.
But when he’d spoken to Kastor earlier by phone and told him about what had happened at Como and in Rome, he learned for the first time about the flash drive. Something Spagna had held close. His men were already on the way to that clockmaker’s shop, so he’d told them to flush the targets out on the water where Chatterjee could be eliminated. But he’d specifically told them not to take the drive. He knew Kastor, being the thief that he was, would do that for them and bring it straight to him.
Which was exactly what had happened.
“It’s time for you to head to Rome,” he said.
“And the Americans?”
He shrugged. “Malone seemed perfectly satisfied. I dealt directly with him and his superior. They were of great assistance, and now they’re done. Nothing draws them back our way. It’s just you and me now.”
Exactly the way he wanted it. Ending up here, alone and underground, in a controlled environment was another fortuitous occurrence. This was the perfect place to end one part and begin another.
But first—
“Did you bring an overnight bag?”
Kastor nodded. “It’s at the rectory in Mdina. I’ll pick it up on the way to the airport. I have a private plane waiting to take me back to Rome. A favor from a friend.”
Good to know.
He glanced at his watch. 5:40 A.M.
Less than five hours left to get back to Italy.
“My aide has prepared my belongings,” Kastor said. “Clothes, toiletries, papers, everything needed for the conclave. He texted me earlier to say it’s all at the Domus Sanctae Marthae, in my room. I’ll go straight there from the airport.”
“I’ll head to the Palazzo di Malta and deal with the Secreti. They’ve caused enough trouble. I’ll also translate the parchments.”
“We need the Secreti gone.”
“They will be. You just concentrate on the conclave and achieving the ultimate goal. Nothing matters unless you become pope.”
Pollux slipped the parchments back into the reliquary and replaced the end cap. That seemed the safest place for them. Earlier, when the knight arrived with the keys and tools, he’d also had the man bring one other item.
A short length of thin rope.
About a meter long.
Which he’d slipped into his pocket.
“Let’s get the tools and go,” he said.
Kastor headed for the shovels. Pollux used the moment to find the rope and secure both ends within his clenched fists.
“I’m still puzzled why the Secreti did not kill me in that cavern,” Kastor said.
He advanced and, as his brother crouched to retrieve the shovels, he draped the taut rope over Kastor’s head, looping it tight, stretching his arms outward and cutting off the windpipe. Kastor reached up with both hands and tried to free the stranglehold, but he tightened it even more. Kastor’s legs began to flail. Arms came up behind his head, trying to grab his attacker. Pollux angled back, out of reach, but he kept the rope firmly in place, pulling it ever tighter. Kastor gagged, struggling to breathe. His hands groped for the garrote, the grip weakening, the choking becoming more intense.
Pollux had long wondered what this moment would feel like.
For so many years he’d languished in the shadow of his arrogant twin. Many knew the name Kastor Gallo, but almost no one, outside of the Hospitallers, knew of Pollux Gallo. His brother had chosen the priesthood and risen to a level of respect and authority. Then he’d thrown it all away with reckless nonsense. All that he could have accomplished tossed to the wind so he could simply run his mouth. He’d tried to tell him to keep quiet but Kastor, being Kastor, chose his own path.
Now Pollux had finally done the same thing.
Chosen.
All movement stopped.
He kept the rope in place a few more seconds to be sure, then relaxed his grip. Kastor’s body went limp, the arms draped at the side, the legs rolled outward, the neck no longer supporting the head. He unwrapped the rope and allowed his brother to fold to the floor.
“They didn’t kill you,” he whispered, “because I wanted to.”
Interesting that for all his smarts, his brother never even imagined that he was being manipulated. Probably because he thought himself superior, the dominant one in their sibling relationship. Their entire life it had always been Kastor and Pollux. Never the other way around.
But no more.
Pollux Gallo just died.
Kastor Gallo would be reborn.