Cotton drove mindlessly, his world shrunk to a ribbon of asphalt and the occasional headlight of an approaching car. Dawn was not far away, but some sleep would be welcome. Given the late hour, he’d decided to find a hotel room and head home in the afternoon. The past couple of days had been interesting, to say the least, and he was a hundred thousand euros richer, but, contrary to what he might have led James Grant to think, it had never been about money.
Not that he had anything against money.
Federal agents weren’t the best-compensated of public servants. About sixty-five thousand a year at the end of his time with the Justice Department. But no one worked that job for the pay. You worked it because it had to be done. Because you chose to do it. Because you were good at it. No glory, as few ever knew what you did. Which came in handy at screwup time. Nope. The satisfaction came from simply getting the job done.
He rounded a sharp curve in the highway and kept heading south, a swath of black landscape on one side and the Med on the other. Thoughts rummaged through his orderly mind, trying to seek a permanent residence. During his career at Justice he’d learned that the worst picture was always what the brain fabricated. Never mind reality. A fiction could seem far more immediate. So he’d come to rely on his subconscious to know if something was out of order, didn’t belong.
And something was out of place here.
But it wasn’t his problem.
He’d done what Stephanie wanted and everything to be found was back in the hands of the Knights of Malta and the Catholic Church. The brothers Gallo and the Vatican powers that be would now sort it out. The cardinal would head for the conclave and do what cardinals did, and Pollux Gallo would dissolve back into his cloistered world. And the Secreti? Who knew? Did they even exist? If so, were they still a threat? Regardless, they were the problem of the authorities in Italy and Malta, where all of the crimes had occurred.
So he told himself to let it go.
He kept driving, paralleling the north shore. He’d visited Malta a few times and loved the island. Always he’d stayed outside of Valletta in the suburb of St. Julian’s, at the Dragonara. Spacious rooms, good food, balconies that overlooked the Med. A lovely upscale seaside resort with all of the amenities, which he’d never had a chance to enjoy. But maybe he’d remedy that before he left later today, depending on the flight schedules. A few minutes by the pool. That’d be different.
He slowed and navigated through the narrow streets of St. Julian’s, arriving at the hotel a little before 6:00 A.M. He valet-parked the car and headed for the front desk, where he was pleased to learn a room was available.
“Did you see the explosion?” the clerk asked. “Quite the excitement tonight.”
That was true, but he was sure this guy had no idea how exciting his past few hours had been. So he asked, “What do you mean?”
“Big explosion out on the water a couple of hours ago. The boat burned for half an hour before sinking. We don’t see that here often.”
“Any idea what happened?”
The clerk shook his head. “I’m sure the morning Independent will let us know.”
He accepted the room key and drifted from the front desk. Before going to bed he needed to make a report. He found his phone, connected to Stephanie, and explained what had happened at the cathedral and the chapel.
She told him, “Luke took down a yacht outside the Valletta harbor. He drove his boat right into it. Four men are dead. Luke’s in custody. The harbor police are holding him. Unfortunately, none of the bodies carried any identification, but we’re working on that now through fingerprints. And there’s more.”
He was listening.
“Luke says Laura Price switched teams and was working with the Entity. She was ready to take a rifle shot when you and the Gallo brothers exited the cathedral, a shot that Spagna himself arranged. The Secreti interrupted, killing her and the temporary head of the Entity, who’d come to Malta to oversee the hit.”
“Who was the target? Me or the cardinal?”
“Neither one.”
And there it was.
One of those wandering thoughts just found a home. “The Entity was taking out Pollux Gallo?”
“That’s right. Which raises a whole host of questions.”
More thoughts dropped into place. The subterfuge and organized attack at the Hospitaller archive by the so-called Secreti. The sudden appearance of the real Pollux Gallo. His gracious cooperation. The lack of any outside interference at the obelisk, though the Secreti had been on the move at Lake Como and in that villa. Then the curious lack of concern at St. Magyar’s chapel. Isolated and out in the middle of nowhere, with plenty of vulnerabilities, Pollux Gallo had seemed totally at ease.
Why would a mere lieutenant ad interim of a benign charitable organization be a greater threat than a cardinal who had, at least on paper, a chance to be pope?
“Where is Luke now?” he asked.
“In Valletta. I’m dealing with it.”
“Get him out.” He told her the chapel’s name and where St. Magyar’s was located, indicating that the curator at the co-cathedral could provide exact directions. “When he’s free, send Luke my way.”
“What are you going to do?”
“Head back there. I may have misjudged the wrong Gallo.”