Kastor emerged from the car.
He’d ridden from the Madliena Tower with Chatterjee, following the north coast highway to the town of St. Paul’s Bay. It began as a sleepy fishing village, the adjacent shoreline one of the easier points on the island from which to gain land. Now it was a popular tourist spot, its unstylish concrete buildings overflowing with an overpriced array of restaurants, cafés, and boutiques, the mass-market hotels and nondescript apartments packed with people year-round.
He caught sight of one of the coastal towers, high above, standing guard from its lofty perch. Another grand master creation, this one in 1610 by Wigancourt, who built six facing the sea. He knew about the famed Frenchman. A knight his entire adult life, including during the Great Siege, he was popular with the Maltese, which was rare for grand masters. The viaduct he completed delivered water to Valletta until the 20th century.
Out in the calm bay boats lay at anchor, so many that their bulk formed a carpet on the water. Beyond them, he spotted the small island where the faithful believed that Paul himself first came ashore. What a tale. In A.D. 60 275 prisoners were being ferried toward Rome to be tried, Paul included. Their ship was ruined in a dreadful storm, drifting two weeks before breaking up just off the coast. Despite not knowing how to swim, miraculously all of the prisoners made it to shore. The Bible itself recounted the event, noting that later we learned that the island was named Malta. The people who lived there showed us great kindness and they made a fire and called us all to warm ourselves. As the story went, while Paul was ashore a poisonous snake bit him but he survived, which the locals took as a sign that he was no ordinary man.
No. That he was not.
More a brilliant rebel.
Like himself.
Kastor stood before a formidable church, one of 360 that dotted the island, this one a high building of burnt ocher, with a graceful spire and a beautiful cupola, vivid against the drabness of the shady street. Not much had changed in thirty years. As a young priest, serving his first parish, he’d said mass here many times. He noticed that the same two clocks remained in the tower. One real, the other a trompe l’oeil, installed by overly superstitious locals to supposedly confuse the devil when he came to collect souls.
He and Chatterjee entered through the front doors. Inside was the same low roof supported by arches, with little pomp or circumstance, shadows still the only adornment. A solitary figure stood beside the front pew.
“Come in, my friend. Please. We have much to discuss.”
A tall, stout, older man, with a noticeable midsection, paraded down the center aisle. He was robust, with a thick patch of pale-white hair and features framed by a pair of wispy white sideburns. Few angles defined the round face, the skin streaked by veins of yellow and purple, perhaps the lasting effects from years of smoking.
Danjel Spagna.
The few times Kastor had seen him at the Vatican, Spagna had worn the black cassock, purple skullcap, and silver pectoral cross of an archbishop. Today he was dressed casually, nothing reflecting any ecclesiastical status.
He’d never actually met Spagna, only heard the tales.
The press called it all the Vatican, but the Holy See was not the Vatican City State. The latter came into existence as sovereign territory only in 1929 because of the Lateran Treaty. It consisted of chapels, halls, galleries, gardens, offices, apartments, and museums. The Holy See, the episcopal seat of Rome and the pope, dated back to Christ, and was an independent sovereign entity that did not end at the death of a pontiff. The Holy See acted and spoke for the whole church, currently maintaining diplomatic relations with 180 nations. Ambassadors were officially accredited not to the Vatican City State, but to the Holy See. The pope was its unchallenged head, but it was administered by the curia, with the secretary of state acting like a prime minister, a buffer between the over two thousand employees and the pope. The old joke came from John XXIII. When asked how many people worked at the Vatican, he quipped about half of them.
As in any other nation, security had always been a concern.
The most secret agency within the Holy See had existed since the 16th century, created specifically by Pius V to end the life of the Protestant Elizabeth I and support her cousin, the Catholic Mary, Queen of Scots, for the English throne. Though it failed in that mission, ever since it had served popes through schisms, revolutions, dictators, persecutions, attacks, world wars, even assassination attempts. First called the Supreme Congregation for the Holy Inquisition of Heretical Error, then the much shorter Holy Alliance. In the 20th century it was changed to the Entity.
Its motto?
With the Cross and the Sword.
Never once had the Holy See acknowledged the Entity’s existence, but those in the know regarded it as the oldest and one of the best intelligence agencies in the world. A model of secrecy and efficiency. Respected. Feared. Overseen for the past thirty-six years by Archbishop Danjel Spagna.
The pope’s spymaster.
A Belgian, Spagna first came to the attention of John Paul II when, as a young priest, he learned that the Vatican might be bugged. Eight listening devices were found inside the Apostolic Palace, all of Soviet origin. The world was never told, but a grateful pope elevated Spagna to monsignor and assigned him to the Entity. There he became the Pole’s personal envoy, a conduit between Rome and Warsaw, making many clandestine visits to Eastern Europe. Some said he was the one who secretly worked with the Americans to help bring down the Soviet Union, ferrying information to and from Washington. But again, nothing was ever confirmed or denied. After the Soviet Union fell, Spagna was elevated to archbishop and given full operational control of the Entity. A cardinal served as its titular head, but Spagna ran things on a daily basis. No publicity had ever surrounded him. No scandal. No controversy. Only the strongest had run with John Paul II, and Spagna may have been the toughest of them all. He’d even acquired a label.
Domino Suo.
Lord’s Own.
“What do you want with me?” Kastor asked. “I worked in the Vatican a long time, and never once did we speak.”
“Don’t be offended,” Spagna said, his aging eyes the color of lead. “I only speak to a red vulture when absolutely necessary. They don’t care for me, and I don’t care for them. You, though, I have studied in detail.” Spagna’s lips twitched into an ironic smile. “You were born and raised on this barren rock of an island. A true Maltese. There aren’t many of those left in this world. You said mass right in this church, as a young priest, back when you were fresh and new—and silent.”
Kastor caught the jab.
“You have superb academic credentials from the finest institutions. A credit to a superior intelligence. You’re handsome, photogenic, and articulate. Together those are rare qualities among the red vultures. In many ways you are almost too good to be true. That raised warning flags with me. So I took the time to look deeper.” Spagna pointed. “That’s where you really learn about someone.”
He agreed.
“I spoke with one of the nuns who raised you. She’s an old woman now, living out her retirement in Portugal, but she remembers you from the orphanage. Amazing how some things can stick in the mind.” Spagna pointed again. “You stuck in hers. She told me a story about the festival of Our Lady of the Lily. Every town on this island holds at least one big festival each year. Quite the celebrations, I’m told. Seems like a lovely tradition. You were thirteen at the time, I believe. That nun watched as you stole three pasti from one of the street vendors. The owner never saw what you did. But she did. Halliel ftit, she called you. Little thief.”
He said nothing.
“She told me how you took those pastries, went off, and devoured them like a rat. Amazingly, all of the nuns at the orphanage knew you liked to steal. Did you know that?”
No, he didn’t.
“Some of them wanted to punish you. But the mother superior forbid it.”
He was surprised at the show of generosity. He remembered that cranky old woman as a cold bitch.
“The old nun told me the mother superior wanted to see how far you’d go,” Spagna said. “And you showed her. You stole trinkets, clothes, books, money, and never once did you show an ounce of remorse. The old nun said that the mother superior wanted you to destroy yourself. To be caught, chastised, shamed, ridiculed. She wanted you to mete out your own punishment. Yet that never happened. Instead, you left the orphanage and went off to become a priest. The mother superior thought perhaps God himself had decided to intervene, so she let you go and never said a word. Now here you are, poised to steal the papacy.”
This man’s interest in him was frightening. So for once he decided to keep his mouth shut and see where this led.
“That mother superior was right,” Spagna noted. “You are, indeed, your own worst enemy. As an adult you managed to do what you failed to achieve as a child. You meted out your own punishment. To your credit, you achieved a position only a few of the red vultures have ever attained. Prefect of the Apostolic Signatura. That’s a lofty post. Enabling, in so many ways. But your mouth. That foul, vile mouth of yours got you fired. For some odd reason you thought people cared what you had to say.”
“Maybe I cared.”
Spagna laughed. “That was never in doubt. I’m sure you cared a great deal. Which, dear Kastor Gallo, is another of your problems.”
“Eminence. That is my title, Archbishop.”
The older man flicked a hand, as if swiping the rebuff away. “You are a fool. Nothing more. Nothing less. Just a plain, ordinary fool.”
He’d not risked this journey from Rome to be chastised by a subordinate. But he was damn curious as to what was going on. He’d been told to come to Malta immediately and meet with someone at the Madliena Tower. Since the person who’d sent the message was trustworthy and understood what was at stake, he’d not questioned the request. But never had he thought the Lord’s Own would be the person he’d be seeing.
“Say what you have to say,” he said.
“I want to find the Nostra Trinità. You’ve searched a long time. Now I want to join with you. I know things you don’t.”
He did not doubt that observation and was surprised by the request. This man had kept the Vatican’s secrets for decades. Too long, if the murmurs he’d heard within the curia were to be believed.
“Why do you want it?” he asked.
“It’s the church’s ultimate secret. The one that has eluded us. Every organization has secrets. Ours is seventeen hundred years old. Before I die, or am fired like you, I want this secret secured.”
He decided to be clear. “I want to use it to become pope.”
Spagna nodded. “I know. You want to be pope. I want you to be pope.”
Had he heard correctly? “Why?”
“Is that important? Just be grateful that I do.”
Not good enough. “Why help me?”
“Because you actually have a chance at winning.”
Really? “How? As you’ve just noted, I’m a thief and a fool.”
“Both attributes are common to the red vultures, so neither is a liability. I also know for a fact that your ultra-orthodox views are shared by a great many. I’m assuming that, as prefect of the Apostolic Signatura, you amassed the necessary damning information on your colleagues.”
He had, so he nodded.
“I thought as much. I’m privy to some of the same information.”
That didn’t surprise him.
“John Paul II wanted the world to think him a reformer, but he was a real hard-liner. There was nothing progressive about that Pole,” Spagna said. “The Soviets tried to kill him, but he survived and stayed the course, held the line, and brought Moscow to its knees. I liked him. He loved to say one thing publicly, then privately do another. He was really good at that, and I learned from him. The church was stronger then. We were feared. We were also much more effective on the world stage. We destroyed the Iron Curtain and crushed the Soviet Union. We were a power. Not anymore. We’ve waned to nothing. And though I do consider you a fool, you’ll be my fool, Kastor.”
He didn’t like the sound of that. “I doubt it.”
“Don’t be so hasty. I have something you don’t.”
He was listening.
“The leverage to bring the undecided cardinals over to your side. Enough to garner the magic two-thirds vote.”
“The Nostra Trinità can do that.”
“Maybe. But it’s a bit of an unknown. And that’s all contingent on you finding it. I can provide something more tangible. More recent. Something you can use either in addition to, or in lieu of, what you’re after.”
He liked what he was hearing.
Still—
“What do you want?”
“That blood vessel bursting in the pope’s brain offers us both an opportunity,” Spagna said.
Not an answer.
He needed to make a phone call. He’d apparently been kept in the dark about a great many things. Why? He wasn’t sure. Having Spagna as an ally could indeed change everything. In some ways they were alike. Both pariahs. Everyone avoided the Entity, except the pope and the Secretariat of State, which had no choice but to work with it.
“What does it feel like to be alone?” he asked Spagna.
“You tell me.”
“I’m not. I have friends. Supporters. As you said, there are many who agree with me. You have no one.”
“He has me,” Chatterjee said.
“And what is your job?” Kastor asked.
“I assist the archbishop, from time to time, on matters with which I have some expertise.”
He recalled their talk at the tower. “Like scouring and stealing from archives, libraries, and newspaper morgues, doing whatever is necessary to get the job done?”
“Absolutely.”
“Then we’re lucky to have you. What about that parasailer? The Americans knew what you were doing.”
“No, Kastor,” Spagna said. “They knew what you were doing. Which is why I’m here.”
Troubling to hear for a second time.
“The Entity itself is somewhat in crisis,” Spagna said. “Many of my own people think it’s time I step aside. I have subordinates who want my job. The red vulture who’s in charge despises me. But the dead pope liked me, so there was nothing anyone could do. That may not be the case after the coming conclave, depending on who becomes pope. I don’t want to step aside. I don’t want to be forced to step aside.”
He stared at the bearlike man, a bit shambled in street clothes but definitely comfortable with his power.
“Your problem,” Spagna said, “is that you’ve always wanted things too fast. Since childhood the concept of patience has been foreign to you. That’s why you find yourself with the dubious title of patron of the Sovereign Military Order of Malta and not prefect of the Apostolic Signatura. Seven cardinals have held that patron post over the past sixty years. Seven losers. Now you’re the eighth. I was surprised, after your firing, when you requested such an innocuous job, which the pope gladly granted. But that was precisely where you wanted to be. That’s when I first became interested in what you were doing. But as always, you were impatient. You wreaked havoc inside the Hospitallers. They’re now in a state of civil war, fighting among themselves, unsure what’s happening to them. All thanks to you.”
“Which gives me a great freedom of movement. I started that chaos. I control it. So I also know how to avoid it.”
Spagna chuckled. “And there it is. The liar and the thief showing himself in all his glory. That’s why you’ll make a great pope. At least for me, you will. I can work with you, Kastor, like I did with the Pole. We’ll understand each other. I saved your hide a little while ago with that American parasailer, as a show of my good faith.”
“And what if I don’t want your help?”
“Then I’ll take my chances with another candidate. One who will appreciate the kind of assistance I can offer.”
He got the message. “I’m listening.”
Spagna retreated to the front pew and reached down, lifting up a thin sheaf of papers, bound together in a binder. The older man approached and offered them. The top sheet, visible through the clear plastic, was blank.
“I gave it no title. Perhaps you could offer one. After you’ve read it.”
He accepted the binder and started to open to the next page.
“Wait,” Spagna said.
He looked up, unaccustomed to being ordered.
“I offer this as a second show of my good faith,” the spymaster said. “By reading it, though, you agree to work with me, on my terms. If you’re not inclined to do that, hand it back and we will not speak again.”
Choice time.
He had few allies in the world. As a kid he’d been closer to his brother than any other person. And for good reason. They’d shared a womb, born identical twins, Pollux the older by a little over a minute. As kids it had been difficult for anyone to tell them apart. That similarity had carried over into adulthood, though they both now tried hard to distinguish themselves. His brown hair was short and tight to the scalp, while Pollux’s hung below the ears. He stayed clean-shaven. His brother had always sported the remnants of a monk’s beard. Though their height, size, shape, and facial features remained mirror images, he wore glasses for nearsightedness and the scarlet of a cardinal, while Pollux retained perfect vision and had never favored the priesthood. Their father had named them for the constellation Gemini, Latin for “twins,” and its two brightest stars, Castor and Pollux. As a fisherman, the stars had been important to their father. But that man was gone, and this was his decision alone. What was the old cliché?
Never look a gift horse in the mouth?
“I’ll keep it.”
Spagna smiled. “We’ll be in touch before nightfall.”
“How will you know where to find me?”
Spagna smirked.
“Please, Kastor. Asking ridiculous questions only shows your ignorance.”