ITALY
Cotton crossed the paved courtyard, following Pollux Gallo into the monastery’s refectory, a spacious room of plastered limestone blocks and a tile floor littered with workstations.
“We spent a lot of money refurbishing this complex,” Gallo said. “It was nearly falling in on itself. Now it is the Conservatory of Library and Archives. A state-of-the-art facility.”
And unknown to the world, Cotton silently added. But he assumed a lot about the Knights of Malta would fit into that category.
His original greeter from Rome had accompanied them inside, the driver remaining with the car. Waiting in the refectory were two brown-robed monks. Both were young and short-haired, with a no-nonsense glint in their eyes. Not exactly the religious type. They stood quiet and attentive.
“I thought this was no longer a monastery,” he said.
“It’s not, but these brothers are part of a contingent that maintains the archive.”
Gallo motioned ahead and they left through a plank door in the far side, entering a lit cloister that led past former monk cells on one side and a garden on the other. Each of the cells was identified by a number and letter, the old wooden doors replaced with metal panels and keypad locks.
“Each room contains a different segment of our archives,” Gallo said. “We have everything cataloged and electronically indexed for easy reference. The rooms are also climate-controlled.”
They rounded a corner and, on the far side of the cloister, entered a room through another metal door, this one open, taller and wider than the others. The space beyond was more like a hall, what had surely once been the chapter house. Wooden benches, where the monks had congregated, still lined the now painted stone walls. He noticed the irregular shape and the two central columns that supported arched ribs for the vaults, dividing the floor and ceiling into three bays. He also felt the change in temperature and humidity, both lower, which signaled sophisticated climate control. Wisely, a fire-suppression sprinkler system dotted the ceiling, exposed metal pipes connecting each faucet. Lighting spilled out from hanging opaque, glass balls that tossed off a warm glow. Stout oak tables stood in rows across the tile floor. On them sat manuscripts, ecclesiastical plates, pectorals, reliquaries, and crosses. His trained bibliophile eye focused on the manuscripts, where he spied chrysobulls, sigillia, and documents bearing holy seals. Glass domes protected each from any casual touch.
“We have around fifteen thousand manuscripts stored in the facility,” Gallo said. “Most are originals and first editions. There are rare Bibles, the classics, scientific texts, dictionaries. We have a little of everything, but we’ve been collecting for nine centuries. This room houses a few of the items we occasionally allow visitors to see.”
“Potential contributors?”
Gallo nodded. “It takes over two hundred million euros to keep the order solvent each year. Most comes from governments, the United Nations, and the EU. But we also depend on the generosity of private donors. So yes, this collection can sometimes be helpful in spurring their interest.”
The two robed brothers at first waited outside but eventually followed them into the chapter house. His escort from Rome had lingered back in the refectory. He knew Gallo was probably armed, and on the walk over he’d noticed the distinctive bulge of a weapon holstered at the base of the spine beneath each of the two robes as well.
Nothing but trouble surrounded him.
Which seemed the story of his life.
“Why don’t we dispense with coy,” Gallo said. His host stood with the straight back of self-discipline. “The British have long wanted to see inside this archive. They’ve covertly tried several times. Now they’ve finally succeeded.”
“With your permission, of course. You know full well I’m here on their behalf. And we didn’t ask for this tour.”
“They called and demanded to speak to me. They insinuated that my fellow knights were somehow involved with what happened to you earlier today at Lake Como. Murder. Theft. Burglary. I told Sir James Grant that he was mistaken.”
But that was a lie. Too much here just didn’t add up. Or more correctly, it added up to something that wasn’t good. Here he was again among that great, swirling maelstrom of possibilities where his life hung in the balance. Parts of him detested and parts of him craved the conflict. For a dozen years he’d lived with that threat every day. Move. Countermove. All part of the game. But he’d retired out early in order to quit playing.
Yeah, right.
He stepped close to one of the tables and examined through a glass dome what was noted as a 13th-century gospel with an exquisite wooden cover and Moroccan leather binding. He guessed it had to be worth several hundred thousand dollars. He kept his eyes down on the artifact but began to ready himself. As a Magellan Billet agent, most of his mistakes had come when there was too much time to think. Act. React. Counteract. Doesn’t matter. Just do something.
“Where are they?” he asked, continuing to focus on the old gospel, its cover darkened with age and infested with a fine spiderweb of cracks like an unrestored Rembrandt.
Gallo seemed to know exactly what he meant and motioned. One of the robes walked to the far side of the next row of tables and lifted the elephant-skin satchel from the floor. He gave it a quick glance, then returned to perusing the objects on the table before him, inching ever closer to the second robed monk.
“Who shot the guy in the villa?” he asked Gallo.
“Why does it matter? That man failed to do his job.”
He faced his adversary. “Which wasn’t to kill me or be captured. No. You wanted the British to know you were there.”
“I did, but thankfully the ring led you straight here.”
“Along with you hanging a guy by his arms pulled up behind his back.”
“Which once sent fear down the spines of Saracens in the Holy Land.”
That was a bold admission, which meant Gallo thought himself in control of the situation.
He returned to perusing the objects on the table. “These manuscripts are impressive.”
“As a bookseller, I thought you might appreciate our collection.”
“I do. Why are the Churchill–Mussolini letters so important to you?”
“They are a means to an end.”
Only two things made sense. Either James Grant had no idea what was going on and he’d sent someone to find out. Or he had every idea and he’d sent that same someone so they would not come back.
He chose option two.
Which made his next course clear.
His target was now about four feet away, and the blankness of the young, robed man’s gaze seemed almost like a warning. He stopped and admired another of the exquisite manuscripts under glass. He almost hated what he was about to do.
But what choice did he have.
Gallo’s gun beneath his suit jacket was in easier reach than the ones the brown robes toted. He’d need a few seconds so, on the pretense of admiring the manuscript before him, he suddenly grabbed the heavy glass cover and hurled it toward Gallo. His left hand flew up in a back fist to the face of the brother standing beside him, followed by an elbow to the kidneys.
The guy went reeling.
He used that moment to part the robe and grab the man’s weapon. He then kneed the guy in the face, sending him downward. The glass cover had hit Gallo, but he managed to deflect it away where it shattered across the hard floor. The other brother was reaching back for his gun.
So was Gallo.
He sent two bullets their way.
Both men disappeared beneath the tables.
He readjusted his aim and fired into the lighted glass fixtures hanging above him, exploding two of them in a burst of sparks and smoke. Gallo was rising back up, so he fired that way again, the round ricocheting off the top of the table. He exploded another fixture, which added more sparks and smoke.
Would it be enough?
An alarm sounded and the sprinklers erupted, called to action by the possibility of a fire. He upended the table before him, depositing the artifacts it displayed onto the wet floor, their glass domes bursting to shards. He left the thick oak top lying perpendicular to the floor, using it as a shield to block Gallo and the other robe from firing beneath the tables. He could now use that protected route to make his way toward the exit. Dropping down, he rolled across the tile, alternating between patches of dry and wet as he passed more tables and the aisles in between. Gallo would surely figure it out and change positions, but it would take a few seconds.
He had to make the most of the time he’d bought.
Three shots came his way, but the downed table continued to run interference. He scrambled up on all fours and hurried past the last row. Before coming to his feet he carefully peered over the top and saw Gallo and the other robe standing, guns ready, waiting for him to emerge.
Water continued to rain down.
The klaxon still sounded.
Shots came his way.
He decided to keep doing the unexpected and fired twice, once each into the clear domes on the tables where the two men stood. Glass exploded, shards spreading outward like seeds cast from a hand. Gallo and his acolyte reared back to avoid the projectiles. He used that moment to flee the chapter house, back into the cloister. He could retrace the route toward the refectory, but that was a long, open run and he wouldn’t make it far without drawing fire. Neither could he escape left or right—the cloister would only become a shooting gallery. But a set of double plank doors about twenty feet away might offer refuge.
He raced toward them and the iron lock clicked open on the first try. He shoved the leaden oak door inward, then closed it gently, hoping his pursuers wouldn’t notice.
There was no lock on the inside.
More incandescent fixtures lantern-lit a chapel, the interior spacious, an impressive gilded altar and sculpted statues casting ghostly images through the dim light. No one was in sight.
The fire alarm stopped.
He searched the darkness toward the altar and spotted stairs to the right. A pallid glow strained from below. He headed for them and descended into a crypt, a cold cloud of worry filling him. Was he simply heading down into a dead end? An iron gate opened into an ample, three-naved wide space. The ceiling was low-vaulted, a small rectangular altar niche to his right. Three medieval stone sarcophagi topped with immense slabs of carved granite lined the center. The only break in the darkness came from a tiny yellow light near the altar that illuminated a few square feet. The rest of the space remained in shadows, the air stale and fetid and noticeably chilly.
He heard the oak door opening above.
His eyes, alert and watchful, shot to the top of the low vault not two feet from the crown of his head.
Footsteps bounded across the marble floor.
He crept across the crypt into a far nave. His mind filled with anticipation, which he tried to suppress with a wave of self-control. He’d fired a lot of rounds in the chapter house, so he checked the gun’s magazine.
Empty.
Great.
He needed something to defend himself with, so he searched the darkness. In a small apse about twenty feet away he spotted an iron candelabrum. He hustled over. The ornament stood about five feet tall, a solitary wax candle, about four inches thick, rising from the center. He grabbed the stem and noticed its weight. Solid. He brought both the candelabrum and candle with him as he assumed a position behind another of the pillars.
Someone started down the steps to the crypt.
He peered around the edge, past the tombs, through the blackness. The tiny altar light offered little assistance. His emotions alternated between fear and excitement, his body alive with a strange kind of energy, an unexplained power that had always clarified his thoughts. In the archway, at the base of the stairs, stood the outline of one of the robed brothers.
The silhouette crept in, gun leading the way.
He tightened his grip on the iron stem and cocked his arms back. He knew he had to draw the guy closer, so he ground the sole of his right shoe into the grit on the floor. A quick glance around the pillar confirmed that the man was now moving toward him. Shadows bobbed, swelled, then lessened on the ceiling. His muscles tensed. He silently counted to five, clenched his teeth, then lunged, swinging the candelabrum. He caught the guy square in the chest, sending the shadow back onto one of the Romanesque tombs. He tossed the iron aside and swung his fist hard to the face. The gun left the man’s grip and rattled across the mosaics.
His pursuer shot up and pounced.
But he was ready.
A second facial punch and another to the midsection sent the man teetering. He then tripped the guy’s feet out from under him, which allowed the head to pop the flagstones hard.
The man’s body went still.
He searched the floor for the gun, finding it and curving his fingers around the butt just as another set of footsteps bounded down and into the crypt.
Two shots came in his direction.
Dust snowed down from the vault as bullets found stone. He sought cover behind the pillar, peered around the edge, and fired once. The bullet ricocheted off the far wall, a signal that he was armed and ready.
It seemed to get attention.
“There’s no way out.”
Gallo’s voice, lashing across the chamber with an icy menace, from a position behind the farthest tomb.
Between him and the only exit was an armed man bent on killing him. But Gallo was pinned, too. No way for him to get back to the stairs without being shot, either. He needed to draw Gallo out, cause a mistake.
He glanced around and spotted the thick candle on the floor.
He reached down and took hold of it, then focused across the dim nave, determining that there was enough darkness for the candle to be mistaken for something else. So he arced the wax cylinder across the open space between the pillars, flipping it end over end, hoping the diversion would draw fire.
And it did.
As the candle passed midway, Gallo stepped out and fired.
Cotton leveled the pistol and pulled the trigger twice, both rounds finding Gallo’s chest.
The man staggered back but did not fall. Gallo swung his weapon around, leveling the aim, and started firing. Cotton dove behind the pillar as bullets pinged off stone in all directions. He stayed close to the gritty floor, as there was a real danger of being hit by a ricochet.
The firing stopped.
He gave it a few more seconds, then came to his feet.
A quick glance toward the other side of the crypt and he saw no Gallo.
He heard the door above open.
Clearly he’d caught the guy solid with both rounds, which meant body armor beneath that tailored suit.
These knights came prepared.
He raced for the stairs and headed back to ground level. The chapel was empty. The oak door at the far end hung three-quarters closed. He approached and stared out into the cloister, catching a fleeting glance of Pollux Gallo on the opposite side, reentering the refectory. He headed after him but, by the time he arrived, Gallo was ninety seconds ahead and the refectory was empty.
A car cranked outside.
He bolted for the exterior door and opened it to see the Mercedes fleeing the courtyard through the main gate.
Gallo was gone.