The knight abandoned his perch over the monastery as Malone entered the refectory. He climbed into his car and drove away, heading inland along the Italian coast.
The pope dying so suddenly had changed everything. He’d always thought there’d be more time to prepare. But that was not the case. Everything was happening fast. Luckily, Danjel Spagna had entered the picture. Usually, the archbishop lurked only in the shadows, never surfacing, working through minions. But not here. Obviously, the Lord’s Own wanted something, too. His presence both simplified and complicated things. But it was just one more challenge that would have to be met.
He kept driving, heading away from the archive.
The die was now cast. There was no turning back. Only going forward remained a viable option. The next forty-eight hours would determine everyone’s future. As much planning as possible had been imparted.
Now he just needed a little luck.
He checked his watch.
7:40 P.M.
He’d spent the past few years preparing for this moment. So much reading. Studying. Analyzing. And it all came down to the one man who’d stared down the Roman Catholic Church and won.
Benito Amilcare Andrea Mussolini.
To his good fortune, Mussolini rose to power as the church’s influence within Italy had begun to wane. No longer was it a political powerhouse. Pius XI wanted a reinvigoration and Mussolini wanted his rule legitimized by what had always been the most influential institution in Italy. To appease the pope and show the people his supposed graciousness, Il Duce negotiated the 1929 Lateran Treaty that finally recognized the full sovereignty of the Holy See over Vatican City.
Italians were thrilled with the concession.
So was Mussolini.
For the next nine years he enjoyed almost no interference from the Vatican, killing and torturing whomever he wanted. Even Catholics were harassed. Churches vandalized. Violence against clerics became commonplace.
He had free rein.
Finally, in 1939, Pius XI decided to make a public denunciation. A virulent speech was written, printed, ready to be delivered and distributed to the world.
Then Pius died.
All printed copies of the speech were seized and ordered destroyed by the Vatican secretary of state. No one ever heard or read a word of that papal repudiation. As was noted at the time, not a comma remained.
Three weeks later the man who accomplished that suppression became Pius XII. The new pope was suave, emollient, and devious. He immediately returned to the previously charted course of political appeasement, one that never directly confronted either Italy or Germany.
And the knight knew why.
The Nostra Trinità.
Which, by then, Mussolini either had in his possession, or knew where to find.
A fact that Pius XII well knew.
He was now beyond Rapallo along the coast.
Everything had led to this moment. He would now either succeed or die in the process. No third option existed. Not with the evils he was contemplating.
He stared out the windshield. A car waited ahead, its headlights off, a man standing outside in the blackness. He stopped his own vehicle, climbed out, and walked the ten meters over to where Sir James Grant waited alone. Somewhere, not far off, he heard the pound of surf on rock.
“Is Malone dead?” Grant asked.
“It’s being handled right now. I saw its beginning myself.”
“All this goes for naught if Malone leaves that archive unscathed.”
He actually didn’t give a damn about any threat Cotton Malone represented to Grant. He’d told his people to deal with it but, if problems arose, to withdraw and not take foolish risks. Malone was not his problem.
To this point he’d led what could only be described as a sedentary life, his battles nearly all intellectual and emotional. He’d patiently watched as others rose and fell in stature. He’d learned how desire could sometimes water down determination and that realization, more than anything else, explained his current irrevocable course. It had started this morning and continued when he spoke, by phone, with James Grant a few hours later. He’d made a bold move to secure the Churchill letters from that villa, then left three calling cards. The owner hanging by his arms. The ring on the dead knight’s hand. And Cotton Malone still breathing. All three messages had been received, and Grant had made contact.
Now it was time to make a deal.
“I want those letters,” Grant said. “Now.”
“And you know what I want.”
He’d never realized until recently that the British held the key. It had been Danjel Spagna who’d passed that piece of vital information along a few weeks ago, when he’d first approached the Lord’s Own for help.
“I know what you want,” Grant said. “You’ve been searching for it since Napoleon took Malta. I know the story of the knight captured in Valletta during Napoleon’s invasion. They took him to the grand master’s palace and nailed his hands to a table.”
“And the little general in chief skewered him. That man was Secreti. He wore the ring. He also kept the secret.”
That knight’s bravery had long been revered. With French troops bearing down on Valletta and the island doomed, he had been the one who oversaw the protection of the knights’ most precious objects. Books, records, and artifacts were trekked to the south shore and hastily shipped away. Some made it to Europe, some didn’t. A decision, though, was made to leave the most precious possession on the island.
The Nostra Trinità.
That doomed knight, foreseeing his own demise, had supposedly made sure the French would never locate the Trinity. But if the stories were to be believed, he’d also left a way for the right people to refind it.
“MI6 has long known about what Mussolini may have found,” Grant said. “He was intent on your Nostra Trinità.”
“I want what he found.”
“And you’ll have it,” Grant said, “when I get those letters.”
He pointed the remote toward his car and clicked the button. The interior lit up and the elephant-skin satchel could be seen propped on the passenger seat. “That’s everything Malone acquired. Everything the villa owner was trying to sell. There are eleven letters inside.”
“Did you read them?”
“Of course. They definitely change history.”
“I wish you hadn’t done that.”
He shrugged. “I could not care less about British pride or the reputation of Winston Churchill. Now tell me what I want to know.”
He listened as Grant explained all of what British intelligence had discovered in the 1930s. What had been hinted at in the phone call earlier.
He was amazed. “Are you certain of this?”
Grant shrugged. “As certain as decades-old information can be.”
He got the message. A risk existed. Nothing new about that. A fact Grant should have realized, too.
“Is that all?” he asked.
Grant nodded.
“Then the letters are yours.”
The Brit started to walk toward the car for the satchel. The knight reached beneath his jacket and found the gun. With it in hand, he stepped close and fired one round into the back of James Grant’s skull.
The shot cracked across the night.
The Brit collapsed to the ground.
One reason he’d chosen this spot for their meeting was the privacy it offered. Few people frequented this area after dark. He replaced the gun in its holster and hoisted Grant’s body over his shoulder. The man was surprisingly stout for an old codger. The other reason was its proximity to the sea. He walked through the dark toward the cliff and tossed Grant over the side. The car would be found tomorrow, but the body would take longer, if it ever was found. The tides here were swift and notorious.
He stared out at the black water.
What did Ecclesiastes say?
Cast the bread upon the waters, for thou shalt find it after many days.
He hoped not.