Pollux waited for his men from outside to make their way through the outer chapel and into the inner sanctuary, their movements calculated but quick. He’d delayed a few minutes before telling them to enter.
A little time alone with his departed brother seemed in order.
Their relationship had always been an illusion. Kastor had thought himself the better of the two, superior, a touch above. It had been that way their entire lives, even more so after their parents died and they moved to the orphanage. Kastor the talker, thinker, scholar—while he was the athlete and soldier. He doubted anyone at that orphanage even remembered he existed. But Kastor? No one would forget him. They couldn’t. He made a lasting impression, sucking every drop of oxygen from every room he ever entered.
But none of that would have been possible without his help.
When Kastor had first come and said he wanted to be pope, Pollux had thought the idea ridiculous. Especially considering the mess made of his ecclesiastical career. Sure, there were people who agreed with him in their heart, but none were going to openly challenge the pope. He’d reviewed the dirt Kastor had amassed on some of the cardinals. Not bad. There was some clearly incriminating material. But not near enough to change a conclave. And with Kastor’s loss of position and access, the prospects of acquiring more information seemed remote. That’s when Kastor focused on the Nostra Trinità.
Thinking it might be enough.
He, too, had been intrigued by the Trinity, especially the Constitutum Constantini, which had certainly proved useful in centuries past. Kastor had discovered quite a bit of useful information from the Vatican archives. He’d supplemented that with annals the knights had long kept under lock and key. Together they’d made progress. The call from the greedy Italian at Lake Como had been one of those fortuitous events that sometimes made one think that there actually might be a God directing things in some sort of divine plan. He’d known for some time the British had information on Mussolini and the Trinity. There’d just not been anything to bargain with. So he’d headed to Como. Which had been fruitful since it led to Sir James Grant, which had sent him to the obelisk, then on to the cathedral in Valletta, and finally to here.
All had dropped right into place.
And while the pope’s body had lain on view inside St Peter’s Basilica and hundreds of thousands filed by, Spagna had appeared at the Palazzo di Malta with an intriguing offer.
A way to make Kastor pope.
The Lord’s Own had become aware of Kastor’s private investigations and his interest in the Trinity. But Spagna was several steps ahead, though he’d refused to share the details. Cardinals had long been bribed and coerced. Nothing new there. Before the 20th century the college had been small enough that it was easy to alter its course with just a few moves. Modern conclaves were different. 100 to 150 cardinals participated, which added mathematical challenges. But cardinals were men and men were flawed. So while the pope was buried beneath St. Peter’s, he and Spagna had schemed. It had been Spagna who insisted Kastor be sent to Malta. He wanted to make a deal face-to-face, and he wanted Kastor out of Rome so he could not do anything stupid to ruin things.
And he’d made that happen.
Then, once the greedy Italian at Como had contacted the knights and wanted to sell the letters, a path opened to the Trinity. So he’d improvised and used the opportunity to finally bring the Brits to the table by acquiring the Churchill letters. James Grant had been easy to manipulate. The Americans, too. But Kastor the easiest of them all. Whoever exalts himself will be humbled, and whoever humbles himself will be exalted.
The Bible was right.
Kastor never learned humility.
Neither had Spagna, which was why he had to die, along with his minion Chatterjee and Roy, his second in command. Spagna wanted the Constitutum Constantini destroyed. The Entity considered it a direct threat to the church, one that should be eliminated. Whether it was destroyed or not mattered little to him. But that flash drive.
It mattered the most.
So he’d allowed Spagna to play his hand. The fool had apparently wanted to be the pope-maker. And what better way than by providing a cardinal, with little to no moral structure, the ammunition needed to blackmail his way to the papacy. One who’d owe him big time.
What better way, indeed.
The only unexpected occurrence had been the Americans. But Spagna had assured him he had them under control.
He smiled at the dead spy’s naïveté.
Sadly, the Lord’s Own had never realized that the greatest danger he faced would come from within. Pollux’s men had taken out Spagna, Chatterjee, Laura Price, and John Roy with each death blamed on the Secreti.
Which, of course, no longer existed.
It had all been a ruse. His creation.
“What a fool you were,” he whispered to his brother.
Then he pocketed the flash drive, lifting it off the hard earth where it had fallen from Kastor’s grip. He supposed he should feel some regret, but he harbored not a speck of remorse. Unlike the knight at the villa by Como. That death he’d regretted. Killing a fellow Christian had always been forbidden for the Hospitallers. It was part of their oath to protect Christians. But the murder had been unavoidable. He could not allow Malone to take that man into custody. Everything would have been placed in peril.
And killing Kastor?
He was a lot of things, but a Christian his brother was not. Just an opportunist who used the church to further his own ambitions.
Two men entered the inner chapel. One was the man who’d escorted Malone from Rome to Rapallo, the other the man who’d impersonated him once Malone arrived and tried to eliminate the ex-agent at the archives. That had not turned out according to plan. He’d only made the attempt because James Grant had insisted. But once the effort failed, he’d adapted and decided to personally intervene, working the Americans himself. It had also allowed him to be on the inside and learn what Spagna and Stephanie Nelle were doing.
Just another of the many differences between him and Kastor. He possessed an ability to disregard what was not working and immediately change to something that would. It had been easy to ingratiate himself with both the British and the Americans. Easy to enlist their help to solve the obelisk and the puzzle at the cathedral.
The problems had come from Spagna.
A true maverick.
Impossible to control.
But not anymore.
He slipped the flash drive into his pocket.
“Grab him,” he told his two men.
They grasped Kastor’s ankles and wrists, lifting the body and following him deeper into the inner chapel. Another oak door waited at the end of a short apse. He opened its iron latch and switched on another series of lights. A spiral staircase led down, and he followed the corkscrewed path deeper into the earth. His two men, with Kastor, followed him down. His brother’s bulk made the going slow.
At the bottom he navigated another corridor hewn from the rock to a small chamber. A doorway led out on the far side. The entire underground network of alcoves and corridors had been fashioned sometime in the 17th century. Most had served as gunpowder and ammunition depots. The hole in the ground before him had been dug long ago, too. About three meters wide, five meters deep, its walls bell-shaped, tapering outward the farther down they stretched.
A guva.
He motioned and they laid Kastor down on the parched ground. His men knew exactly what to do. All six of his trusted associates were now on Malta, three here for the past few days on the boat offshore, the other three standing ready at Fort St. Angelo, waiting for his call, which he’d made from the cathedral once Malone had solved the riddle. There was no way he could accomplish anything alone. That was why the Secreti had been reactivated. Of course it was all mainly for appearance’s sake, but he’d bound them all together with the ring and a promise of good things to come.
His two men undressed Kastor.
One reason strangulation had been chosen was the preservation of the clothing. He needed it all intact.
“I’ll help finish this,” he said, then motioned to one of his acolytes. “Get the shovels and rope.”
The man left while he and the other finished removing Kastor’s clothes. His brother’s body was not nearly as fit as his own, but the size and shape were reasonably similar. He carefully folded the clothes and set them to the side, along with the shoes.
The other man returned.
To the right of the guva an oak post protruded from the ground. To it, one of his men tied the end of the thick hemp rope they’d brought in earlier. There had to be a way in and out of the pit, and a rope was the most practical choice, the post having been there for centuries. The coil was thrown into the black yawn. He nodded and his men tossed the shovels down then used the rope to descend into the guva. Burying his brother at the bottom of the pit seemed the perfect place as no one was allowed inside St. Magyar’s without express permission of the grand master. Since there wasn’t one at the moment, control of this locale fell to him as temporary head of command. But even after a new leader was chosen, no one would venture into this guva.
There’d be no reason.
And by then all traces of this night would be gone.
“Bury him deep,” he called out.
He listened as they dug.
This was not just the closing of a chapter in his life. More like an entire part. Nothing would be the same after tonight. But he was ready. The Hospitallers had provided him the perfect refuge. He’d managed to learn things, build relationships, establish loyalties, all in anticipation of what was about to happen. Two days ago he’d been unsure if any of this was possible, but now he was much more confident.
His men stopped digging.
They both climbed back up using the rope. They were about to toss Kastor into the guva when he recalled something. He found his phone and snapped a picture of his brother’s face and hair.
Then he removed the ring from the right hand.
Each newly elected cardinal was presented with a gold ring by the pope. Kissing that ring was a sign of respect.
He slipped it onto his own finger.
Then nodded.
And they dropped Kastor’s naked body over the edge, the corpse finding the bottom with a thud.
His men climbed back down to finish the burial.
Not the end his brother imagined. Surely Kastor had thought his mortal remains would rest forever beneath St. Peter’s along with so many other popes.
Not going to happen, he mouthed.
Or at least, not exactly.