Cotton stood on the tarmac at Malta’s international airport. He and Luke had driven their vehicles here from the chapel and determined that a private jet had left the island three hours earlier and had already landed in Rome. On board had been Kastor Cardinal Gallo. He used his phone to call Stephanie, whom he placed on speaker. They stood outside in the morning light.
“Gallo is now inside the Vatican,” Stephanie said.
“At least we know exactly where he is,” Cotton noted.
“Any idea on the guys I took out?” Luke asked.
“We’re still searching for names. Nothing pinged on their prints.”
“Surely they were hired help Pollux Gallo convinced to go along with him,” Cotton said. “Men who thought they’d be working for the next pope. Gallo has no money, so they had to be in it for other reasons. Unfortunately, their severance package is a bit permeant.”
He checked his watch.
8:45 A.M.
“The DOJ jet is still there in Malta,” Stephanie said. “I can have it fired up, ready to go in less than an hour.”
“Do it,” he said.
“And the cardinal?” Luke asked.
“Give him a long leash. Do nothing to spook him. We have to be sure before we do a thing.” Cotton paused. “Absolutely sure.”
“Then we split you two up,” she said. “Luke, go back and get Gallo’s body, and the other two, from that pit. Cotton, head to Rome. By the time you get here, we’ll be sure.”
Pollux stepped from the car and stood outside the Domus Sanctae Marthae. The five-story pale-yellow building sat in the shadow of St. Peter’s Basilica and normally served as a guesthouse for visiting clergy. Pope Francis had actually lived inside, preferring its bustle and austerity to the isolation and luxury of the papal apartments. During a conclave it served as the residence for the participating cardinals. A total of 128 rooms, run by the Daughters of Charity of St. Vincent, complete with a dining hall and two chapels. Nothing luxurious, by any means. Just a place to eat, sleep, and pray. Far preferable to stretching out on cots in spaces divided by hanging sheets, as previous conclaves had endured.
Its many rows of windows were all shuttered. He knew that internet and phone services would be switched off and blocked, all designed to keep the cardinals in isolation, as conclave rules required. Two Swiss Guards in colorful ruffs and capes and knee breeches stood guard on either side of the entrance. He was now inside the Vatican proper, beyond the gates and the crowds of St. Peter’s Square. Thousands of people had already congregated for the beginning of the conclave. They would stay there day and night, waiting for the white smoke to escape from the chimney above the Sistine Chapel, signaling the election of a pope.
He steadied himself and marched toward the entrance.
Kastor’s aide waited outside the glass doors.
His first test.
“Eminence,” the priest said, offering a slight bow. “Welcome. Your room is ready. I’ll show you the way.”
He nodded in gratitude and followed the young man inside.
Luke drove back toward the Church of St. Magyar’s. Hard to get lost on this island, the whole place smaller than back home in Blount County, Tennessee.
He wondered what his mother was doing. She lived a solitary life, his father gone to his reward a long time ago. Two of his brothers lived nearby and kept an eye on her. She lived off Social Security and his father’s retirement, but Luke made sure she never wanted for money. Not that such oversight was easy. She was one proud woman, who never wanted to be a burden to anyone. But he’d worked out an arrangement with her bank where he could transfer money into her account with a phone call. And she could not transfer it back out.
Not that she hadn’t tried.
He slowed the car as he entered a town. Farmland and vineyards surrounded its shops and businesses, which all seemed gauged to agriculture.
Finally, he was focused.
On track.
He stopped at an intersection, then turned the car toward the Pwales Valley.
Pollux admired the vestments laid out on the bed. A full-length cassock, mozzetta, zucchetto, and biretta, all in scarlet red to symbolize the blood a cardinal supposedly was willing to shed for his faith. The rochet was a traditional white, Kastor’s a simple embroidered lace signifying his lack of jurisdiction over any post or diocese. Others wore more elaborate designs presented to them by their congregations. But always white. He already wore the cardinal ring, but a gold chain with a crucifix lay on the bed, ready to be donned. Kastor’s aide, a priest he’d dealt with before as Pollux, had never hesitated, assuming that the cardinal himself had arrived.
“Is all in order?” the priest asked in Italian.
He looked away from the bed. “Yes. Perfect.”
The bedroom was a reflection of simplicity. Just the bed and a nightstand with a plain crucifix on a cream-colored wall. A silent butler filled one corner, there for hanging his clothes, the floor a polished parquet with no rug. The sitting room beyond was equally austere with a table, three chairs, and a buffet against one wall. Nothing adorned its walls. Nothing covered the parquet on the floor, either. Both rooms emitted a musty, lived-in waft with a trace of masculine musk.
“You should change quickly,” his aide said. “The schedule is tight. Mass inside St. Peter’s begins in less than an hour. Then, contrary to usual, the cardinals will proceed directly to the Pauline Chapel, then start the procession to the Sistine Chapel.”
He’d brought the four parchments, safely tucked inside the reliquary within the duffel bag, which had been delivered to the room. They would stay here. Constantine’s Gift might be needed later, when they all returned here for the night. His laptop was also inside the bag, the flash drive safe within his pocket, where it would stay all day. That would definitely come into play later this evening.
“Leave me,” he said.
The aide withdrew, closing the door behind him.
He stared at the scarlet robes.
A cardinal.
Once a title given to second sons and ministers of ambitious monarchs, most often now it went to those in the curia. The post was mentioned nowhere in the Bible or in the teachings of Christ. It had been totally created by the church. The name came from the Latin cardo. Hinge. Since the election of a pope hinged on their deliberations.
Like now.
He smiled.
Time to complete the transformation.