“They will be. You just concentrate on the conclave and achieving the ultimate goal. Nothing matters unless you become pope.”
Pollux slipped the parchments back into the reliquary and replaced the end cap. That seemed the safest place for them. Earlier, when the knight arrived with the keys and tools, he’d also had the man bring one other item.
A short length of thin rope.
About a meter long.
Which he’d slipped into his pocket.
“Let’s get the tools and go,” he said.
Kastor headed for the shovels. Pollux used the moment to find the rope and secure both ends within his clenched fists.
“I’m still puzzled why the Secreti did not kill me in that cavern,” Kastor said.
He advanced and, as his brother crouched to retrieve the shovels, he draped the taut rope over Kastor’s head, looping it tight, stretching his arms outward and cutting off the windpipe. Kastor reached up with both hands and tried to free the stranglehold, but he tightened it even more. Kastor’s legs began to flail. Arms came up behind his head, trying to grab his attacker. Pollux angled back, out of reach, but he kept the rope firmly in place, pulling it ever tighter. Kastor gagged, struggling to breathe. His hands groped for the garrote, the grip weakening, the choking becoming more intense.
Pollux had long wondered what this moment would feel like.
For so many years he’d languished in the shadow of his arrogant twin. Many knew the name Kastor Gallo, but almost no one, outside of the Hospitallers, knew of Pollux Gallo. His brother had chosen the priesthood and risen to a level of respect and authority. Then he’d thrown it all away with reckless nonsense. All that he could have accomplished tossed to the wind so he could simply run his mouth. He’d tried to tell him to keep quiet but Kastor, being Kastor, chose his own path.
Now Pollux had finally done the same thing.
Chosen.
All movement stopped.
He kept the rope in place a few more seconds to be sure, then relaxed his grip. Kastor’s body went limp, the arms draped at the side, the legs rolled outward, the neck no longer supporting the head. He unwrapped the rope and allowed his brother to fold to the floor.
“They didn’t kill you,” he whispered, “because I wanted to.”
Interesting that for all his smarts, his brother never even imagined that he was being manipulated. Probably because he thought himself superior, the dominant one in their sibling relationship. Their entire life it had always been Kastor and Pollux. Never the other way around.
But no more.
Pollux Gallo just died.
Kastor Gallo would be reborn.
CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX
Cotton drove mindlessly, his world shrunk to a ribbon of asphalt and the occasional headlight of an approaching car. Dawn was not far away, but some sleep would be welcome. Given the late hour, he’d decided to find a hotel room and head home in the afternoon. The past couple of days had been interesting, to say the least, and he was a hundred thousand euros richer, but, contrary to what he might have led James Grant to think, it had never been about money.
Not that he had anything against money.
Federal agents weren’t the best-compensated of public servants. About sixty-five thousand a year at the end of his time with the Justice Department. But no one worked that job for the pay. You worked it because it had to be done. Because you chose to do it. Because you were good at it. No glory, as few ever knew what you did. Which came in handy at screwup time. Nope. The satisfaction came from simply getting the job done.
He rounded a sharp curve in the highway and kept heading south, a swath of black landscape on one side and the Med on the other. Thoughts rummaged through his orderly mind, trying to seek a permanent residence. During his career at Justice he’d learned that the worst picture was always what the brain fabricated. Never mind reality. A fiction could seem far more immediate. So he’d come to rely on his subconscious to know if something was out of order, didn’t belong.
And something was out of place here.
But it wasn’t his problem.
He’d done what Stephanie wanted and everything to be found was back in the hands of the Knights of Malta and the Catholic Church. The brothers Gallo and the Vatican powers that be would now sort it out. The cardinal would head for the conclave and do what cardinals did, and Pollux Gallo would dissolve back into his cloistered world. And the Secreti? Who knew? Did they even exist? If so, were they still a threat? Regardless, they were the problem of the authorities in Italy and Malta, where all of the crimes had occurred.
So he told himself to let it go.
He kept driving, paralleling the north shore. He’d visited Malta a few times and loved the island. Always he’d stayed outside of Valletta in the suburb of St. Julian’s, at the Dragonara. Spacious rooms, good food, balconies that overlooked the Med. A lovely upscale seaside resort with all of the amenities, which he’d never had a chance to enjoy. But maybe he’d remedy that before he left later today, depending on the flight schedules. A few minutes by the pool. That’d be different.
He slowed and navigated through the narrow streets of St. Julian’s, arriving at the hotel a little before 6:00 A.M. He valet-parked the car and headed for the front desk, where he was pleased to learn a room was available.
“Did you see the explosion?” the clerk asked. “Quite the excitement tonight.”
That was true, but he was sure this guy had no idea how exciting his past few hours had been. So he asked, “What do you mean?”
“Big explosion out on the water a couple of hours ago. The boat burned for half an hour before sinking. We don’t see that here often.”
“Any idea what happened?”
The clerk shook his head. “I’m sure the morning Independent will let us know.”
He accepted the room key and drifted from the front desk. Before going to bed he needed to make a report. He found his phone, connected to Stephanie, and explained what had happened at the cathedral and the chapel.
She told him, “Luke took down a yacht outside the Valletta harbor. He drove his boat right into it. Four men are dead. Luke’s in custody. The harbor police are holding him. Unfortunately, none of the bodies carried any identification, but we’re working on that now through fingerprints. And there’s more.”
He was listening.
“Luke says Laura Price switched teams and was working with the Entity. She was ready to take a rifle shot when you and the Gallo brothers exited the cathedral, a shot that Spagna himself arranged. The Secreti interrupted, killing her and the temporary head of the Entity, who’d come to Malta to oversee the hit.”
“Who was the target? Me or the cardinal?”
“Neither one.”
And there it was.
One of those wandering thoughts just found a home. “The Entity was taking out Pollux Gallo?”
“That’s right. Which raises a whole host of questions.”
More thoughts dropped into place. The subterfuge and organized attack at the Hospitaller archive by the so-called Secreti. The sudden appearance of the real Pollux Gallo. His gracious cooperation. The lack of any outside interference at the obelisk, though the Secreti had been on the move at Lake Como and in that villa. Then the curious lack of concern at St. Magyar’s chapel. Isolated and out in the middle of nowhere, with plenty of vulnerabilities, Pollux Gallo had seemed totally at ease.
Why would a mere lieutenant ad interim of a benign charitable organization be a greater threat than a cardinal who had, at least on paper, a chance to be pope?
“Where is Luke now?” he asked.
“In Valletta. I’m dealing with it.”
“Get him
out.” He told her the chapel’s name and where St. Magyar’s was located, indicating that the curator at the co-cathedral could provide exact directions. “When he’s free, send Luke my way.”
“What are you going to do?”
“Head back there. I may have misjudged the wrong Gallo.”
CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN
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.