from imperial Rome, reflecting power over life and death. Nineteenth- and early-20th-century Italian political organizations had routinely adopted it as their emblem. Eventually it appeared on the flag of the National Fascist Party, which took its name from the fasces symbol.
He opened the satchel.
Inside was a well-preserved treasure trove of documents sealed within a thick fold of oilskin. He was fluent in Italian, and several other languages, one of the benefits of having an eidetic memory, so he took a quick inventory, flicking through the brittle sheets. Most dealt with the war, partisan activities, and military reports. There were a few typed letters from Hitler, originals, with Italian translations pinned to them, and some carbons sent to Germany. A few had postscripts and marginal notations in longhand. At the bottom of the stack lay a sheaf of prewar letters between Mussolini and Churchill.
More than five, though.
Eleven total.
Seemed the seller was holding a few in reserve.
Jackpot.
He replaced the documents and closed the satchel. All had remained quiet inside the villa. The bear was long gone. He should follow suit. He left the study, turning toward the staircase, passing several of the open third-floor doors. His orders called for him to drive to Milan and promptly turn over whatever he obtained.
Suddenly he was struck hard from behind.
His body jerked forward, as though hit by an explosion at his right ear. Trails of light arced before him. His legs caved. He quickly realized there’d been no explosion, only a blow to the back of his head. He tried to rebound, but collapsed, consciousness drifting in and out.
He hit the floor hard against his right shoulder.
Then all daylight vanished.
CHAPTER FOUR
MALTA
9:50 A.M.
Luke Daniels loved the sea, which was strange for an ex–Army Ranger. Most of his service to the country had occurred on dry land. But ever since leaving the military and joining the Magellan Billet, he’d found himself on water more often than not. He’d first met Cotton Malone in the cold chop of the Øresund off Denmark, and only recently he’d completed risky assignments in the Indian Ocean and Java Sea. Now he was bobbing along off the north coast of Malta, sitting in the bow of a twenty-five-foot, deep V-hull, his short hair and open shirt damp with salt spray. He’d found an advertisement yesterday for a local water sports business, one of a zillion vendors that ran out of the many seaside resorts, each catering to the thousands of tourists who came here year-round.
Up, up in the air. Imagine a parachute glide using our special parasailing boat. Our guests take off from the boat and soar to 250 feet over the sea with breathtaking views of the island. At the end of this unforgettable experience, they land back safely on the boat. You can live this flying adventure alone or with a friend. You can glide either in the morning, or take off in the afternoon, to enjoy the famous sunsets of Malta. An unforgettable experience not to be missed. Try it with your friends. Flying duration is ten minutes.
He’d opted to omit anyone else and booked the entire boat for the morning, paying a premium since he wanted to be airborne longer than ten minutes and at a specific spot above the island at a specific time.
“Get ready,” the helmsman called out. “We’re almost there.”
He was hunting for a big fish, but not the kind that occupied the blue waters around him. Instead he was tailing His Eminence, Kastor Cardinal Gallo, one of the current 231 princes of the Roman Catholic Church.
He’d been given the pertinent vitals.
Gallo had been born and raised on Malta, his father a commercial fisherman, his mother a schoolteacher. He left the island before the age of twenty and attended seminary in Ireland, but completed his studies at the Pontifical Gregorian University in Rome. John Paul II ordained him to the priesthood inside St. Peter’s Basilica. He then served various parishes around the world, but ended up back in Rome studying canon law and earning a doctorate. Benedict XVI elevated him to the cardinalate, appointing him prefect of the Apostolic Signatura, the court of last appeal to any ecclesiastical judgment. There he’d stayed through the last two pontificates until his outspokenness got him into trouble and he was demoted. Now he carried only the title of patron of the Sovereign Military Order of Malta, a largely ceremonial post usually given to a cardinal near death or out of favor. At the relatively vibrant age of fifty-six,