saying? He who enters the conclave as pope, comes out a cardinal. History had proven that nine times out of ten a non-favorite won. Which made sense. Every so-called favorite had his own carefully crafted support group. Many of those formed shortly before or during a conclave, and rarely did one group ever sway another to accept their candidate. Which meant the man finally elected was never everyone’s favorite. Instead, he was just a compromise that two-thirds of the cardinals could agree upon.
Which was fine.
He wasn’t interested in being anyone’s favorite.
Contra mundum.
Against the world.
His motto.
Chatterjee returned after ending his call. “I’ll deal with our American spy in the boat.”
“In what way?”
The man chuckled. “Do you really want to know? Just accept that I’m here, at your service, Eminence.”
He felt another rush of anger at the patronizing tone. But the past few years, if nothing else, had taught him some measure of patience.
“And the woman?” he asked.
“I’m working on that, too.”
“Are you Hindu?”
“I’m an atheist.”
He needed to calm himself and expunge the growing rancor simmering inside him. This conversation was going nowhere. But he needed to know, “What are your qualifications to deal with my current needs?”
Chatterjee stared him down. “I can fight, shoot, and don’t mind killing someone if the need arises.”
“Are we going to war?”
“You tell me, Eminence. As you pointed out, people have been searching for the Nostra Trinità a long time.”
“And what do you know about it?”
“Quite a bit. I hold a doctorate in medieval history from the University of York. My dissertation was on Jerusalem between the times of the Jews, Muslims, and Christians, from the 1st to 5th centuries, with an emphasis on European brotherhoods and their effect on intersect occupation. The Sovereign Military Hospitallers Order of St. John of Jerusalem, of Rhodes, and of Malta being one of those. I’m also quite good at scouring and stealing from archives, libraries, and newspaper morgues. I have few to no morals, and will do whatever is necessary to get the job done. I wrote a book on the Hospitallers. Didn’t sell all that well, but it did draw the attention of certain people likewise interested in the knights.”
“Can you name a few names?”
Chatterjee chuckled. “Never kiss and tell. First rule of my business.”
He could see that this man masked a tough and sinewy intelligence beneath an overabundance of carefully cultivated rudeness. Ordinarily, he would not waste time with such arrogance. But nothing about this situation was ordinary.
He bought a few moments to think by watching the swift passage of a gull, its wings set, as it rode the thermals and glided out to sea. What it must feel like to be that unencumbered. Finally he turned toward Chatterjee and said, “You realize that the conclave begins in a little over twenty-four hours. There is no time for nonsense.”
“How about I whet your appetite with something I’m sure you don’t know. A good-faith offering, if you will.”
He’d been told to come here and all would be explained.
So he had to trust that this was not a waste of time.
“I’m listening.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
JUNE 1798
Napoleon Bonaparte ignored the screams that echoed through the long corridors and admired the palace. For the past 225 years grand masters had dwelled within these walls, roaming the broad marble passageways, admiring the picture galleries, feasting in the great banqueting hall. There was even an observatory in the tower above. The building stretched long, like the Louvre, spanning two floors, its walls double-layered and filled with rubble like a fortress, a full one hundred meters of its elegant façade facing the Piazza dei Cavalieri, the Square of the Knights.
Sacred ground, he’d been told.
No Maltese had ever been allowed in the square, or the palace, without a permit. He’d already decided to curry favor with the locals by abolishing that law and renaming the plaza the Square of Liberty.
A good move.
The conqueror’s prerogative.
He was thrilled. Everything had gone perfectly.
He’d sailed from France a month ago with hundreds of ships and 7,000 troops, all headed for the taking of Egypt. On the way he’d decided to seize Malta, arriving at Valletta three days ago. Standing on the deck of his flagship in the harbor he’d been impressed with the embattlements, the town itself sweeping down by terraces from the summit, the honey-colored buildings stacked one above the other, appearing as if chiseled from a single stone. He’d been informed that the numerous domes and towers would cast an exotic effect, and he’d seen for himself the truth