Pollux. As a fisherman, the stars had been important to their father. But that man was gone, and this was his decision alone. What was the old cliché?
Never look a gift horse in the mouth?
“I’ll keep it.”
Spagna smiled. “We’ll be in touch before nightfall.”
“How will you know where to find me?”
Spagna smirked.
“Please, Kastor. Asking ridiculous questions only shows your ignorance.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Luke sat in the dark, his back against a rock wall, and cursed. Good thing his mother wasn’t around. His shorts and shirt remained damp from the swim, shoes sodden and clammy. His luminous watch noted the time at 2:20 P.M. He felt neither nerves nor fear. Only irritation. He was three for three on mistakes for the day.
He’d tried to avoid the two men who’d confronted him at the dock, dodging and weaving through Valletta’s unbroken cordon of waterfront streets. But they eventually cornered him. An arm had snapped closed across his throat, another hand clamped on his mouth, and then the arm across his windpipe tightened until his vision had flashed with lights.
What happened after that was sketchy.
He vaguely recalled being carried into a building, down a flight of stairs, into coolness, then lowered into the ground and dropped onto soft earth. When he came around absolute blackness had enveloped him, so thick that he couldn’t see his hand in front of his face. He’d used his fingers to examine the rough-hewn walls of his prison, which was circular and measured about five paces across. Reaching up, he’d determined the hole was wider at the bottom, the sides tapering inward as they rose. A clever way to prevent any attempt to climb out since you’d fall long before making it even halfway up.
The air hung humid and stale, as if it had been breathed to exhaustion. Sweat coursed down the small of his back. His mouth felt pasty. What he’d give for a bottled water. As screwups went, this day ranked high on the list.
What would Malone say?
Good going, Frat Boy.
Hard to live up to a legend. And that perfectly described Cotton Malone. But if you were going to strive to be the best, then you had to know the best. Pappy might be retired and selling books in Denmark, but he remained if not at, then certainly near, the top of his game. Of course, he’d never tell Malone that. He’d worked with him twice and both times he’d learned things. The goal? Work hard another decade and new agents might talk about him the way the current ones spoke of Malone. That was possible. Why not? Everybody needed goals. And time was indeed the best teacher.
Trouble was, eventually it killed all of its students.
He wondered where Pappy was now. Probably at his shop in Copenhagen, doing whatever booksellers do.
What a day.
He reached down and played with a handful of the parched sand that formed the pit’s floor. How long had this hole been in the ground? How many others had rotted away here? He figured he was somewhere beneath Valletta, as he vaguely recalled not being carried all that far. But where? Who the hell knew?
A sound disturbed the silence.
Like a door opening above.
Shafts of light appeared across the top of the pit.
He was now able to see that he’d been right. The hole was bell-shaped. About ten feet deep. Tapering upward to an opening about four feet wide.
He looked up and saw Laura Price.
Which caught him off guard. He’d been wondering who the two guys worked for. His best guess had been the guy on the tower with the cardinal.
A rope fell from above, which she used to climb down. The moment her feet hit the earthen floor, he clipped her legs out from under her and she dropped to the soft sandy floor.
He came to his feet and stood over her.
She shook her head. “Feel better after that cheap shot?”
“Where am I?”
“Inside a piece of history. You should feel honored. The Knights of Malta once dug these prisons all over the island. They’re called guvas. Means ‘birdcage.’ Bad little knights were thrown in and left for days, or weeks, at a time. A few even forever. The only guva most people think still exists is beneath Fort St. Angelo, not far from here. But there’s another, right here. As you can see, there’s no way out except by ladder or rope.”
She stood, wearing a look of unpredictability, her blond hair loosely gathered by a leather thong. Everything about her breathed freedom. He watched as