They rounded a corner and, on the far side of the cloister, entered a room through another metal door, this one open, taller and wider than the others. The space beyond was more like a hall, what had surely once been the chapter house. Wooden benches, where the monks had congregated, still lined the now painted stone walls. He noticed the irregular shape and the two central columns that supported arched ribs for the vaults, dividing the floor and ceiling into three bays. He also felt the change in temperature and humidity, both lower, which signaled sophisticated climate control. Wisely, a fire-suppression sprinkler system dotted the ceiling, exposed metal pipes connecting each faucet. Lighting spilled out from hanging opaque, glass balls that tossed off a warm glow. Stout oak tables stood in rows across the tile floor. On them sat manuscripts, ecclesiastical plates, pectorals, reliquaries, and crosses. His trained bibliophile eye focused on the manuscripts, where he spied chrysobulls, sigillia, and documents bearing holy seals. Glass domes protected each from any casual touch.
“We have around fifteen thousand manuscripts stored in the facility,” Gallo said. “Most are originals and first editions. There are rare Bibles, the classics, scientific texts, dictionaries. We have a little of everything, but we’ve been collecting for nine centuries. This room houses a few of the items we occasionally allow visitors to see.”
“Potential contributors?”
Gallo nodded. “It takes over two hundred million euros to keep the order solvent each year. Most comes from governments, the United Nations, and the EU. But we also depend on the generosity of private donors. So yes, this collection can sometimes be helpful in spurring their interest.”
The two robed brothers at first waited outside but eventually followed them into the chapter house. His escort from Rome had lingered back in the refectory. He knew Gallo was probably armed, and on the walk over he’d noticed the distinctive bulge of a weapon holstered at the base of the spine beneath each of the two robes as well.
Nothing but trouble surrounded him.
Which seemed the story of his life.
“Why don’t we dispense with coy,” Gallo said. His host stood with the straight back of self-discipline. “The British have long wanted to see inside this archive. They’ve covertly tried several times. Now they’ve finally succeeded.”
“With your permission, of course. You know full well I’m here on their behalf. And we didn’t ask for this tour.”
“They called and demanded to speak to me. They insinuated that my fellow knights were somehow involved with what happened to you earlier today at Lake Como. Murder. Theft. Burglary. I told Sir James Grant that he was mistaken.”
But that was a lie. Too much here just didn’t add up. Or more correctly, it added up to something that wasn’t good. Here he was again among that great, swirling maelstrom of possibilities where his life hung in the balance. Parts of him detested and parts of him craved the conflict. For a dozen years he’d lived with that threat every day. Move. Countermove. All part of the game. But he’d retired out early in order to quit playing.
Yeah, right.
He stepped close to one of the tables and examined through a glass dome what was noted as a 13th-century gospel with an exquisite wooden cover and Moroccan leather binding. He guessed it had to be worth several hundred thousand dollars. He kept his eyes down on the artifact but began to ready himself. As a Magellan Billet agent, most of his mistakes had come when there was too much time to think. Act. React. Counteract. Doesn’t matter. Just do something.
“Where are they?” he asked, continuing to focus on the old gospel, its cover darkened with age and infested with a fine spiderweb of cracks like an unrestored Rembrandt.
Gallo seemed to know exactly what he meant and motioned. One of the robes walked to the far side of the next row of tables and lifted the elephant-skin satchel from the floor. He gave it a quick glance, then returned to perusing the objects on the table before him, inching ever closer to the second robed monk.
“Who shot the guy in the villa?” he asked Gallo.
“Why does it matter? That man failed to do his job.”
He faced his adversary. “Which wasn’t to kill me or be captured. No. You wanted the British to know you were there.”
“I did, but thankfully the ring led you straight here.”
“Along with you hanging a guy by his arms pulled up behind his back.”