house he stopped and stared out through the arches into the darkened courtyard. Lights lit the cloistered corridors on both the ground and second floors. Across, on the far side, he noticed a half-open door on the second level. He was still cautious about the two brothers who had vanished, so he made his way to the nearest staircase and hustled up, keeping a watch in all directions.
The second floor seemed as quiet as the one below.
He approached the half-open door, the room beyond lit with bright fluorescent bulbs. The space was small, maybe thirty feet square, with dark-stained timbers overhead. The stone walls were lined with shelves and cabinets, the center containing another of the stout oak tables, this one devoid of any displays.
He stepped inside and surveyed the shelves.
Many were filled with books, all on Mussolini, in various languages. His trained eye noticed the bindings. Some were cloth, others leather, most wrapped with paper covers protected by Mylar. Several hundred at least. He noticed no overhead sprinklers here. Which made sense. Green metal cabinets, lined in rows, flanked the walls. He opened one to find folios of documents bearing dates starting in 1928 and continuing to 1943. Many of the brittle and fragile typewritten pages inside reminded him of what he’d seen in the elephant-skin satchel. He scanned a few and realized this was the Mussolini archive.
To his right he saw another of the metal cabinets, its doors not fully closed. He stepped across and opened them, revealing four shelves of identical thin, leather-bound volumes. He noticed dates on the spines. All mid- to late 1942. Here and there a book was missing, perhaps nine gone. He slid one of the volumes free. The pages were filled with a heavy, masculine script in black ink. He read some of the Italian, each entry headlined with a specific date, as in a diary.
His gaze raked the room at the shelves and he began to notice gaps where more books had once stood. He wondered if this room had been picked over, the important stuff removed.
He heard a noise beyond the exit doors, out in the cloister.
A scuttle of footsteps.
Perhaps his two problems had finally materialized.
He hustled across and assumed a position to the left of the door, between two of the metal cabinets, his spine flat to the stone wall. He kept the gun at his side, finger on the trigger, ready, raising it as the noise drew closer. Maybe they intended on charging in with a frontal assault.
He waited.
Someone entered the archive.
He aimed his gun.
“I was looking for you,” Stephanie Nelle said calmly.
He lowered the weapon. “What in the hell are you doing here?”
“That was actually going to be my question to you.”
“I’m here because I got greedy and thought I could make an easy hundred thousand euros. I’ve been playing ‘the bait’ all day, and I almost got eaten. Why are you here? And heads up, there are still a couple of threats hanging around.”
She waved off his concern. “I doubt they’re still here.”
“What brings you into the field?”
“There’s a problem developing in Rome with the conclave set to start tomorrow. It’s a big mess, Cotton, and the Entity is involved.”
Those folks he knew all too well, including their head, Danjel Spagna.
“The Lord’s Own?” he asked, adding a smile.
She nodded. “He’s on Malta. He and I go way back, to my time years ago at the State Department.”
He knew what she was referring to.
“Luke is on Malta, too,” she said.
“How is Frat Boy doing? Last time I saw him, he was in a hospital bed.”
“He recovered. But he has his hands full at the moment. And what’s happening there relates directly to what’s happening here. I came to enlist your help.”
He’d heard that tone before and knew what it meant.
Shut up and listen.
“Grant sent you here for Gallo to kill you.”
“I already figured that out.”
“Grant is also going to trade for the Churchill letters, the ones that were taken from you this morning. I’m not sure where or how, but that’s his plan.”
He’d known at the breakfast table in Milan that Grant was holding back. He should have said no thanks and headed back to Copenhagen. But he’d kept going. Why? For the money. What else? And that wasn’t like him. But a hundred thousand euros would go a long way to handle the overhead at his bookshop. And the bills had to be paid.
“Who’s Grant going to trade with for the letters?” he asked. “And what