Vatican. A good one, for sure, but a lie nonetheless.”
“How can you be so sure?” Stephanie asked.
“That’s easy,” Cotton said. “If he’d found the ultimate prize, it would have been inside that obelisk, instead of just clues as to where it might be.”
Gallo nodded. “He also apparently altered the original message, since there were no typewriters on Malta in 1798. The original would have been handwritten. Let’s hope he transcribed it correctly. It’s now incumbent on us to find what he could not locate and return it to our custody.”
He could hear the pain in Gallo’s voice. Surely membership in any long-standing secret brotherhood involved a healthy dose of male bonding. But a society with overt religious overtones and ancient historical purposes added entirely different dimensions. Eighty-plus years had passed since those three brothers had died, yet the wound seemed fresh as yesterday to Pollux Gallo.
“We need to go to Malta,” Gallo said.
“Why do you say that?” Cotton asked.
“It was in the words we just read. Where oil meets stone. What we seek is there.”
* * *
The knight had watched what was happening at the obelisk with both fascination and worry. The Codex Fori Mussolini seemed to be exactly where the newspaper accounts from the 1930s had suggested.
An excellent turn of events.
It would be an easy matter to assume control of the situation and deal with the Americans here and now, as he’d done at the villa by Lake Como. He had the resources available. Just a simple gesture would call them to action. But that did not seem like the smart play.
Not yet, anyway.
Nothing had ever been gained through impetuousness. Rash thinking always resulted in unsatisfying results. He’d come this far thanks to smart choices and smart moves, timed perfectly. No sense stopping now. His grand plan contained many moving parts. So much had to go right, and at precisely the right time. The original path he’d mapped toward success now seemed obsolete. Too many new and unpredictable players had entered the field. Which seemed troublesome, but it also oozed with opportunity.
He’d been able to listen to the conversation at the obelisk. The information on the sheet that had fallen free of the codex had to be what Mussolini stole, then hid away. The British were convinced of that fact, that’s what James Grant had said, and now it seemed they may have been correct.
Better to let this play out.
And take advantage of his good fortune.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
Kastor had not moved.
Nor had Chatterjee, who lay a few meters away.
Once the black form had left the cavern, no one else had approached through the tunnel. After a motor revved, then faded, not a sound had betrayed the night beside the slosh of the sea from the grotto. He’d never seen anyone shot before. But tonight he’d borne witness to two lives ending that way.
Tiredness and a sense of hopelessness crept over him. He was shaking, fear seeping from every pore like a wounded animal. Probably shock setting in. Lying still, he tried to repair himself. But that self-awareness did little to alleviate a bleak despair. Which made him feel ashamed.
Thankfully, no one was here to see his weakness.
And he could not show even a trace of that in the days ahead.
The church was wounded and in turmoil. China and Russia were drifting from its orbit. Europeans were avoiding mass. In Central and South America its once strong moral hold had become frail. And America. The worst of all. Deviant priests and indifferent bishops had inflicted immeasurable damage. People were leaving the church in droves. Few studied for the priesthood anymore. Even fewer Catholics cared. Traditionalists had drawn many of the older faithful away, while the young were simply disenchanted with religion in general. An educated laity seemed no longer willing to blindly memorize catechism and ignore the dreaded question, why.
The time had come for a man of action. One who knew the church’s laws and legacy, one who respected tradition and believed that the essence of truth lay within the Vatican, no reaching out required. The Roman Catholic Church was the greatest dynasty in human history. But malleable popes and a gluttony of poor thinking had led it astray.
That had to end.
He was about to challenge the College of Cardinals. Not all of them. Only a select few. The ones who could wield influence and bring the rest around where he could achieve the votes needed to win the papacy. He’d thought the Constitutum Constantini might be enough to accomplish that