The Medici Return (Cotton Malone #19)

Chapter 72

CHAPTER 72

S TEFANO HAD RETURNED TO R OME.

But not to his rooms inside the rectory for the Archbasilica of the Most Holy Savior at the Lateran. Instead, he’d driven straight to Cardinal Stamm’s apartment, but found no one there. He had to be careful and not attract attention. Eyes and ears were everywhere, and he could not afford to alert Ascolani. He needed to get in contact with Stamm, but the number he’d once called was no longer functioning, and had not been since Stamm’s termination. Surely Entity headquarters had contact information, but he could not ask. Too risky. So he retreated to street level and called Entity headquarters to inform them that he was back in Rome and available.

Standard procedure.

He thought about the next step and decided to call a member of his rapid response team. The priest was not only a subordinate but also a friend who thought highly of Cardinal Stamm. Perhaps he might have contact information?

“Is there trouble?” he was asked.

“Not at all. I just need some institutional knowledge the cardinal should have. We were always encouraged to use that source, if need be.”

That explanation worked and he was given a cell phone number that was, to his subordinate’s knowledge, still current. He stared at the number on the screen. He was about to defy a direct order from his director. But there was no turning back now. Yet he was chilled by something Cardinal Stamm himself once told him, and few other recruits, the day they were all sworn into service.

“There once was a convent that existed in northern Italy. Up in the Dolomites. A beautiful place. But that region has always been dangerous, vulnerable, all of the villages intentionally built on easily defended hilltops. Sadly for the nuns, their convent sat on low ground. So they placed their safety in the hands of God, but they were not foolish. If raiders came they would ring an alarm bell that summoned armed men from the nearby village to come to their aid. One night the nuns decided to find out how much they could depend on the locals to protect them. So they rang the bell. The men up on the hill, safe inside the village walls, leaped from their beds, snatched up weapons, and scrambled down the slopes to battle nonexistent raiders. The nuns were pleased with the test. Their would-be rescuers not so much, having lost much-needed sleep. Three nights later raiders came for real. The nuns woke and rang the bell. The men of the village heard the clang but went back to sleep, tired of being tested. The raiders slaughtered the older nuns, then dragged away the others to sell as slaves. The lesson? Don’t ring the bell unless it’s for real.”

He typed a text.

Eminence, this is Father Stefano Giumenta. I am ringing the bell and sounding the alarm, like the nuns in the Dolomites. Below is a picture of a man. Do you know him?

He decided to keep the first contact simple, reminding Stamm of the story, sending the picture, and hoping for the best. Three minutes later a reply came.

Why is it important?

He replied. This man is a problem.

Five minutes later a response.

Come to me. Now.

His answer was never in doubt.

Where?

C OTTON ALLOWED THE COBWEBS INSIDE HIS HEAD TO CLEAR . H E DID not think he’d suffered a concussion, but you never knew about a head injury. Richter seemed okay, besides the twisted arm and gash to his forehead. The bleeding had stopped and the cardinal seemed fine.

“None of this was ever mentioned at seminary,” Richter said.

He smiled. “I would hope not.”

“You saw a man in the road, holding a rifle?”

“I did. It was the same man from the train. The same man who was inside the car, searching for the pledge.”

“Who now has it.”

That was true. But who did the man work for?

He fished his phone from his pocket and saw that it had survived the crash. Tough units. Specially made for the Magellan Billet, and given to him by Stephanie Nelle. He unlocked the screen and saw that there was service. Thank goodness. He entered a code that the phone recognized and dialed Stephanie Nelle’s direct line for a phone she carried with her twenty-four hours a day. She answered immediately and he reported what happened.

“We need to get to Cardinal Stamm,” he said. “He’s nearby at a Tuscan resort.”

“I’ll get a car to you from your phone’s GPS.”

“We’ll be waiting.”

“You armed?”

The gun was still nestled at his spine. He’d made sure to bring it with him. “I am.”

“Good.”

He ended the call.

They were near the highway on which they’d driven to Santa Maria di Castello. A few minutes ago three cars had left the monastery. Two first together. Then a single vehicle. All three sped down the highway and away into the night, not stopping to investigate what was apparently burning down below the roadway. Which spoke volumes. No way to see who had occupied the cars. But one or more surely held Camilla Baines and her Golden Oak minions.

The night was calm and warm.

Peaceful, despite the chaos.

A lot was happening.

Thank goodness he’d worn his patient pants.

Cotton’s watch read 10:20 P.M. when the car that had retrieved him and Richter turned off the main highway and headed into the woods on a dirt lane until finally reaching a cypress-lined avenue that ran alongside a golf course. He’d caught a glimpse of several greens and tee boxes in the headlights. The car climbed a short incline and stopped before a lit villa on the grounds of Castiglion del Bosco. Richter explained that the resort had assimilated an actual medieval village, and that Stamm apparently liked it there.

Which had made him smile.

The building before them occupied a rise and surely commanded a high-priced view of the countryside. It looked like a two-story stone farmhouse that had been transformed into a multi-bedroom hideaway, the very picture of a Tuscan villa, including stone walls veined with greenery, a ceramic-tiled roof, and a lovely flower garden. There was also a shaded terrace and pool, both lit to the night. A Land Rover Defender was parked out front. Inside were comfortable Tuscan-style furnishings combined with the latest in technology, including a huge flat-screen television. Stamm was ensconced before it watching a European football match.

“Sit,” the older man said as they entered. “There are liquids on the cart. Wine. Whiskey. Soft drinks. Help yourself.”

“We need a doctor for Cardinal Richter,” he told Stamm.

“Signora Nelle informed me. One is on the way.” Stamm eyed Richter. “It does not look that bad.”

“It’s not,” Richter said.

“I was not entirely frank with you back in Rome,” Cotton said.

Stamm muted the sound on the ball game. “Do tell.”

And Cotton described everything that had just happened along with the complete story of what had occurred on the train, including the killer.

“We need to find out who he is,” Richter said.

“That will be easy. I hired him. Years ago.”

Cotton stepped over and lifted the remote control for the muted television, hitting the OFF button.

“That was rude,” Stamm said.

He sat in one of the chairs. “Eminence, we’ve had a rough night. I’m tired. Hungry. And a bit frustrated. Cardinal Richter needs a doctor and I should be back in Copenhagen selling books. So tell me about the man you hired. Who is clearly a professional killer.”

“His name is Thomas Dewberry. A person with no morals, deep religious convictions, and, as you say, unique skills.”

“You hired someone like that?” Richter asked.

“I hired a person who could provide retribution for those who most definitely deserved it. The world is a dangerous place. Violence exists. There are times when prayer and ‘turning the other cheek’ simply do not work. We had to be prepared to deal with that contingency. If not, we would simply be a toothless tiger. So I recruited Thomas. But he was only dispatched to political hot spots, locales where the law was nonexistent and those drastic measures were needed—where violence had already occurred against us. They were all retaliatory strikes. Not offensive ones. Never.”

“Clearly Ascolani has expanded his use,” Richter said, taking a seat too. “Your man is right in the middle of framing me.”

“And I am sorry for that. Ascolani is making a play for the papacy. The pope is going to retire. He’s made up his mind. Ascolani surely knows that. I am told he has already applied pressure to at least eight other cardinals who were either papabile themselves or capable of influencing others. Simple blackmail, mainly. The hardest pressure was saved for you, Jason.”

“Lucky me.”

“I assume the fact that you are yourself papabile, popular, and also a close friend of the pope made you special. So Ascolani wanted you disgraced. Tainted. Made radioactive. Perhaps even excluded from the coming conclave. I have also learned that one of the defendants in the bribery trial was offered a deal. Implicate you, and things would be much easier for him. He accepted that deal, lied, and the money was planted to reinforce the lie. That defendant worked in the Secretariat of State. Ascolani surely had great power over him.”

“Aren’t you a wealth of information tonight,” Cotton said. “How long have you had this intel?”

“Not long. There are many within the Curia and the Entity still loyal to me. I was also able to access a special financial account. A personal slush fund I long ago created and used for decades. Ascolani inherited control of that account when he assumed the Entity’s leadership. I have learned the money used to frame you came from there.”

“It seems you have all we need to clear my name,” Richter said.

“Unfortunately, Ascolani closed the account and the money is now in the possession of the Swiss Guard, removed from your country residence in Dillenburg.”

Cotton’s brain raced with possibilities. “Ascolani had Dewberry take us out and get the pledge.”

“That would be a good assumption.”

“So what now?” Richter asked.

“This is not over,” Stamm said. “Not yet, at least.”

Cotton heard a car outside and rose to look out the window. “You expecting someone?”

“I am. And he may be the answer to our problem.”