The Medici Return (Cotton Malone #19)

Chapter 77

CHAPTER 77

E RIC WAS TIRED OF BEING PATRONIZED. S O HE SAID , “T HE CHURCH needs to seriously consider my proposal.”

“Why would we do such a thing?” Ascolani said. “Even if you achieve a majority in parliament your party will never last. Eventually, all populists grow tiresome on the people, especially once they realize that nothing ever is done.”

“Our party will be this nation’s salvation. Every poll shows that the people favor our message. The president will have no choice but to offer us the prime minister’s seat.”

“Only after you win thirty-eight additional seats in parliament.”

He resented this man’s condescending attitude. “When I retrieve my family’s copy of the Pledge of Christ, the situation will be different.”

“Do you truly think that a five-hundred-year-old document will carry any legal weight?”

“It is not just a document. It is a solemn pledge of Pope Julius II, sworn before Christ, in perpetuity. If that carries no legal or moral weight, then what does?”

And he believed that.

“Anna Maria Luisa left writings,” he continued. “Many. She detailed how she felt about her life and her child. Contrary to what history says, she did birth a son. A legitimate royal Medici heir. She wrote of the pledge and wanted her child to have, as she said, that sacred promise . It is only a matter of time before I have the Medici copy.”

“I assure you, we will have no problem ignoring it.”

Eric had made a career out of reading people. And he was good at it. How they carried themselves. Gestures. The way they stood or sat.

And above all, the eyes.

The promise given was a necessity of the past. The word broken is a necessity of the present.

More Machiavelli.

And on target.

Cardinal Ascolani’s ball-bearing-like eyes took on a metallic sheen and beamed with the confidence of a cold heart.

Which momentarily frightened him.

C OTTON ENTERED THE H OTEL D UOMO AND APPROACHED THE reception desk, staffed by a younger man.

Stefano had headed off into the piazza. He liked the young priest. He seemed like a decent man who’d taken a huge chance coming to Stamm. He’d listened last night as Stefano explained all that he’d seen and suspected. The priest had a good pair of eyes and ears. Which every good intelligence officer needed. Clearly, Cardinal Ascolani was heavily involved in something that was most certainly illegal. Stamm had made clear that Thomas Dewberry had never been used to carry out extortion or the killing of a prelate. That would have been unthinkable. Having a man like Thomas Dewberry nearby? That was nothing short of dangerous.

This whole thing was drifting out of control.

“How many rooms on the fourth floor?” he asked the hotel clerk in Italian.

“Ten.”

Outside he’d counted twenty windows in a row. “Two windows to a room?”

The clerk nodded.

He again visualized the hotel’s exterior in his mind and did the math, determining that the window had opened in the eighth room. He then glanced behind the clerk and saw the cubbies for each room. “Who is in Room 408?”

The look on the clerk’s face seemed to signal that there was going to be no response. He fished a one-hundred-euro note from his pocket and handed it over. The younger man accepted the offering and said, “No one. It is empty.”

Now he knew why the guy had so easily taken his money.

“Why is there no key?” he asked, pointing to the cubby.

The clerk had no reply and just shrugged.

Room 408 was not empty.

Somebody had opened the window.

But was it a threat?

T HOMAS KEPT HIS RIGHT EYE PRESSED TO THE RIFLE’S SCOPE, FINGER ON the trigger. He could tick off two shots in a matter of a few seconds. The high-powered rounds would then do the rest of the work. Just make it a solid smack in the chest. Which was no problem. The target was brightly lit and easy to center. The next signal would be to fire.

But the two men were still talking.

No matter.

He was ready.

C OTTON CLIMBED THE STAIRS TWO AT A TIME AND FOUND THE FOURTH floor. He’d passed no other guests and there were no cleaning carts in the corridor before him. He’d thought perhaps Room 408 was being serviced, but that did not appear to be the case. He was not sure of anything, except that he had a bad feeling. He reached back and found the Beretta, keeping it down at his side, shielding it with his leg, finger on the trigger. The hardwood flooring beneath the runner creaked with each step as he navigated the narrow hall. His senses were on full alert, listening for anything unusual.

He stopped to the side of the door.

For Room 408.

J ASON’S GAZE RAKED THE PIAZZA, SEARCHING FOR A SCOLANI. Malone and Father Giumenta were here. He knew they’d told him to stay back.

No way.

He spotted Ascolani, standing with Casaburi. Fifty meters away. Enough. He was a cardinal in the Roman Catholic Church. Held in high esteem. Respected. Time to start acting like one.

He marched toward them.

E RIC WAS DONE WITH THIS ENCOUNTER.

A waste of time. Nothing was being accomplished. So he said to Ascolani, “We will wait until I present the pledge to the church for payment, then we can debate the legalities. Here is not the time or place.”

The cardinal shrugged. “We have many ecclesiastical lawyers who can advise us on the proper course.”

“I’m leaving,” he said.

T HOMAS WATCHED THROUGH THE SCOPE AS E RIC C ASABURI WALKED away and headed toward the Baptistery. Ascolani casually reached up and touched his left ear.

The signal. Take the shot.

He shifted the rifle to his left and centered Casaburi in the crosshairs. People, though, were in the way, coming in and out of the field.

He waited.

A moment longer.

Now.

He squeezed the trigger.

The round left the barrel with a swoosh, the gases that caused the customary crack of an exploding shell muffled by the sound suppressor.

The bullet zipped through the air and found its mark.

He fired again.