Page 89 of The Medici Return

If Ascolani knew what he’d done over the past day, he might not be so generous with his praise. But he wondered. Was he being humored? Rocked to sleep? He wanted to ask about the man from the palazzo and the rifle, but knew better. He’d thought he was a step ahead on that count, but that was no longer the case. He should report what he suspected to Rome. But that presented a problem. His chain of command ran to the head of the Entity, then to the Secretariat of State. Unfortunately that was the same person. The only other place to make a report above that was to the pope himself. But he’d never get anywhere near the pontiff.

So he tried, “Where are we going in the middle of the night?”

“Santa Maria di Castello. To see the Carthusians.”

“I thought you said that their records are closed to all, including the Vatican.”

“They are. But I have found that people will bend their beliefs when it is in their best interests.”

This man was the king of obtuseness.

“And you plan to show them it is in their best interest to share what they have?” he asked.

“In a manner of speaking.”

“And if they do not see the wisdom of that move?”

Ascolani chuckled. “That would be a big mistake on their part.”

CHAPTER 60

COTTON STARED OUT THE CAR WINDOW AND ADMIREDSANTAMARIAdi Castello. The monastery looked like a medieval fortress, gray, walled, tower-crowned, isolated, and inviolate, seated nobly atop a hill overlooking a darkened wooded valley. Floodlights bathed the outer walls in a rich amber glow. He, Richter, and Camilla had left Siena with Cotton driving the car Stamm had provided to them yesterday. He was following her directions, heading toward the northeast, deeper into Tuscany.

They wound their way up on a road that clung to the hilltops and clamored along the narrow necks connecting them. Finally, they came to an open gate that formed a boundary between the monastery and the outside world and drove through. No other vehicles were there. Lights in the buildings were all off, the facility apparently closed for the night. A cowled figure in a white robe stood in the dark, illuminated only by the car’s headlights.

They parked and exited.

Camilla approached the monk and spoke in a whispered tone, then walked over to where he and Richter stood. Cotton was still rattled and sore from the horse race, adrenaline coursing through him, keeping him on edge.

“We can have access now,” she said.

She’d explained to them along the way that the prior had not sanctioned their visit.

“So we’re trespassing?” he’d asked.

“We are… arriving uninvited,” she said.

She’d also explained more of her connection.

The Chartreuse liqueur produced by Carthusian monks for more than three centuries had always been surrounded by a veil of mystery. Only two friars were entrusted with the recipe, which was inscribed on a seventeenth-century manuscript that was kept locked away. Over time the monks developed what would become their core product—a digestif known as Green Chartreuse. Yellow Chartreuse came later, lower in alcohol, sweeter in taste. The monks eventually developed a host of other alcoholic beverages, the sales of which had long provided a steady income to the Carthusian Order. About a million bottles a year, with annual sales of around twenty million euros. Half of the liqueur was exported, especially to the United States, the rest sold in Europe.

Which was where Camilla came in.

She facilitated those exports, along with providing huge swaths of farmland for the plants needed in production.

“Are we in trouble being here?” Richter had asked her.

“Only if we get caught.”

JASON NEVER THOUGHT HE WOULD FIND HIMSELF INSIDE ACARTHUSIANmonastery. There were two in Italy. One north of Pisa, the other south of Milan. The Carthusians were a bit of an anomaly. They had long retained a unique form of liturgy known as the Carthusian Rite, and they had been resistant to the changes that had enveloped the rest of the modern Catholic Church. Rome had always left them alone. They were founded in the eleventhcentury, their motto part of their maxim,Stat crux dum volvitur orbis, the cross is steady while the world turns.

Their monasteries were generally small communities of hermits with a number of individual living cells built around a large cloister. The focus of Carthusian life was contemplation with an emphasis on solitude, silence, and humility. It took seven years for a brother to pronounce his final vows. The Carthusians were one of the best-run and best-funded monastic orders in the world, with charterhouses on three continents. Until yesterday he’d not been familiar with this site, which had stayed isolated and protected. Smaller too. Normally the charterhouses were huge complexes. Here, the main church stood across the courtyard, facing east as required. Beyond that living quarters would be arranged around the cloister. Next to the church would be the refectory, a typically elongated rectangle furnished with tables and benches. Close to the refectory would be the kitchen and storerooms. He knew there were no guesthouses. No need, as the Carthusians did not allow visitors. Which begged the question. How were they here?

“This place is only a repository?” he asked Camilla.

She nodded. “A distillery is located at the larger charterhouse near the Adriatic coast. They have other distilleries across Europe. This location is where their records and documents are preserved. Some say, but no one knows for sure, that the recipes for their famed liqueurs are locked away right here.”

“It’s that important to them?” Malone asked.

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