Page 95 of The Medici Return

So he stood.

And waited.

STEFANO CLIMBED FROM THE CAR WITHASCOLANI.

The prior emerged with four more Carthusians from the other two vehicles. None of them wore white robes, as the fathers normally were required to do. All were dressed in street clothes.

Which was telling.

They were now inside the walls of Santa Maria di Castello. Ascolani had explained on the trip from San Gimignano howthe Carthusians lived by an old maxim.Cartusia sanctos facit, sed non patefacit.The charterhouse makes saints, but does not make them known. Which clearly enunciated the low profile the order had always maintained. Ascolani also explained how Santa Maria was suppressed by Napoleon in 1809, closed off, but that it returned later in the nineteenth century. Its greatest challenge came in 1944 when German troops broke in to arrest thirty-two partisans and Jews being sheltered by the fathers. Some were able to escape, but six monks and six lay brothers were arrested, tortured, and killed by firing squad. None of which had even been widely known until the past decade. More of that low profile. By all accounts the Carthusians were men of honor who cared little for the outside world, other than to profit from it through their liqueurs. So what were they doing in the middle of this fray?

Three other cars were parked in the courtyard.

The prior marched off into the night. Not toward the church, but to another gate that was open. Before heading off with the rest of them, Stefano checked the hoods of the other three vehicles. Warm. Apparently, the information about an unauthorized intrusion was true. They walked a concrete path that led to another door, which the prior opened with a key from his pocket. Inside was an office equipped with three desks. No phones. No computers. But there were several wooden filling cabinets. One of the men reached for a light switch on the wall.

“No,” the prior said. “Leave them off.”

Windows filled the wall opposite the entrance door. Stefano assumed those looked out into the dimly lit cloister.

A pop disturbed the silence.

Muffled.

From outside.

Gunshot?

CHAPTER 65

COTTON HAD FULLY SURVEYED THE CAVERNOUS WORKROOM.FOURTEENrows of shelving. Fourteen overhead fixtures within glass enclosures beneath. Two entry doors, the one they’d first come through and another, past the table where the pledge was displayed at the far end. Both lockable from the inside with iron latches. A bank of four switches protruded from a silver junction box attached to the stone wall, conduit running from it up to the vaulted ceiling then over to each of the light fixtures. These buildings were erected long before there was electricity or indoor plumbing, so their later occupants had to add those amenities however possible. One other nod to modernity was a fire alarm switch that had its own conduit running upward, disappearing into a hole in the stone. A fire extinguisher was attached to the wall both here and near the other door. Fire was most definitely a fear in an olden place like this.

Thankfully his bullshit radar had gone to full alert from nearly the first moment he met Camilla Baines. Stamm had warned them. So he’d taken those words to heart. Her proposal that a perfect stranger with no experience ride a horse in what many considered the most perilous race in the world seemed questionable at best, downright suspicious at worst. But what choice had he possessed? So he did his job and took a chance. But he’d also thought ahead anddecided being unarmed was not the smartest of moves. The Beretta remained nestled close to his spine beneath his shirttail. He’d also caught the unspoken contact between the white-robed brother and Camilla. A familiarity, where their eyes did the talking.

The lay brother had left for a reason.

None of which would be good for him or Richter.

Camilla had drifted away from the table back toward the door at the other end of the room. He stepped close to Richter and whispered, “Get close to the door behind us. Be ready to open it and leave.”

“When?”

“You’ll know.”

The door at the other end creaked open and four men entered. Faces he’d seen before. Part of the five who helped him out earlier in the alley. Golden Oakers. Surprise. Surprise.

“I will be taking that document,” Camilla said.

“You think it’s going to be that easy?” Cotton asked.

Camilla shrugged. “I do not see why not.”

JASON HAD BEEN A PRIEST THE VAST MAJORITY OF HIS LIFE. HIS YOUTHin Germany had been comfortable and sheltered. He was one of three children to parents whose family had been expelled from East Prussia at the end of World War II. His father was a local teacher and his mother a librarian. During his high school years he lived in a Catholic student home. Had there been bullies? Absolutely. But he’d never engaged them. Instead, he’d used wits and words to wiggle out of things. He’d continued that practice after being ordained and definitely after acquiring a red hat and being brought to the Vatican. You needed a keen survival sense to work within the Curia, an instinct to know, according to the old American song,when to hold ’em and when to fold ’em.

He loved poker. Fun game. Where you needed to pay attention. Like here. Was Malone bluffing with a pair of twos or calling with a straight flush? The box Cardinal Stamm had him deliver toMalone was no token of appreciation. Best guess? Knowing both Stamm and Malone? A gun. Had to be. And though he himself had never been in a physical fight, Cotton Malone definitely had experience. But four against one? Two, if he counted himself? Those were not good odds. And a pair of twos never, ever beat a straight flush. Malone had told him to stay close to the door and be prepared to move. Okay. He was ready.

“What’s your interest in this?” Malone asked Camilla.

“I have learned that Eric Casaburi is in great need of that pledge.”

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