the gap, traverse the top of the building to the Apostolic Palace, scramble the security system (using an electromagnetic pulsing device he had lifted from SISDE), rappel down to Santelli’s office window, cut the glass, and unlock the latch. Once inside, he’d eaten a mortadella, prosciutto, and mozzarella panini and drank a Pellegrino Chinotto and waited for sunrise.
It had taken a minute or two for Santelli to calm down, to try and rationalize how anyone could have circumvented the Vatican’s tight security layers. All the while, he had been contemplating the intercom on his desk. Then, after explaining the myriad services he could provide to a “powerful man such as yourself,” Conte verbally ran through a laundry list of available services that the cardinal pretended to be offended at. But Conte knew better. Having seen the file on this guy when he was working at SISDE— particularly the one related to the infamous Banco Ambrosiano scandal—he knew the cardinal was no stranger to nefarious deeds.
“And what makes you think I won’t have you arrested right now?” Santelli had threatened.
“Because I’ll detonate the C-4 that’s hidden in this building before your guards even get through that door.”
The cardinal’s eyes had gone wide. “You’re bluffing.”
Conte held out a small remote transmitter. “The pope is upstairs right now, isn’t he? Do you really want to take that chance?”
“All right, Mr. Conte. You’ve made your point.”
“Keep my card. Trust me...someday you’ll be needing my help.” He went over and snatched up his bulky backpack. “I’d appreciate it if you could escort me out. Lots of stuff in here that might set off your metal detectors,” he said, patting the bag. “Once I’m safely outside, I’ll tell you where to find the C-4. Deal?”
As far as Conte’s parents were concerned, they were convinced that real estate investing was the secret to his success, but Maria, his thirty-five-yearold sister wasn’t as easily fooled and it always made for an interesting dynamic at family gatherings.
His work didn’t allow for permanent relationships. Not that Salvatore Conte was capable of such a thing. For the next few years, there would be no steady girlfriends...forget about a wife or kids. That kind of reckless behavior destroyed the very notion of anonymity and created too many potential complications. For now, there were plenty of other women who were willing to satisfy Conte’s more immediate desires. All it took was money. And seeing the payoff from this latest job, there would be plenty of women in the near future. Entrepreneurship had treated him well.
Smiling, Conte was wide-eyed as he read the account balance: a6,500,000.00. After deducting overhead expenses and the cut owed to his six remaining team members, he was left with a cool net of four million euros. Not bad for a few days’ work.
And he didn’t even get shot. Another bonus.
20
******
Chinon, France March 3, 1314
In a dim, cramped cell beneath the Fort du Coudray, Jacques DeMolay sat limply against the dungeon’s cold stone wall watching three enormous rats fight over the scrap of bread he had thrown to them.
There was a damp chill in his bones that he couldn’t lose. The smell of excrement hung heavy in the air. This place was more than a prison. It was Hell.
Now seventy years old, DeMolay’s heavily scarred body—once robust— had turned haggard. His flowing beard, shocked to pure ivory, grew out from sunken cheeks, matted and greasy, crawling with lice.
For two decades, he had held the preeminent post within the Order— Grand Master. Now humiliation was his reward. For six years he’d been festering in this godforsaken pit, having fallen victim to the scandalous political ploys of France’s young, ambitious King Philip IV and his colluding cohort, the Holy Roman Pope, Clement V.
Not a day had gone by that he didn’t think back to his conversation with Tibald DeGaudin at Kolossi Citadel. Perhaps he should have heeded the coward’s advice.
Outside the iron bars he heard sounds emanating from down the passage, a heavy door groaning open on its hinges, metal keys jingling, approaching footsteps. Seconds later, a cloaked figure materialized outside the cell bars. Without looking up, DeMolay had already identified the visitor. The heavy smell of cologne left no doubt that Pope Clement V had finally made an appearance, flanked by two burly prison guards.
A nasal, French voice cut the air. “You look like hell, Jacques. Even worse than usual.”
DeMolay glared up at the corpulent pontiff who shielded his hooked nose with an embroidered handkerchief. Gold jewel-encrusted rings, including the papal fisherman’s ring, covered his soft, manicured fingers. He wore flowing vestments beneath a heavy black hooded cape and his dangling gold pectoral cross winked in the light of a nearby torch. DeMolay spoke, painfully forcing his cracked lips to move. “You look . . . pretty.”
“Now, now, Grand Master. Let us not make this personal.”
“Too late for that. It has never been anything but personal,” DeMolay reminded him.
Clement lowered the handkerchief and smiled. “What did you want to talk to me about? Are you finally ready to confess?”
DeMolay’s icy gaze drilled into the Pope—a man two decades his junior. “You know I will not disavow my brothers and my own honor by submitting to your scheme.”
Four years earlier, DeMolay had been presented with no less than one hundred twenty-seven accusations against the Order, outlandish charges that included devil worship, sexual perversion, and myriad blasphemies against Christ and Christianity. And just two years ago, on the 22nd of March, 1312, Clement himself had issued a papal bull entitled “Vox in excelso,” which formally disbanded the Order.
“You have already taken our money and our land.” DeMolay’s tone showed his disgust for this man. “You’ve tortured hundreds of my men to extract false confessions, burned alive another fifty-four—all honorable men who dedicated their lives to preserve the Church’s Holy throne.”
Clement was impervious to his barbs. “You know that if you do not end this stubbornness, you will be killed by the Inquisitors...and it will not be pleasant. Keep in mind, Jacques, that you and your men are as archaic as what you stand for, honor or no honor. I believe it has been more than twenty years since your legions lost control over the Holy Land and destroyed over two centuries of progress.”
Progress? For an instant, DeMolay considered lunging toward the cage, thrusting his hands through the bars and around the pontiff’s neck. But the two guards stood to either side of him, watching vigil over this secret meeting. “We both know that Rome was unwilling to support our efforts. We needed more men and they weren’t
