Lorenza dropped the eight feet to the floor, landing lightly.
“I guess you forgot to pray before that little trick?” She closed one eye and held the knife casually up in front of her face, looking down the razor-sharp edge. “Time to die.”
“I’m afraid I can’t let you harm that innocent girl.” Father Sacha stood five feet away from Lorenza and a good inch shorter, wearing his tab collar and wingtips, and she sized him up with a smirk. He swallowed hard and said, “Please just walk away and leave this holy place.”
Lorenza lunged at him, driving the knife at his throat. The priest took a step toward her and snaked his arm around hers, bringing his fist up in front of her shoulder with great force and a loud pop. The knife clanked to the ground. Tugging her off-balance, he drove the heel of his right hand into her already broken nose, then brought her head down to meet his knee.
She fell, turning onto her stomach as Father Sacha pinned her arm behind her back.
The priest shook his head sadly. “So senseless. What a shame.” He looked from Lorenza to Ivy. “Are you okay, love?”
“I think so,” Ivy said, rising tentatively and wincing at the pain in her foot. “My mom says I’m rubbery. That’s why I hardly get hurt.” She surveyed her former friend’s broken form. “Where did you learn how to do that?”
“Some friends of mine. I’ll introduce you; they should be here soon.”
Lorenza grunted and tried to stand. Father Sacha twisted her arm and guided her back to the floor.
“You’re Fletcher’s daughter,” he said. “Ivy, right?”
She nodded.
“Ivy, there’s a toolbox in the closet behind you. Would you do me a favor and bring me the duct tape?”
Dante and Fletcher checked the vestry and the sacristy for Father Sacha but found no sign of him. From there they began a systematic search of the building. They were in the multipurpose room, now completely empty save for Fletcher’s air mattress and duffel bag, when the Alchemist called to announce his arrival.
“Where are you?” he asked.
“Men’s sleeping quarters.”
“That’s good,” the Alchemist said. “Out of the way. Wait there.”
A minute later he entered the room, holding Meg close and apparently burying the muzzle of a gun in her back.
“Where’s Ivy?” Fletcher asked.
“You didn’t think I’d bring them both, did you? What if you did something stupid, like call the police? Your daughter’s fine, but if I don’t call my man in the next half hour, he’s going to kill her.” He shoved Meg toward Fletcher and Dante and raised the gun.
“Your man is dead,” Andrew said, approaching the Alchemist from behind, his .38 trained on him. “And Ivy’s safe.”
The Alchemist smiled at Fletcher. “He has a gun, doesn’t he?”
Andrew pulled back the hammer.
“This is a stupid move, Andrew,” the Alchemist said. “You have no play here.”
“We’ll see.”
The Alchemist closed one eye and centered his aim on Meg. “I’ll kill her.”
“I’m not Fletcher,” Andrew said. “You’re turning the wrong peg.”
“You better do something, Fletcher,” the Alchemist said. “I’ll kill your wife. And even if your daughter did escape, Lorenza has undoubtedly found her.”
“Don’t listen to him,” Andrew said. “Ivy’s fine. She’s here in the church. Now, Meg, I need you to do something for me. I need you to get the necklace from your husband and let me see it.”
Fletcher handed her the cloth and its contents. She draped the cloth over her arm and held up the necklace, letting it hang down. A few diamonds were missing here and there, but the rest was intact.
“Good,” Andrew said. “You see the two outside pendants hanging from the choker? I need you to remove them both.” Meg fumbled with one of them, trying to pry it out with her fingers.
“Let me help,” Fletcher said, taking a step toward her.
“Stay where you are,” Andrew and the Alchemist said in unison.
“You two are still playing us,” Fletcher said. “Why should we believe Ivy’s safe when you two have been working together since day one?”
“Mom!” They heard Ivy’s voice, filled with joy, from out in the hall. Father Sacha was carrying her past the doorway, toward the stairs. Fletcher had to hold Meg back from rushing to her.
The Alchemist used the distraction to turn his gun on Andrew. The two men squared off.
“That good enough for you, Fletch?” Andrew said. “Now, the diamonds. We don’t have much time.”
“There’s a multitool in the pocket of my jeans,” Fletcher said, gesturing at his bag near the foot of the air mattress. Meg scrambled over to it and dug through the contents for a minute before locating the jeans and retrieving the tool. She tried the pliers with no luck, then flipped out the utility knife and was able to quickly detach them both.
The Alchemist chuckled. “You had that wicked blade in your luggage for one of these youth group kids to find? You really are bad at this whole domestic thing, convict.”
“Shut up,” Andrew said. He unbuckled the gaudy pack from around his waist and tossed it in Meg’s direction. “I want you to put the rest of the necklace and the cloth in there.”
“I don’t know if it’ll fit,” she said.
“Make it fit. Stuff it in.”
She struggled to close the zipper.
Father Sacha reappeared in the doorway, alone, and offered another update. Andrew and the Alchemist kept their guns trained on each other. “She’ll be fine,” the priest said. “And help’s on the way. Ten minutes.” He scurried away.
“No,” Andrew said. “Help’s here now.” He raised his phone to his ear and said, “Come on in, guys. Left and down the hall.”
CHAPTER 68
They heard the clomping approach of a number of men. Then they saw Marcus Brinkman, gun in hand, followed by the two mooks who had van-jacked Fletcher and Andrew the night before, and another guy—the biggest of the bunch—who forced Father Sacha into the room at gunpoint with a halfhearted, “Sorry, Father; no disrespect.”
“Guns down!” Marcus said. “Both of you.” The Alchemist’s pistol bounced on the carpet floor while Andrew’s revolver sank into Fletcher’s sagging air mattress, disappearing from sight.
Marcus and his men did a quick sweep of the room, patting everyone down—including Meg, to Fletcher’s great displeasure. When they had secured the room, Marcus punched a key on his phone and held it to his ear.
“It’s all clear,” he said.
The click of high heels on tile grew louder with each step. Bella Donna entered the room.
“Give her the diamond, Meg,” Andrew said.
“Which one?”
“She’ll know which one.”
Meg held them both out, one in each palm. Bella Donna took the one from her right hand and held it up to the light streaming in through the window. She took a small magnifying glass from her purse and studied the gem closer. “Oh my,” she finally said.
Andrew nodded. “It’s what we discussed.”
She strolled over to the Alchemist. “And I assume this is the man who comes with the diamond?”
The Alchemist sneered. “There are more where that came from. A lot more. And I can get them for you.”
“A lot more diamonds?” she asked, dubious. “Like this? Unlikely.”
“In this room. I don’t think you fully appreciate what you have. They belonged to Marie Antoinette and—”
Marcus buried a fist in the Alchemist’s stomach, sending him down to one knee.
“You know what I hate in a man?” Bella Donna asked. “Desperation. Besides, I honor my agreements. The four of you have settled your debt. And, Mr. Watkins, you can come back to work tomorrow.”
“I appreciate that,” Dante said, “but I think I’m due for a career change.”
Brinkman’s face soured. “No, you’re not, Trick. This clears yo
ur debt, but it doesn’t buy you out.”
Andrew lurched forward and stomped the air mattress, vaulting the gun back into his hand. He fired two shots into Dante’s chest, blasting him back onto the floor where he gasped and moaned, blood pumping from his wounds.
Four guns were instantly trained on Andrew. He dropped the .38 and threw up his hands. “He drew!” he said. “He drew on Bella Donna!”
Marcus stepped cautiously toward Dante. “Huh,” he said, kicking the Glock from his hand, sending it sliding across the floor. He tilted his head and looked down into Dante’s panicked eyes, flickering in and out of awareness. Dante opened his mouth to speak, but all he managed was a bubble of blood. “I didn’t think you had it in you, Trick,” Marcus said, his voice edged with respect. “Thought you were just talk.”
“The priest called the cops,” Andrew said, “right before you got here. You should go. I’ll deal with all this.”
Marcus looked to Bella Donna, who nodded and walked quickly out of the room. As he passed Andrew, the old enforcer said, “We’re square, Bishop. But you stick to the deal. I don’t want to see you anywhere near the Motor City. I don’t even want to think I smell that obnoxious cologne of yours. Got it?”
He nodded, and the gunmen left, taking the Alchemist with them.
On the floor a few feet away Dante was shivering, his breaths coming short and shallow.
“I’m s-s-so cold,” he managed to croak.
“Somebody get Dante a sweater,” Fletcher said, offering his hand and helping him up. He grinned at Meg. “And that, my dear wife, is what we call pinching the gizzard.” Dante held up the bulb in his left hand, attached to a small hose that disappeared under his sleeve.
Meg gawked for a moment and then laughed. “So you had blanks the whole time?”
Andrew shrugged. “A real grifter never carries live ammo.” He pocketed the revolver and picked up the Alchemist’s pistol from the floor.
“This one is the real deal, though,” he said. The room went silent.
“Meg, why don’t you come over here and buckle that pack around my waist.” As she obeyed the order, Andrew announced, “Before I leave you all for good, I just want to make sure there are no hard feelings here. Everybody should be happy. All your pegs have been turned. Fletcher, you’ve got your kid and your wife and your life back. And you’ve got Jesus, whatever that’s worth. Trick, you’re free from the Syndicate.”
“What about Happy?” Meg asked, stepping away from Andrew.
“His troubles are over. And if any of you feel like you got cheated, I leave you with the crystal, the monstrance, and the map. Feel free to go after the Maltese treasure if you like. I for one am more than content with my hundred-million-dollar necklace.”
“I guess we found your real peg, didn’t we?” Fletcher said. “If we boil you down to your essence, you’re just another grifter willing to sell his friends for a big enough score.”
“I guess so,” Andrew said, “but I can live with that. Especially on a private beach with a Swiss account full to bursting.”
“At least tell us the truth,” Dante said. “The monstrance and the crystal have nothing to do with Cagliostro’s treasure, do they? That was all misdirection. It’s the cloth and the map that show the location. And I’m guessing we’ll find the tube in the van empty.”
Andrew didn’t even blink. “Either way, this is good-bye.” He backed out the door and disappeared down the hall. They heard the heavy church door close behind him.
“I was just starting to like that guy,” Dante said, staring out after him.
Father Sacha reappeared in the door, helping Ivy limp along. Her parents rushed to embrace her. Then came the barrage of tears, kisses, and questions, particularly variations of “Are you okay?” and “How did you get here?”
“Uncle Andrew rescued me,” she said.
Father Sacha sighed. “I wonder how much of his life that man will waste looking for a treasure that never existed.”
“What are you talking about?” Fletcher asked.
“The priestly faction of the Knights of Malta laid down the clues and kept the story alive to keep the crusading set busy. We even left them a little something in the wall of the castle. The fact is, the only hidden treasures we ever had just went out that door with your friend.”
“No, they didn’t,” Meg said, grinning. She reached into Fletcher’s bag and pulled out a purple fanny pack. “Object permanence,” she said. “I don’t know what was in the other pack, but it was just bulky enough to pass for the necklace and the cloth.”
“It was brownies,” Fletcher said. “Little Debbie brownies.”
Meg glanced at the door. “What if he comes back?”
Dante recovered his Glock. “We’ll be ready.”
“I don’t think you have to worry about that.” Father Sacha was leaning out into the hall, waving at someone. “Down here, fellows!”
A dozen men filed quietly into the room. Three of them wore clerical collars and the rest business casual attire. None were clad in body armor and laden with assault weapons, although four of them held handguns.
“I’m afraid you just missed the main event,” Father Sacha said, “but we could use some help with the aftermath.”
“I’m a doctor,” a big bearded man said to Dante upon seeing his bloodied chest.
“No, no, he’ll be fine,” Father Sacha said. “In fact, he’s the man I told you about. However, there is a young lady over here who needs some attention.”
“What does that mean,” Dante asked. “The guy you told them about?” Father Sacha just smiled.
The doctor determined that Ivy’s foot did not need stitches—just some antibiotic ointment and a butterfly closure. And, perhaps thanks to her “rubberiness,” she did not have a concussion or anything more than bumps and bruises. If she took it easy, the physician knight said, she would probably recover within a week or two. For the time being, she let her parents support her weight.
“Have I told you I love you?” Fletcher asked.
“I love you too, Dad.”
Marcus Brinkman pulled his Bentley to a stop outside the Warehouse.
“This is where we part ways,” Bella Donna said to the Alchemist. “I expect you of all people to understand that this is not personal.”
He summoned a slick smile. “You know as well as I do that nothing’s sealed up that can’t be unsealed. Now let me explain why—”
She interrupted him. “Do you know what they call me?”
The Alchemist arched an eyebrow. “La Bella Donna, I believe.”
“And do you know why they call me this?”
CHAPTER 69
JUNE 14, 1798
DINGLI CLIFFS, MALTA
Cagliostro sat at the highest point on the Island of Malta, enjoying what he deemed to be the most beautiful and majestic view in the world. He had thought of it often during his two years in the dungeon of the Castel Sant’Angelo, where he had remained until his death sentence was changed to a life sentence. At that time, the order was given to relocate him to the Fortress of San Leo, where he was to inhabit a cell built into the sheer cliff near the peak of a mountain.
As far as breathtaking views were concerned, one could do worse than San Leo, which was perhaps some consolation to the prisoners who were brought up to their cells in an elevator using an elaborate system of ropes and pulleys. And perhaps, as he felt the unnerving shake of the creaking apparatus carrying him up to Cagliostro’s cell, the prisoner had thought something similar. No one would ever know—for Count Cagliostro had died of apoplexy on August the 26th, 1795.
Or so it was reported in Le Moniteur Universel and elsewhere.
In truth, the count never set foot in the fortress. Rather, with some help from a confederate, he had arranged for a condemned man to take his place, living out his days with the wind and the sun and all his needs met. Cagliostro had, in turn, taken the place of the condemned man, insofar as he was covered with a blanket and carried w
ith a number of corpses to a mass grave.
Now he sat in the glint of the sun and thought of the untold treasures that would soon be floating in the grotto some eight hundred feet beneath him, obscured by rocks and waves. He thought about all he had done to bring his plan to fruition. He had been a charlatan and an alchemist, a count and a peasant. He had lived in the palaces of princes who showered him with anything he might desire and in prison cells that stunk of dung and death. And now he had finally arrived at the end of his Grand Design.
Fonseca was dead and so was Rohan, but he had counted on that. Time and mortality had been two of his greatest accomplices. The Knights of Malta had been stripped of nearly everything, but Cagliostro would not be ruined by revolution. Rather, he had used revolution to solidify his fortune and position in perpetuity. His eyes searched the horizon for the ship that would soon be delivering his spoils. Soon thereafter would come another ship to bring him and his treasure to America, where men were allowed to rise from nothing and chair the aristocracy—so long as they possessed enough money and worldly wisdom—and where he would be free to spread his Egyptian Freemasonry without fear of the Inquisition. He would be a world away when the evidence of his deception was erased from the memory of man, sinking to the bottom of the sea. And that was good.
The sound of people approaching brought Cagliostro to his feet. He turned and saw four men clad in military uniform and regalia. One of the men was most familiar, the shortest of the group, about the same height as Cagliostro himself.
“Your Excellency,” the count said, bowing slightly. He felt his heart begin to race. This was unexpected.
“Your blade,” the general said without even a greeting. “Let me see it.”
Cagliostro unbuckled his sword and handed it to the general.
“This, I believe, belonged to Grand Master Pinto da Fonseca, did it not?”
“It did.”
“That makes it property of the Knights of Malta,” the general said, “which makes it my property.” He handed the sword to the officer at his right and straightened his bicorne. “But that is not the ceremonial blade used by the Grand Masters for more than two centuries.” He drew a sword from its scabbard and held it up for Cagliostro to see. It was beyond ornate, stunning as the sun glinted off the gold and gems adorning its handle. “This is the sword of La Valette. Not the sort of blade one uses in battle—only for rituals, coronations, and other special occasions.”
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