The Last Con

by Zachary Bartels

  The general took a quick step forward and slid the blade between Cagliostro’s ribs and through his heart, stepping slowly forward and pushing it in until the elaborately decorated hilt pressed against the alchemist’s chest.

  General Bonaparte smiled. “It is so easy to manipulate a man when you know precisely what he wants.” And with that, he took one more step and gave the sword a shove, causing Cagliostro to slide off its blade and plummet eight hundred feet into the Mediterranean Sea.

  CHAPTER 70

  Dante held the door for the Doyle family as they collectively limped from the multipurpose room. He had traded his bloodstained button-down for a tie-dyed T-shirt provided by Father Sacha. It read, “My life was changed at Christian Service Camp 2015.”

  “I was thinking of finding a pew and saying a prayer,” Fletcher was saying. “I’ve been putting it off for a while. I’d rather not do it alone.”

  Leaving them behind, Dante strode down the hall, looking for Father Sacha. He found him in the vestibule talking with Dr. Andre Foreman. The two men quickly halted their conversation as he approached.

  “Am I in trouble or something?” Dante asked.

  “Not a bit,” the priest said. “We were just discussing what might happen next, now that Dante Watkins is dead.”

  Dante smiled. “Born again too. None of the old baggage holding me back.”

  Dr. Foreman smiled. “So what’s ahead?”

  “Well, for starters, I’d love to see a series of very large donations made to my Father the Fatherless campaign. Like enough to buy a diamond necklace.”

  “I can see that happening,” Father Sacha said. “Perhaps from the Hospitaler Order of St. John of Jerusalem of Rhodes and of Malta.”

  “But since I won’t be hanging around, I should probably file some paperwork so the Clergy Forum can take over the account. There’s already enough to finish off that wing at Orangelawn and a whole lot more.”

  “I’ll happily oversee that,” Dr. Foreman said.

  Fletcher and his family hobbled into the vestibule, laughing and joined at the hip. Dante watched the three of them pass through the propped double doors and up the aisle of the church. They had the whole place to themselves.

  “I need to ask you for one more thing,” Dante said. “My little church will need someone to take over the pulpit and help them go legit. They never knew any of it. Just regular folks who love Jesus.”

  “I can do that do for them,” the older preacher answered. “But I can do something for you too, if you’re interested.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “By tomorrow night, Dante Watkins will no longer exist. You will have a new name, a Maltese passport, and will be using your gifts to plead the case of children who have been forgotten and exploited. I heard that you are good at that sort of thing.”

  Dante smiled. “Oh, I can talk. But I’d rather just work. I’ve done a lot of talking, but I haven’t given much of myself to the poor and needy all around me.”

  “You tell me where and I’ll get you hooked up,” Dr. Foreman said.

  “How you gonna pull that off?”

  “Dr. Foreman is with the Protestant Knights of Malta,” Father Sacha said, shrugging. “We let it slide.”

  The sight of two policemen entering the vestibule brought a heaviness to Dante’s chest for just a moment. Then he saw them receive custody of a young woman from two of the Knights of Malta, one of whom displayed a badge of some sort. The woman looked like she’d been in a fight.

  “Lorenza?” Dante asked.

  “Her real name is Katerina Penn. She’ll be extradited to England, where she’s wanted for murder and fraud. After that, the French would like a crack at her.”

  Dante watched her disappear out the door—hands cuffed behind her back—and felt only sorrow for her. He knew how unforgiving it was Inside.

  “I wouldn’t mind doing some prison ministry somewhere,” he said.

  “I’m sure that can be arranged.”

  The door had almost closed when the old man in the robe slipped in. No one seemed to notice him—not even Dr. Foreman, who was less than four feet away. The man looked up at Dante, his eyes still intense, but peaceful. And while his appearance hadn’t changed, Dante no longer found him ugly. In his hand was a cloth—perfectly clean and spotless. Dante thought of the words of Scripture emblazoned on his counterfeit ordination certificate: If we confess our sins, he is faithful and just and will forgive us our sins and purify us from all unrighteousness. He’d chosen the verse almost at random, to fill some negative space in the design. Now the words were like life.

  The apostle walked through the double doors with the lightness of a messenger bearing good news and stepped quickly up the aisle toward Fletcher.

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  While promoting my book Playing Saint over the past year, I’ve often been asked how much research it entailed. My answer has been that, insofar as the plot involved an invented order of priests (the Jesuits Militant) and an imagined relic (The Crown of Marbella), there wasn’t much need for research. The writing of The Last Con, on the other hand, was a very different story.

  Much of the historical content in this book is rooted in fact. The general history of the Knights of Malta (including their evolution from monks who cared for the poor and injured to knights and warriors who battled pirates for the spoils), the Affair of the Diamond Necklace (and its role in lighting the ready fuse of revolution), and the life of Alessandro Cagliostro (born Giuseppe Balsamo) are all presented largely as they unfolded in real life—with some degree of artistic license, of course.

  The Sovereign Order of the Knights of Malta does continue to exist today, their Grand Master still hold titles of prince and bishop, and the order does enjoy Sovereign Observer status at the United Nations. While it was certainly a blow, Napoleon’s sound defeat of the Island of Malta did not spell the end for the order and, in fact, the Republic of Malta returned the Castel Sant'Angelo to them in 1999, bringing them back to their eponymous home. And I was fascinated to learn (after the manuscript had been completed, unfortunately) that the Sword of La Valette, with which Napoleon absconded in 1798, is currently on loan from the Louvre to the people of Malta, who would very much like to keep it permanently (there’s even a petition to that effect on Facebook!).

  What may be more surprising to many readers is that the Knights’ accumulated wealth was indeed loaded onto great ships by Napoleon’s troops and that these ships were sunk by the British fleet before the treasure could be unloaded. No more than a few coins of it has ever been recovered.

  From there, however, I can cite only my imagination. To be clear, the treasures of Valletta are likely still littering the floor of the Aboukir Bay. The infamous diamond necklace is presumed to have been broken down and sold piecemeal in England. Cagliostro died in a lonely prison cell in 1795, a disgraced charlatan who seems to have begun believing his own fantastical stories. And let me state for the record that St. Paul does not physically convey forgiveness to the penitent any more than St. Peter welcomes the departed at the pearly gates. His presence in The Last Con is meant as a symbolic device and nothing more.

  More than some curious historical facts, though, what I hope you take from this book is the question that Cagliostro never really settled in his own life: which you is the real you? Is it the sins and habits that define you at your worst? Is it a perfect version of yourself that exists in theory only? Is it some mixture of the two, wheels continually spinning, but progress ever-elusive?

  Dear reader, know this: if you have been bought by the blood of Jesus, then your identity is in his perfect righteousness. And if you have not put your faith in him, I pray that you will. That simple icon of two lines intersecting is not merely a peg to manipulate and imprison the hearts and minds of the masses; it is a reminder of the great sacrifice of Christ, which frees our hearts and minds from sin and death.

  Live free, then, knowing that your identity—and your eternity—are secure in Hi
m.

  Soli Deo Gloria,

  Rev. Zachary Bartels

  READING GROUP GUIDE

  1. Fletcher finds himself hiding aspects of his life from his wife—starting with trivial things and growing more serious from there. Do you believe it is ever okay to hide aspects of your life from your spouse?

  2. It may seem especially shocking to think of Dante pretending to be a pastor, even while carrying out illegal and immoral activities. At the same time, Fletcher emphasizes repeatedly that the church he was caught robbing had been “deconsecrated.” But is it worse to lie about being a minister than an art appraiser? Is it better to rob a deconsecrated church than an active one? Or is lying simply lying and stealing simply stealing, regardless of the circumstances?

  3. The idea of alchemy—including the use of dark arts to turn common metals into gold—seems harmless, if a little stupid, to many modern people, and yet it has been linked with sorcery throughout much of history, even punishable by death. If a friend of yours said he or she was taking an interest in alchemy, what would be your reaction? What about Ouija boards, séances, or horoscopes? Are such interests dangerous gateways or harmless frivolities?

  4. Fonseca and Cagliostro give their lives to a plan that they believe will allow them to keep the wealth they’ve amassed indefinitely. Do you see anyone carrying out similar plans today? What is the greatest flaw in such a plan?

  5. Dante became a con man without ever deciding to do so. Likewise, Fletcher went back on the grift without directly choosing that path. Yet both had to make a conscious choice to leave that life behind. When people wind up on the wrong road, how often do you think they make a conscious choice to do so? How can you protect yourself from slowly, incrementally ending up on a destructive path?

  6. Andrew taught Fletcher to ball up negative emotions inside of himself and transform them into positive ones. Is this a healthy idea when communicating with other people? When communicating with God? Have you ever had such a strategy backfire?

  7. Fletcher is advised against falling back in with old friends, not only because it would break his parole, but because it might cause him to fall back into old habits. As a rule, should believers avoid old friends who might lead them back into sin, or should they maintain contact, hoping to lead their friends to Jesus?

  8. If someone were to successfully grift you, what would be your peg?

  9. Fletcher wonders what would be left if someone were to burn everything away down to his very essence. According to the New Testament (I Peter 1:6–9), God is doing this now. What is he using and what will it reveal for the believer?

  10. Cagliostro’s séance was clearly a parlor trick. Do you think there is ever more than slight-of-hand to such things? What would you say to someone who claimed to communicate with the dead?

  11. Dr. Foreman reminds Fletcher of the distinction between godly sorrow, which “brings repentance, leads to salvation, and leaves no regret” and worldly sorrow, which “brings death” (2 Corinthians 7:10–11). In your own life, how can you distinguish between the two?

  12. Throughout the book, several characters brag that they are able to become whoever they need to be in a given moment. Is that preferable to being consistent in your identity, regardless of the circumstances? Which best describes you?

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  The writing of a book is an unusual process, in that it’s so very personal for the author, and yet such a communal effort. As my second novel goes to press, there are now even more people to be thanked for their support of my writing—too many to be listed here. However, I must name a few.

  First of all, my wife Erin—an incredible writer and a source of great wisdom, encouragement, and inspiration—and my son Calvin, who thinks everything about my books is “awesome.” No way I deserve either of you. My church family has been incredibly supportive as well, coming to signings by the carload, buying stacks of books to give away as gifts, and in general being the loving and engaging people they always are. (By the by, we’d love to have you worship with us any time—www.ChurchLansing.com.)

  Of course, my deepest thanks also goes to my agent Ann “Annie B” Byle of Credo Communications (I’d say “Shut up!” here, but people wouldn’t know it was an inside joke and might assume the worst of both of us), my awesome editor Amanda Bostic and the whole incredible team at HarperCollins Christian Fiction, and the one and only LB Norton. You all do what you do with excellence and it inspires me to do the same.

  I am also indebted to the late David W. Maurer, whose book The Big Con has been a source of inspiration and information for every grifter story written in the past seventy years, to Adam Jones, who served as historical consultant for this book, and to Daniel Paul Kersey, for not taking it personally.

  And last but never least, my boy Ted Kluck and the Gut Check Army. Don’t forget to turn up the trim.

  AN EXCERPT FROM PLAYING SAINT

  PROLOGUE

  THIRTEEN YEARS AGO

  Danny sat quietly in the pew and waited for his exorcism.

  It wasn’t scheduled, but it would happen. He would make it happen. He’d been down this road countless times before—enough to know that all the elements of the equation were present here this morning. He would be delivered; at least that’s what they would call it. He’d probably fall to the ground and writhe for a few seconds. He’d own the moment, milk it a little.

  The prospect failed to thrill him. It had become banal, like waiting to be called in to the dentist’s office, flipping through ancient, dog-eared magazines, or sitting at the DMV, fiddling with that little numbered tab of paper, willing your turn to come. And yet, a certain dampened twinge of excitement persisted. Not butterflies in the stomach. More like a tingle of expectation somewhere deeper.

  Which was fine. Stuffed full as it was with meat and grease, his stomach would not accommodate butterflies. Danny was a trim young man and usually ate little, but on these special Sunday mornings he always felt inexplicably compelled to stop at some rural greasy spoon and eat until he felt a bit queasy. It was like that old maxim about a pregnant woman eating for two. How many was Danny eating for now? He’d lost count.

  And he had no choice but to continue feeding Them, to carry on with increasing momentum down this road, all the while pretending that he didn’t know the truth: at the end of the day, he would be the main course.

  ONE

  PRESENT DAY

  Detective Paul Ketcham did not need to flash his gold badge at the patrol officer covering the door—they knew each other on sight—but he did anyway. He liked the way it felt. He also enjoyed ducking under yellow crime-scene tape, but there was none here to duck.

  “Let’s get some tape up,” he barked at the officer. “Press’ll be here any minute. We don’t need them contaminating the scene.”

  The house on Lane Avenue had lain vacant for nearly a year. Squatters found the body three hours earlier and, hoping to collect a reward, made the call to the Grand Rapids police. There was none to collect, so now they waited for the local news affiliates, thinking they might get some TV time in lieu of monetary remuneration.

  Ketcham entered the spacious living room, noticing the hardwood floors and early twentieth-century leaded windows. It was clear that the house had once been beautiful, despite the years of neglect and the shirtless corpse lying in a pool of blood.

  “Hey, Paul,” called Corrinne Kirkpatrick, descending the curved staircase. “I’ve been here twenty minutes already. I can’t remember the last time I beat you to a scene. Did you have to do your paper route?”

  Like Ketcham, she was a senior detective with the Major Case Team. They weren’t partners—there was no such official pairing in their unit—but they had been building a mutual respect and interdependence for the better part of a decade. Corrinne was the only person on the force who dared to call him Paul. To everyone else he was Detective Ketcham, save his superiors, who simply called him Ketcham.

  In her midforties, she was almost ten years his sen
ior, which somehow wound up as a source of ribbing in both directions. He also dished out frequent digs about her boyish haircut and severe pantsuits—both of which she took as compliments.

  “This is already looking too familiar,” he said, approaching the corpse.

  The young man looked to be in his late teens, his dark hair shoulder-length, his skin pallid, and his throat cut from ear to ear. On his forehead the number 666 had been applied in a dark red-brown. His chest bore a large five-pointed star in the same substance.

  “Pretty uninventive,” Corrinne observed with some disappointment. “I still give creativity points for painting on the guy with his own blood. But the star and the 666 are a little Nineties, am I right? It’s just like that corny movie; what was it called?”

  “Hmm? I don’t know. I don’t watch movies.” Ketcham ran a hand through his thick hair and squatted down for a better look. “It’s definitely our guy, though. Same technique, same detail—looks like a pretty fine paintbrush. That didn’t make the press, so we can rule out some copycat inspired by the headline.”

  “Nothing related to playing cards either. I guess they’ll have to come up with a new name for the perp. The Blackjack Killer doesn’t fit anymore.”

  “Yeah. Maybe the Pentagon Killer.”

  Corrinne shook her head. “A pentagon isn’t a star. It’s a five-sided shape, like the building in Washington, DC.”

  “Pentagram?”