Knight's Cross (The Shipwreck Adventures Book 3) Page 6

  “Okay,” he said.

  When she opened her eyes, he was holding up both hands in surrender.

  “Riley, I didn’t come to talk about what happened yesterday. Or, at least, not just about that.”

  She reached over and took his hand in hers. “Okay. What did you come to talk about?”

  He slipped his hand from hers and rested it on the book. “I want to tell you about some things he wrote in here. This is the second journal. This one covers from 1991 to 1999. It’s the shortest term, but it actually explains the most about his life. I was eighteen when he started it, and it was like he thought I was a man and he could now talk about these important things.”

  “You are well aware that I read all of the third journal. Over and over. Or at least all that I could. There were parts that just didn’t make any sense.”

  “Yes. I remember getting his letters. After that one time he came to Florida to visit, when I was just a kid, I really longed for more attention from him. I thought he was so cool. Being British and all. He was James Bond in the flesh to me. In every letter, he included some enciphered message, and there’s nothing more fascinating to a boy.”

  “I can imagine.”

  “But later, when he started ranting about the failures of the intelligence community, how all government is a sham, the world is really controlled by the military-industrial complex—I got disgusted with him. I stopped reading his letters, and I didn’t save them. I’m furious with myself for that now.”

  “Don’t blame yourself. He sounded pretty crazy.”

  Cole took her hand this time. “He was right about the Surcouf.”

  “Yes, but when I think back on those wild days in the Caribbean, trying to make sense of his elaborate riddles and ciphers, I’m amazed we were able to figure them out.”

  “You do understand why he did it, though? He was trying to protect Henri Michaut. If those men from Skull and Bones had known there was a survivor who could pinpoint the location of the submarine’s wreck and all the secrets inside, they would have killed him.”

  “I know,” she said. Just as they would have killed Cole in the years following, when he’d gone into hiding—and let her believe he was dead. She and Cole had already lost so much precious time together. Hazel was right. Riley needed to find a way to understand this man she loved. She pointed to the journal he was holding. “Tell me more about the other journals. Are the entries in that volume any more coherent?”

  He didn’t answer right away. He appeared to look across the bay, but his eyes were unfocused. Then he turned to her and said, “Yeah, I guess. But the important thing in here is that you can see how he grew to believe the things he believed. You get the background.”

  “Like what?”

  “I told you that my father was a lot older than my mom. There was almost twenty-five years’ difference in their ages. So he tells in here about what it was like when he was a teenager during the war, watching the bombs dropping on England, everybody terrified the Germans were about to invade. He was only seventeen in 1941 when he faked some paperwork and signed up for the Army.”

  “He was just a kid.”

  “Yeah. He went into the infantry but ended up serving with the British Army Special Forces Second Commando Brigade. They trained him as a paratrooper, and in late 1942 he was captured when he parachuted into Southern Italy to blow up an aqueduct over the River Tragino.”

  “I had no idea.”

  “He was a complicated guy, my dad. Back when I got so interested in the Surcouf submarine, I didn’t pay much attention to his earlier writings. But in those years when you and I were separated, I had lots of time to study these.” He held up the leather journal. “I realized that there’s often more to his writing than what’s on the surface.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, first he writes about his wartime experiences.”

  “Okay, so what happened after he was captured?”

  “He’s got that usual British understatement, and he doesn’t go into any details about how he was treated. That’s not his point in telling this story. He says he was sent to a POW camp in Sulmona, Italy, and while he was there he met another army officer—also a commando—who had been stationed at Malta.”

  “Ah, now I’m beginning to understand where you’re going with this.”

  Cole grinned and nodded. “I always said you were smarter than me. When I first read these stories, right after he died, I didn’t see anything special in them. Now I’ve realized that my dad was sending me messages in these journals, long before his last years when he was obsessed with the Surcouf.

  “So this other officer was the first one to talk to him about the Knights of Malta.” Cole opened the journal and began to read aloud.

  Dear son,

  My friend whom I met in Campo di Concentramento 78 in Sulmona introduced me to an old chivalrous order of the moneyed aristocracy once based in Malta. He told many stories about the missions he served on out of that island. There was one mission where they found something long lost, an artifact of legend and lore. But alas, that which was found was lost again.

  In the years that followed our internment, he and I continued to exchange correspondence. You see, today many in the military and intelligence communities are members of this secretive religious order with roots going back to the 12th century. The Sovereign Military Order of Malta has its own constitution, passports, stamps, and public institutions. It is not a country, but rather a recognized sovereign state without territory. This gives its members certain diplomatic privileges, including the ability to bypass customs by transferring items via a diplomatic pouch. Today, their headquarters is in Rome, a few minutes’ walk from the Vatican and the ears of the pope.

  The Order once guarded its holy treasures and religious relics with spiritual zeal. Today, it has evolved from a spiritual and chivalrous order to a political powerhouse of elite leaders who have one goal—the eradication of Muslims and the takeover of the vast natural resources their countries currently possess.

  Cole stopped reading.

  “Wow,” Riley said. “It’s weird thinking about what’s going on in the world today, and he wrote that in 1991?”

  “No kidding. I’ve been doing a little research whenever we’ve had good Internet connections. I decided to find out who exactly these modern Knights of Malta really are. Riley, you wouldn’t believe what I’ve found. The first head of the OSS, William Donovan, was reputedly a Knight of Malta.”

  “I lose track. Was he the one who interrogated General Yamashita’s driver?”

  Cole nodded. “Not only was he in charge when they started finding the Japanese war loot hidden in caves in the Philippines, but he founded the Enterprise. He started everything that led them to their Dragon’s Triangle. And lots of sources claim that several CIA heads—Allen Dulles, George Tenet, William Casey, George Bush Sr., and John McCone—were also Knights.”

  “Why would leaders of the American intelligence community want to be Knights?”

  “It’s not just that they want to be chivalrous good guys. Today the Order’s website claims they’re simply a humanitarian organization. And they still call themselves Knights Hospitaller, but in fact, most of their medical and humanitarian ‘missions’ tend to be in places where all the alphabet agency spooks need to go. Humanitarian aid makes a great cover. And places that aren’t political hotspots? No matter how great the need, you won’t find SMOM doing any work there.”

  “So it’s another secret society, like Skull and Bones?”

  “Yes and no. These guys are something even more. See how my father wrote they are a ‘sovereign state without territory’? I don’t think they want to stay that way. They’re tired of being homeless. These guys think they’re still fighting the Crusades, and they want to take over all the territory in the Arabian Peninsula.”

  “Cole, that’s a pretty far-fetched accusation.” She wanted to both believe him and understand him, but she knew how entranced he c
ould get with inflammatory websites about conspiracies, from Roswell to the Kennedy assassinations.

  Cole nodded. “I know, but listen. When I first read these journals, back in 2008, I thought the Skull and Bones guys were the only ones. Then I realized there were these other guys, the ones I came to know as the Enterprise, the guys who nearly killed Theo in the Caymans. Remember what my father wrote about secret societies in that last notebook?”

  “Sure. I read the words in that journal over and over during the four years I was searching for you. Your father said that these secret societies had been around forever and gone by different names, from the Masons to the Illuminati. That they’d infiltrated what he called the whole ‘alphabet soup’ of intelligence agencies—the CIA and NSA and all the rest. So what you’re saying is the Knights of Malta are a part of this network.”

  He nodded. “There’s lots of membership crossover. I mean, geez, the copies of the Order’s membership roster on the Internet read like a who’s who of right-wing Christian extremists. Guys like Rick Joyner. Even Erik Prince, former chief of Blackwater, is an alleged member.” He held the journal in front of her. “But take a look at this last part my father wrote. You have to see the words as I read them, because I can’t pronounce the names of these towns. Maltese is a very odd language.” He read the last section.

  The last time I saw my friend was in Malta. He was at the end of his shift. We visited Mqabba, Cirkewwa, Naxxar, and Gwardamanga. I learned there is an object of great power frozen inside Vyipmmlu. My friend told me, I must get it for your birthday.

  “Strange names,” Riley said.

  “The Maltese language has been influenced by all their conquerors, and the Arabs were there the longest.”

  “‘An object of great power’?” she said. “But then up here he refers to it as something long lost. ‘An artifact of legend and lore.’”

  “Yeah. See, there’s something more I discovered in Rhodes. I showed this last passage to Dr. G., and she got this very strange look on her face. That last name on the list? She said there is no place in Malta with that name.”

  “She’s positive?”

  He nodded again. “You know what that means, don’t you?”

  She reached for her beer and downed the rest of the bottle. Her eyes met Cole’s.

  “Riley, it’s a cipher.”

  Villa del Priorato di Malta

  The Aventine Hill, Rome

  April 11, 2014

  Four men sat at the table, their hands folded around steaming cups of coffee. They had removed their jackets, and each man wore a close-fitting black T-shirt that hid neither his size nor his firm physique. The rough wood dining table tucked into a corner of the large kitchen was where the house servants usually took their meals, but these men weren’t servants. There was an unusual chill in the air after the previous night’s thunderstorms, and the view of the ancient city out the kitchen window was breathtaking. But these men weren’t tourists, either. They didn’t care about social protocols or by which door they entered the villa. They were there on a job, and all that mattered was whether or not they got paid.

  Virgil pulled over a chair, turned it around backward, and sat with his hands folded atop the chair’s back. Unlike the four men already seated there, he wore a black polo shirt. On the breast pocket was a small insignia of a red eight-point cross on a white field.

  He knew these men. They no longer fought for country or beliefs. But that didn’t mean they were immune to any sort of emotional appeal. These men would fight for each other. For their brothers.

  “I appreciate you men agreeing to work for us for the next few weeks. Most of you I haven’t seen since Mosul, but I assure you, these folks here think like we do. For now, this will mostly be a protection detail. We’ve got some VIPs visiting the villa starting just before Easter and then staying through both big events. Some of these men you’ve heard of—hell, some you may even have served under.”

  One man, with an enormous, downward-curving nose and sharp, prominent cheekbones, glanced up at Virgil. “You going to name names, Virg?”

  “Honestly, Hawk, I haven’t seen the guest list. But I bet every one of you guys has got a smartphone in your pocket, and you’re all smart enough to Google the Sovereign Order of the Knights of Malta. Although the actual membership is secret, there are speculative membership lists floating around the web. You’ll likely find most of the brass from the Joint Special Operations Command there. Granted, there are thousands of members, and they don’t all feel the way we do about the hajjis. But enough do to get the job done in the end.”

  Virgil saw the men exchange glances. Mention of the JSOC got their attention. All of them had once worked for what some called America’s secret army, the antiterrorism unit that takes orders directly from the president or secretary of defense and has no congressional oversight.

  “And what job’s that?” Jacko asked.

  “In due time. I’m not free to give you details at the moment, but I can tell you this: it’s going to start out quiet, but this mission will ramp up. These people know how to make decisions and take action.” He paused and looked around at the men before him. “I know that every one of you lost at least one guy over there. I know I did. More than one. In coming to work for the Order, I offer you danger, the chance to get back at those killers, and possible death.”

  “So what else is new?” Hawk looked at the other men, his lips curled into a half smile.

  “Listen, I get it. You’ve heard it before. And this Easter meet-up is a strategic planning session, that’s all. But I can tell you that this is big. This is 9/11 kind of big. Pearl Harbor kind of big. These guys want to take the leash off guys like you and me. They’re looking to finish what these fucking Knights started about a thousand years ago.”

  The men at the table laughed, nodded, and exchanged looks.

  “In the meantime,” Virgil said, “Mrs. Ricasoli is waiting for you in the foyer. She’ll show you to your rooms. Stow your kit and check the place out. Walk the grounds. For a treat, be sure to check out the cars in the carriage house. Meet me back here at 0100.”

  The four men pushed back their chairs and filed out of the kitchen, nodding to Virgil as they passed. There was no chitchat between them.

  Virgil slung his jacket over his shoulders and slipped out the kitchen door into the villa gardens. High atop a hill in the distance, he saw the dome of Saint Peter’s. While staring at it, he reached into his jacket pocket and took out his tobacco pouch. He was about to unzip the pouch when his cell phone buzzed in one of the pockets of his cargo pants.

  “Yeah?” he said into the phone.

  “It’s me.”

  “Okay, report.” Virgil walked across the gravel, distancing himself from the villa.

  “There was an incident. I followed them from the ferry like you said. It’s just a narrow two-lane road. I had to stay close.”

  “Did they make you?”

  “I don’t think so. But it was close.”

  Virgil heard the regret in the man’s voice. “What happened?”

  “There were goats in the road, and he stopped on top of a ridge. I rear-ended him.”

  “Oh shit.”

  “It’s not so bad.”

  “How so?”

  “They were pretty shook-up. I got out of the rental and managed to attach the magnet before they got their shit together. I was gone by the time they came to look for me.”

  “And your rental?”

  “I left it. It’s clean.”

  Virgil didn’t speak for several seconds as he gathered his thoughts. He’d given this man a chance. They’d met many years before over in Iraq, when they were in different circumstances. The guy had done him a favor back then. Virgil owed him for that. And when he showed up with this information about Thatcher’s interest in the Order, Virgil had been able to use it to his advantage. But he just wasn’t the same guy now.

  “Look, man,” Virgil said, “do you comprehend what’s riding
on this? This whole op falls apart if we don’t get that piece. That’s the linchpin.”

  “I understand. I have history with this guy. Don’t ask me how he does it, but he’s got a nose for this shit. And he’s lucky. If anyone can find it, he can.”

  “Yeah, that’s what I’ve heard.”

  “Trust me. He finds it, we’ll get it.”

  “I vouched for you. I said you were up for this. If you’re not, tell me now.”

  “I’m good. You know that. I’m the one who trained you, Vandervoort.”

  “Yeah, but times have changed.”

  “I wouldn’t think you’d forget what I did for you.”

  Virgil hated the way this guy always brought it up. Okay, so he owed the guy. And this guy knew something that Virgil didn’t want to see the light of day.

  “That was a long time ago.”

  “Things might look different now, but I’m the same man. It’s like we agreed back in Iraq—I’ll stand by you as long as you stand by me.”

  “I’m counting on it,” Virgil said, but already he was starting to think about how to get rid of this problem. Nobody blackmailed Virgil Vandervoort.

  “Look. They didn’t get into the car all day yesterday, so the wire did me no good. But it will pay off. And when these two find whatever it is you’re looking for, I’ll be there to take it away from them. Believe me. I’ve got a pretty good idea of what this means to you.” The man tried to laugh, but it caught in his throat. “But you have no idea how motivated I am. When it comes to fucking with these two, just look at my face. I’ll get you what you want. Then they’re mine.”

  Virgil opened his mouth to speak, but through the phone he heard nothing but dead air.