The Sacred Weapon: A Tom Wagner Adventure

by Roberts, M. C.

  “That doesn’t sound all that dubious.” Tom shrugged.

  “That’s right, it’s not. But Licio Gelli, Roberto Calvi and Michele Sindona were also members.”

  “Never heard of ’em. Pizza guys?” said Tom.

  “They led an organization called Propaganda Due, an Italian Masonic lodge set up in the 1970s as a front for a secret political organization. Propaganda Due was a conspiratorial network created by leaders of the police, military, business, politics, the Mafia and the secret services. They had plans for a coup d’état that was linked to the staged terrorist attacks of the 1970s; it was all confirmed later in judicial inquiries. Propaganda Due was disbanded and banned outright in 1982.”

  “You mean they committed terrorist acts and tried to pin the blame on someone else?” Tom asked.

  “Yes. But it was just a handful of black sheep. The Knights of Malta aren’t out to run the world. Today, they really are a humanitarian institution; they’ve put those old stories behind them. Even Otto von Habsburg was a Knight of Malta, and no one can accuse him of anything underhanded. I’m just surprised that they’re supposed to be in possession of the sword, or at least were.”

  “I see. So exactly what clues do we have now?”, asked Tom.

  “Like I said, I found indications hidden in the Chronicle of the Morea. There were three words written in the margins that might help us: ‘Meribah,’ ‘Tifla,’ and ‘Cesare.’”

  Tom looked at her in anticipation. “Don’t keep me in suspense. What do they mean?”

  “Well, ‘Meribah’ is a clear reference to the Sword of Saint Peter. That’s what it was called in the legend of Saint George.”

  Tom nodded.

  “With ‘Tifla’ it’s a little different. My grandmother used to call me Tifla.”

  Tom looked up. “What does your grandmother have to do with all this?”

  “I’m not sure, but I do know one thing. ‘Tifla’ is more than just a cute name. It has many meanings, including ‘little girl’ in the Maltese language.”

  “So another reference to the Maltese?” Tom wanted to know.

  “No doubt. The third word makes it interesting. ‘Cesare’ has a historical link to the word ‘emperor.’ But I believe it has nothing to do with that, because there’s also a second connection. The Maltese surname, Cassar, derives from ‘Cesare.’ And Cassar was an important name in the history of the Order of Malta. Girolamo Cassar was the most famous Maltese architect of the 16th century. He built a number of important buildings in the capital, Valletta—the Grand Master’s Palace, St. John’s Co-Cathedral, and quite a number of palaces. He was the favorite architect of the Order of Malta’s Grand Masters.”

  Tom was warming up to Hellen’s story. “So we have to go to Valletta?”

  “We?” Hellen looked at Tom in surprise. “You want to help me find the sword?”

  “Sure. The Guerra who kidnapped you is the same guy who killed my parents. If he’s after the sword, then I’m after the sword. Have you found out anything else?”

  “Okay,” Hellen began. “The short version: Aleaumes de Clari was entrusted with keeping the Sword of Peter safe on behalf of the Order of Malta. The faded ‘Meribah’ was a clear reference to the sword, ‘Tifla’ points us to Malta and ‘Cesare,’ or Cassar, narrows the search even more. It may be that the sword is hidden in the Grand Master’s Palace in Malta.”

  “It may be?” asked Tom.

  “I’m convinced the trail leads to Malta. But the Order has a long history, and it has also moved around a lot. There are actually two Grand Master’s Palaces; there’s one in Rhodes, too. So there are several possibilities. The Order also spent quite a long time in Syria, which is where I sent Guerra on a wild goose chase.” Hellen proudly folded her arms over her chest. “Your timing was great, by the way. Your fireworks spectacle went off right after I lied to Guerra about Syria. He had no time to get anything else out of me, so he’s probably on a plane to Syria right now. But he’s not going to find anything there—at least, I hope he isn’t.”

  “While we go find the sacred weapon in Valletta,” they suddenly heard Count Palffy cut in. He’d apparently been hovering behind them for some time, listening to Hellen’s explanation. “Although I must say, I don’t believe we will find the sword in the Grand Master’s Palace.”

  Hellen jumped up and hugged her mentor.

  “Thank you for bringing my Hellen back safely,” Palffy said, shaking Tom’s hand warmly. “And for retrieving the lost artifacts, of course.”

  Palffy had brought company. A team from the Italian Blue Shield unit had arrived with him. He instructed them to catalog all the recovered artifacts and return them to their rightful owners as soon as possible.

  Together they went into the basement, where Palffy could hardly contain himself. “Good Lord!” he cried, inspecting a painting that was leaning against a wall. “This is ‘The Storm of the Sea of Galilee’ by Rembrandt. It was stolen in Boston in 1990. They had this, too?”

  “I doubt it will be the last valuable work of art you find,” said Hellen. “There are countless boxes here. It’s going to take a long time to go through everything.”

  The Blue Shield team had already started loading the artifacts onto the trucks parked outside the villa.

  Hellen remembered what Palffy had said earlier: “You said you didn’t think the sword was in Valletta. Why? Did I send those guys to the right location by mistake after all? Or should we be looking at Rhodes, instead?”

  “I did not say the sword wasn’t in Valletta, my dear. I only said that I do not believe it is in the Grand Master’s Palace,” Count Palffy corrected her.

  Hellen looked perplexed. “Yes, but where else could it be?”

  “I believe your theory is correct, Hellen. But the whole of Valletta is basically a monument to the Order of Malta. The entire city is a UNESCO World Heritage site, as you know. There are many, many places where the sword could be. I do believe, however, that I can help you find it.”

  “Do you know Valletta? Do you have some idea where we ought to start?” Hellen was only a little surprised—Palffy always had a surprise or two up his sleeve.

  “I happen to be a member of Sovereign Military Hospitaller Order of Saint John of Jerusalem, of Rhodes and of Malta, as we are officially called. In other words, I am a Knight of Malta myself. In fact, my family has been associated with the Order for centuries. I have never flaunted it, of course; we Knights don’t like to make a big deal out of these things. But my inside knowledge of the Order can probably help. I think we should start our search at St. John’s Co-Cathedral. Gerolamo Cassar built that one, too. And the Cathedral is an important place for the Order of Malta; almost all of our Grand Masters have been laid to rest there.”

  Palffy took out his cell phone and tapped in a number. He lifted the phone to his ear, and when the call went through, he instantly slipped into his command tone.

  “I need the private jet again, Milan airport to Malta, ASAP. How long before we can take off?”

  Palffy waited a few seconds, then nodded, satisfied, and ended the call. With a gleam in his eye, he looked at Hellen and Tom.

  “Better pack your things. We fly to Valletta in two hours. We must hurry, lest someone interfere. The Sword of Saint Peter is waiting to be found.”

  52

  St. John’s Co-Cathedral, Valletta, Malta

  Tom, Hellen and Count Palffy were standing in front of St. John’s Co-Cathedral in the center of the Maltese capital, Valletta. The city is situated on the northeast coast of the island, on the headland of Monte Sciberras, which is surrounded by the two largest natural harbors in the Mediterranean: Grand Harbor and Marsamxett Harbor. Valletta is surrounded by a ring of bastions and was historically considered one of the most secure cities in the world. The southern entrance through the former city gate is flanked by two cavaliers, named for Saint James and Saint John. From the entrance, clockwise, follows a series of outward-facing bastions, most named after saints: Michael,
Andrew, Salvatore, Sebastian, Gregory, Elmo, Lazarus, Barbara and Anthony. At the time of the Knights Hospitallers’ rule, each of the bastions was defended by a different so-called “Tongue” of the Order of Malta. The Order of Malta officially named the city Humilissima Civitas Vallettae (“Most Humble City of Valletta”) after Jean Parisot de la Valette, the Grand Master of the Order at that time. A place of indestructible bastions, baroque edifices and the splendor of the later Grand Masters, Valletta earned a reputation as the most splendid of all European cities; it has been a UNESCO World Heritage Site since 1980.

  Hellen, Tom and Palffy entered the cathedral. Inside, the walls were covered by magnificent gold reliefs stretching from the floor to the very top of the arches that formed the entrances to the chapels, a good thirty feet or more. The floor of the church consisted entirely of a series of tombs, the slabs forming a kind of medieval “Walk of Fame.” The richly decorated tombstones told the stories of the 375 Grand Masters of the chivalric order who were buried there. The cathedral ceiling was decorated with a succession of glorious paintings; while perhaps not quite as magnificent as the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel, it was still a breathtaking sight.

  “If I remember correctly, you said the version of the Chronicle of the Morea you read was in Aragonese, didn’t you?”

  Palffy’s question took Hellen by surprise. “Yes. Will that help us find a clue about the sword here?” she asked excitedly.

  “St. John’s is unusually constructed for a cathedral. Instead of the side aisles you find in many cathedrals, there are eight ornately decorated chapels, each one allocated to one of the ‘tongues’ of the order and dedicated to its patron saint.”

  “Tongues?” Tom asked.

  “The headquarters of the order was moved to Rhodes in the 14th century, and ever since, the order has been divided regionally into eight branches, which we call ‘tongues,’” Palffy explained. “And one of those eight chapels is the Chapel of the Langue of Aragon.”

  Hellen could hardly contain her excitement. “Which one is it?”

  The three visitors made their way through the nave, about a hundred and fifty feet long, until they found the Chapel of Aragon, the third one on the right side. When Hellen entered the chapel, she burst out, “Oh my God! Saint George!”

  At the far end, flanked by four red marble columns, hung a painting by Mattia Preti depicting the myth of Saint George’s victory over the dragon. “Saint George is connected directly to the Sword of Peter,” Hellen said. “According to legend, he had the sacred weapon in his possession for a time, when he slew the dragon. We’re in the right place.”

  Hellen’s cheeks were flushed with excitement. Tom grinned. He found her enthusiasm endearing. Palffy was also clearly excited. Beneath the painting was a small tabernacle, on top of which stood six candlesticks and a black metal cross about two feet high. Three solid marble steps led up to the tabernacle. Hellen stepped over the red cord prohibiting access to the altar area; she wanted a closer look at the painting. Palffy followed.

  “Stay here and make sure nobody comes,” Hellen said to Tom in a surprisingly imperious tone.

  Tom shrugged. He posted himself at the chapel entrance and stood lookout. It was late in the day, and the church was not very crowded at that time anyway. Hellen inspected the painting more closely, but found nothing to help them.

  “In the Chronicle, I saw the clues only when I looked a third time. They aren’t supposed to be easy to find.”

  She ascended the three stairs and examined everything carefully: the six candlesticks, the golden frame of the tabernacle, the portrait of a monk and an angel that graced the tabernacle door. In her enthusiasm, she got carried away—she picked up the candlesticks one by one, yanked on the tabernacle door and examined each decorative element for clues. Nothing. In ten minutes Hellen and Palffy had scrutinized the entire chapel and studied all the marble panels, but had found nothing useful at all.

  “Perhaps the cross holds a clue?” Hellen already sounded a little disheartened. She stretched as far as she could and grasped the cross that stood atop the tabernacle. She lifted it, but nothing happened. It didn’t make much difference what she did with the cross now, so she took it down and turned it this way and that. Both she and Palffy inspected the front and back and the base plate, looking for any possible moving parts.

  “Maybe we shouldn’t be so fixated on this particular chapel,” Hellen said. “Maybe we should take a closer look at the others, as well.”

  Tom glanced at the time. “We probably won’t get to it today. They’ll be closing soon. And to be honest, it’s probably best if no one catches us tearing their church apart.”

  “You’re right. Maybe we ought to do some more research overnight and come back tomorrow. I’ll put the cross back,” said Hellen.

  Palffy nodded and retreated to the other side of the rope barrier. Hellen stretched to return the cross to its place, but only when she went to set the cross down did she notice the recess in the marble for the base. Standing on tiptoe and stretching as far as she could to fit the cross into the recess, she lost her balance for a moment. Harder than she had intended, the cross dropped back into place. A soft “clack” sounded, and the door of the tabernacle sprang open a crack.

  An excited squeal escaped Hellen, a sound that Tom knew well. Palffy spun around and opened his eyes wide. He was back at her side in a moment.

  Together, Hellen and Palffy peered into the space inside the tabernacle. Inside was a black marble sphere, with a Maltese cross carved into the side facing them. Inspecting it more closely, they saw that it was topped by another Maltese cross, this one made of black metal. On one side was a cavity, about the right size to fit a small candle. The object reminded Hellen of the globus cruciger on display with the Holy Lance in Vienna. Hellen and Palffy looked at each other in delight. As thrilled as a schoolgirl, Hellen reached into the tabernacle and lifted out the heavy sphere.

  “Damn it, Hellen, what are you doing?” Tom said. He looked around to see that no one was watching her. At the cathedral entrance, he saw a priest who had just started to inform the few remaining visitors that the church would soon be closing. “Someone’s coming,” he hissed. “Hurry!”

  Hellen, meanwhile, was taking a closer look at the artfully worked object. She discovered that the cross on top was a kind of lid. She removed it, revealing a small, circular recess underneath. She could see that the recess was connected to the candle-sized niche on the side. Hellen saw four small hollows carved into the marble around the circular recess; if connected, they would form another Maltese cross. She started, drawing in a breath sharply.

  “Oh my God,” she cried.

  Her hand moved to her chest and she began almost to hyperventilate. Palffy looked at her with concern. “Are you all right?”

  Hellen had turned chalk-white. Her hand seemed to be cramped around the amulet under her blouse.

  “A little quicker, please,” Tom hissed again. “We’ll have a visitor any second.”

  He looked anxiously toward the approaching priest, but Hellen and Palffy ignored him. Hellen voice was almost inaudible: “I think I know now why my grandmother used that Maltese word as my pet name, and why she left me this amulet.”

  Hellen fished the pendant out from under her blouse. Her memory flashed back to Father Montgomery, who had seized it at the moment of his death and had said something about a “key.” Palffy stared at the amulet.

  “That’s—”, his voice faltered. He seemed to have trouble believing what he was seeing. “The amulet is a Maltese cross.”

  Hellen took the pendant from around her neck, removed it from its chain, and slid the amulet into the recess atop the black ball. There was a soft click. The amulet fitted perfectly into the recess on the sphere, and the ball was now complete.

  “‘Cherish it always. One day, in a dark hour, the light will lead your way,’” Hellen whispered to herself. “Those were my grandmother’s last words. When she closed her eyes forever, she
pressed the amulet into my hands.” Hellen had a lump in her throat. She found it difficult to speak, and a hot tear ran down her cheek. “I had no idea what she meant back then. I always assumed they were just the confused last words of my dying grandmother. Forgive me, Grootmoeder,” she said, the last words murmured to herself.

  Tom couldn’t wait any longer. The priest had almost reached at the Chapel of Aragon. He had to act. Tom strode toward the priest and struck up a conversation with him. The man was already alarmingly close—a few more steps and they would have been discovered. Tom put on a look of despair. “Father, I’m afraid I’m in trouble. I need to confess my sins.” Tom took the priest by the sleeve and pulled him away toward the confessional.

  Palffy, meanwhile, calmly took the orb in his hands and looked at it more closely. He noticed that the bottom had been flattened; two small, parallel indentations seemed to suggest that the ball could be attached to something—and he already knew to what. There was only one place in the church where the sphere was meant to rest.

  He pointed to a tiny coat of arms between the indentations. “I know where the orb belongs, my dear. This is the coat of arms of Grand Master Jean de la Cassière. I never thought I would see the day . . . Historically, Jean de la Cassière was one of the most controversial of the Order’s Grand Masters. He fell out with the Order, and they went so far as to depose him and imprison him at Fort St. Angelo. For a while, in fact, there were two Grand Masters, not unlike the time when there were two popes. In the end, Pope Gregory XIII settled the dispute and officially reinstated Jean de la Cassière as Grand Master.”

  Palffy looked as if he was about to launch into an even more in-depth history of the Grand Masters, but Hellen headed him off.

  “Tom’s distracting the priest. If we want to get anything else done today, we don’t have much time. Where do we have to go, Nikolaus ?”

  Palffy nodded. Taking the ball and the small cross, he indicated to Hellen to follow him. Hellen closed the tabernacle door, and they left the chapel and hurried off toward the crypt, which housed the sarcophagi of several important grandmasters. Tom was just leaving the confessional, slipping a few cable ties back into his pocket and leaving the priest securely bound and gagged behind him. Hellen, speechless, could only gape. Tom put on his most innocent face, shrugged, and hurried after Hellen. Palffy was already descending a stairway ahead.