“When?”
Mario glanced at his watch; the time read 5:28 p.m. “Thirty minuti.” He hesitated, then asked, “I take your auto?”
Janet studied Mario, wondering if his claim of innocence was genuine or just a ploy to use her car. But he seemed sincere. “Do you truly care for me?”
“Sì. I like much.”
"Promise?"
“Promettere.” Seeing the puzzled look on Janet’s face, he did his best to pronounce the unfamiliar English word: “Promise.” He smiled and gazed at her, cherishing the intimate moment. He wished their relationship could be free of turmoil—it would be so nice if not for the pope’s journal, the Vatican’s assassins, and the Templar protection program—but he had a mission to complete before he could fully commit to this wonderful woman.
Janet returned Mario’s smile, her heart warmed by his sincerity. She pulled out her car keys and handed them to him. “Thank you for your honesty. Can we continue this conversation when you return?”
“Sì. After, I come back. . . . Promise.” He leaned over the table and planted a brief but meaningful kiss on Janet’s lips before heading for the garage. He checked his watch—it was 5:32 p.m.
Chapter 94
May 16, 2000
Tuesday, 6:01 p.m.
Naples, Florida
“Thank you your time, Mr. Muldoon,” Mario said at the grand entrance to the Muldoon family’s seaside estate.
“Step inside,” Trevor beckoned, his voice laced with anticipation, the door yawning wide to swallow them whole. “What you’ve hinted at, Mr. Marino, I’ve never shared with the public. I’m very interested in hearing what you have to tell me. Please, follow me.” They traversed a hallway that soon led them to the heart of Trevor’s sanctuary—his office, a cavernous room that served as his creative haven.
Upon entering, one’s gaze was immediately drawn to the colossal bookshelves, a monolith of knowledge stretching from floor to ceiling. They were a testament to Trevor’s obsession with the World Wars, a dark-wood shrine brimming with relics from a time of turmoil. His collection was a veritable pantheon of history, a blend of Time-Life series, fiction, documentaries, interviews, notes, journals, picture books, film reels, and even VHS tapes. Every fragment of history Trevor could lay his hands on had been added to this ever-expanding memorial to the past.
In the heart of the room, three regal leather chairs stood, their backs high and their brass-nail trim exuding an air of antiquity. Trevor gestured for Mario to take a seat. The leather groaned under their weight as they sank into the chairs’ welcoming embrace.
“May I offer you a beverage, sir?” a voice echoed from the doorway. Mario swiveled enough to catch a glimpse of a tuxedoed man standing at attention before turning to face Trevor again.
“Oh, you’re new.” Trevor’s voice held a note of surprise. “What happened to Hobson?”
“Mr. Hobson is currently indisposed, sir. I am his temporary replacement,” the butler replied without emotion.
“Very well. Two iced teas, if you please.”
The butler inclined his head in approval.
“Thank you, sir . . . and your name is?” Trevor asked.
“Alistar, sir.” The butler’s gaze locked on the back of Mario’s head. “Your iced teas will be served shortly.”
“I never meet person with butler,” Mario admitted, his eyes wide with the novelty. His experiences with Roberto were the closest he’d come to such affluence. His old friend had done well for himself, but never indulged in such extravagance.
“What can I say? My novels have been rather successful. Have you read any?” Trevor’s curiosity piqued. Was his guest a fan?
“Sì. I finished one. Two days,” Mario replied, eager to show his host he’d made an effort before their meeting.
“You mentioned you have information about my father?” Trevor’s voice held a note of skepticism. How could this stranger know secrets about his father that weren’t already public knowledge?
“Sì. I have news.”
“That seems unlikely, considering you don’t appear a day over thirty.”
“Long story.”
Trevor lapsed into thoughtful silence, his curiosity warring with his suspicion as he waited for the young man to elaborate.
“I am priest. Um. Was priest. I digitize Vatican Secret Archives.”
“Really.” Trevor’s interest was instantly ignited. He had always been fascinated by the Vatican Secret Archives but had never been granted research access due to his reputation for penning fictional World War II thrillers. The Vatican only permitted certain scholars into the Secret Archives. Hearing Mario’s claim, he was all ears.
Mario saw Trevor’s eyes spark at the mention of the Archives. “I scan books. I stumble upon package, wrapped in brown paper and sealed wax.”
Mario could hear Roberto’s voice from beyond. Too many details, buddy. Get to the point. Sage advice, naturally—it was clear he was losing Trevor’s interest amidst the details.
“I discovered secret journal.”
Trevor leaned in, his eyes filled with intrigue. “What kind of secret journal are we talking about?”
In the shadowy hallway outside the office, Alistar eavesdropped. This was the intelligence he had been ruthlessly pursuing following his accomplice Mateo’s interrogation of Roberto. Mario was unwittingly spilling the very secrets Alistar had been hunting for.
“Secret journal by . . .” Mario faltered, questioning whether Trevor would believe his outrageous claim. He inhaled deeply. “Pope Pius XII.”
“Really? You unearthed a pope’s diary in the Secret Archives?” Trevor leaned back in his chair, his excitement deflating.
