“What about his son, Jean Valette-the one we need to know about?” asked Hart.
“If you’re asking what effect this had on him, what his father did, the way he died-I can only speculate, but it must have taken on an aura of epic proportions. Jean Valette was a small boy when his father was murdered by the Germans. Curious, isn’t it?-That both of them, father and son, lost their fathers in a world war; but then, millions died in those wars and millions of children were lucky to still have a mother. Jean Valette did not have a father, but he had the lesson of his father’s example that the only life worth living is to believe in something for which you would gladly die. Jean Valette became what by even French standards is eccentric, not to say extreme.”
Austin Pearce thought he knew what Wolfe was referring to.
“You mean the way he talks about the need for a new Crusade, a war between Islam and the West?”
Wolfe nodded vigorously. Then, abruptly, he changed his mind.
“He doesn’t mean it quite in the literal sense. When he talks about a crusade, he means it more by way of analogy, reminding people of what, historically, the Crusades were-what they were meant to be and what they actually achieved, or failed to achieve. I don’t think he means-I certainly haven’t found anything in his writings to suggest that he means-an armed invasion of the Middle East by the Western powers. He isn’t talking about that ‘war of civilizations’ that people who know nothing about history sometimes talk about. He has something else in mind, but I’m not sure I could tell you exactly what it is.”
“But he has written about this kind of thing-politics, history? He isn’t just a banker, the head of an investment house?” asked Hart.
“Given his father’s example, I should think that for him the two things are intertwined.”
Wolfe’s gaze became more intense, more determined. There was something he wanted Hart to understand.
“The Four Sisters, ever since Jean Valette took control of it, seems less interested in making money-though it’s made a great deal of it-than in broadening its influence. Have you read anything about Florence in the time of the Medici? The Medici made a fortune in banking, but the money was a means, a means to power, and a means, also, to start the Renaissance. Whatever Valette wants-whether it is to do something like the Medici and change the way Europe thinks, or gain power for himself-The Four Sisters has gone from a bank that only did business in Paris to a financial institution that is active all around the world. One thing has not changed, however: Almost everything it does is cloaked in secrecy. The joke in Paris is that when a Swiss banker has money he wants to hide, he opens an account with The Four Sisters.”
“What about Valette himself?” asked Hart, anxious to learn more about the man. “Apart from what he believes, apart from the long historical view he takes of things-what is he like? You know the reason we’re here.” He bent toward Wolfe. “When I told you that the president had been murdered, and that we had reason to believe that The Four Sisters is involved, what was your honest reaction? Were you surprised? Was your first thought that it was impossible, that we must be making a mistake?”
“Honest reaction? I didn’t have time to have a reaction. I’ve been too damn numb-sorry, forgive me for that,” he said, embarrassed by his candor in front of two men he respected but did not know. “The president was murdered? I still can’t believe it. And no one knows? Why is it being kept a secret? I don’t understand. It’s almost two weeks since he died.” Despite his confusion, Wolfe was too quick, and too experienced, not to see the implications. “Someone doesn’t want…?”
“It’s complicated,” replied Hart. “I can’t tell you everything, but if we’re right The Four Sisters is the key to everything: the murder of the president and the reason why certain people don’t seem to want there to be an investigation. Now, whatever you can tell us about Jean Valette, anything that would have given him a motive, a reason, to want the president dead.”
Wolfe scratched his head as he tried to think. His eyes lit up; he sat forward in the chair with an air of certainty that vanished as suddenly as it had come.
“No, that’s absurd. It makes no sense,” he said, lecturing himself.
“What makes no sense?” asked Austin Pearce, who did not think anything at this point beyond the realm of possibility.
“The Knights of St. John,” explained Wolfe with a dismissive glance. “There’s a connection, but it doesn’t mean anything.”
“A connection-how?” asked Pearce, intrigued.
“Valette’s ancestor was-”
“Also named Jean de la Valette, the Grand Master of the Knights of St. John,” interjected Pearce. “He fought, and won, the battle of Malta in the year fifteen-”
“You know about that? Yes, exactly. The Knights of St. John, or as they are sometimes called, the Knights of Malta, still exist. Irwin Russell, our new president, is a member. And of course Jean Valette is-”
Astonished, Hart bolted forward.
“You’re suggesting that the president of the United States is a member of some bizarre ancient order, some secret society, and that Robert Constable was murdered so that someone who owes his loyalty to this organization that Valette controls could become president?”
“No, absolutely not! I said it was absurd. In the first place, the Knights of St. John are not-”
The door to the hallway suddenly swung open and the ambassador, nervous, agitated, and obviously alarmed, motioned for Wolfe to join him outside. He stood there, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, glancing first in one direction then the other, almost as if he were trying to avoid looking at anyone. Then, just as Wolfe got there, just before he closed the door, he shot a brief, frantic look at Austin Pearce.
“There must be a crisis somewhere,” said Pearce, when the door swung shut and he and Hart were alone. “Given his absence of any sense of proportion, it could be anything from an impending nuclear attack to someone having forgotten to bring him the right brand of coffee. Still, that look he gave me… It may be serious.”
A moment later, the door opened again and Aaron Wolfe came back into the room with a solemn, pensive expression. He sat down, but instead of turning to either Hart or Pearce, he stared for the longest time down at his hands. Finally, he looked at Hart.
“The ambassador just told me something that I’m not sure I believe, and he has asked me-I should say instructed me-to do something I’m not sure I should. You took a chance when you told me that the president had been murdered. Why did you do that, take a chance like that with someone you didn’t know?”
There was a palpable sense of danger, and while Hart did not know what the danger was, he knew-he could feel-that it had something to do with him. He told Wolfe the truth.
“Instinct. We had to trust someone; I had a sense we could trust you.”
“Instinct? I suppose, when you get right down to it, that’s the best reason there is.”
“Why?” asked Hart with a growing sense of urgency. “What’s happened? What’s going on?”
“You’re staying at a hotel? Don’t go back there. Don’t go anywhere. Disappear.” He reached in his pocket and pulled out a card. “No, go to this address. It’s my apartment. No one will think to look for you there.” He nodded toward another door, one at the far corner of the room. “Go out that way. It leads to the backstairs. But be quick-there isn’t much time. They’re waiting for you downstairs, at the front entrance.”
“What are you talking about?” cried Austin Pearce, rising from his chair. “Why should the senator have to do anything of the sort?”
“The ambassador has just been informed-it’s in all the morning papers at home-that the president didn’t die of a heart attack, that he was murdered instead.”