"I done it from the jail. She says to give you a big kiss for her."
Now there was an unattractive picture. "Maybe we'll let her do that herself."
They were perhaps halfway to the parking lot when Larry asked, "One thing: You had a motion to depress the stuff they took from my place, the marijuana. What was that all about?"
"If the government came by evidence illegally, that is, trespassing without a warrant, then that evidence can't be used. If they couldn't use the marijuana, then they can't prove you grew it or even that there was any."
Larry nodded, no doubt agreeing with the wisdom of such a rule. "But it was the FBI…"
"That's what we call 'fruit of the poisoned tree.' Once evidence is obtained illegally, it can't be made legal no matter who wants to use it."
"But if-"
The BlackBerry chimed. With a little luck, the interruption would end the lecture on evidentiary jurisprudence.
An e-mail from Francis:
Got the information you wanted. Or at least all I'm
going to be getting.
X.
Piedmont Driving Club
1215 Piedmont Avenue
Atlanta
Three Hours Later
Until succumbing to an attack of political correctness in the 1990s, the Driving Club had been Atlanta's most exclusive men's social organization. Founded in the late nineteenth century, it had provided a place for the city's upper-crust gentlemen to drive their four-horse carriages outside the dusty and noisy town limits. Now midtown surrounded the property and views from its dining rooms were filled with high-rise condos and office towers. It was not unusual to see collared priests dining with members, although clerics were more numerous at the club's golf facility south of the airport. The food was mediocre on the chef's best days but small, private dining rooms, part of the original structure, were available on request.
It was the latter feature that had suggested the club to Lang. He was seated across an expanse of white linen, picking at a Cobb salad while Francis finished a short and disappointingly uninformative recital of what he had learned.
"… And both the men whose passports Gurt took were American but had been at the Vatican for twelve and eight years."
Lang turned half of a hard-boiled egg over before spearing it with his fork. "We knew they were Vatican passports. They were, are, priests?"
Francis used his knife to probe his broiled snapper for bones. "Seem to be important ones. Word was they were being recalled to Rome as soon as the diplomatic office can get the feds to release them."
"Recalled? I thought they'd be in custody until a trial was held. I mean, kidnapping isn't exactly a misdemeanor."
"They claimed they had held Vatican passports and as such were on a diplomatic mission at the time. The Vatican's foreign office confirmed it."
Lang put his fork down, egg untouched. "Diplomatic immunity?"
Satisfied the fish was safe for consumption, Francis took a tentative bite. "Apparently."
"You telling me the pope condones kidnapping, not to mention attempted murder?"
"Not at all. I'm sure the foreign office has apprised him of what's happened. I'd guess he has his own discipline in mind."
"Like what? I haven't heard of any renegade priests being burned at the stake lately."
Francis shrugged before taking a larger forkful of fish. "I'm afraid the Holy Father doesn't always confide in me."
Lang put his fork down, salad forgotten. "Is it possible the pope doesn't know what's going on here? I mean, maybe these guys, these priests, have friends in the Vatican foreign office, pals who could act in the pope's name without him ever knowing about it."
The prospect troubled Francis enough that he stopped chewing long enough to think that over. "Possible, I suppose."
"Possible but not likely, you mean."
The priest shook his head and swallowed. "The Vatican, like any country, could have bad people in its bureaucracy."
This, coming from Francis, was a big admission. "Careful, there, padre. I wouldn't want to see you cast out as a heretic."
Lang returned his attention to his salad, surprised to see the half egg still on his fork. "OK, what else did you find out?"
"Not much." Francis used the edge of his fork to sever another piece of snapper. "Both work with the Knights of Malta."
The name had a familiar ring. Lang searched his memory during two bites of salad including the half egg. "Isn't that an honorary society for the really big hitters, men who donate really big bucks to the church? They dress up in funny costumes with big hats with feathers?"
Francis smiled. "I take it your information comes from Godfather III?"
"Yeah, that's it. The movie starts by showing this guy, Michael Corleone, being initiated into this high order of the church and keeps flashing over to where across town his hit men are simultaneously taking out members of a rival gang."
"Hardly an evenhanded depiction of a very old order of the church."
"It's Hollywood. They don't have to be evenhanded, just sell tickets. But what would an honorary association…"
Francis held up the hand that didn't have the fork in it. "Whoa there! The Knights of Malta is not just an honorary association."
"I suppose you're going to tell me about it, homo multerum litterum."
"Only if you're interested. But remember, Davus sum, non Oedipus."
"I'm not asking you to solve the riddle of the Sphinx like Oedipus; just tell me about the Knights of Malta."
Francis was staring at someplace above Lang's head, his forehead wrinkled in thought. "Best I can recall, they were founded in the late eleventh century as a monastic order, Order of St. John, to minister to the sick of Jerusalem, then held by the crusaders. Their order was answerable only to the pope himself. The first religious order of chivalry. Only the sons of titled nobility need apply. As the Holy Land came under attack from the Saracens, the order morphed into a military organization. When the Muslims ejected them from the Holy Land, they occupied the island of Rhodes from the early fourteenth century until the sixteenth when the Turks successfully besieged it. The order wound up on Malta, which they made into an island fortress. That's how they came to be called Knights of Malta. Their real name is still Order of St. John."
Lang paused in his unsuccessful effort to cut a tomato wedge with his fork. A chime went off in his head as he recalled the stub of the boarding pass. "Rhodes? Do they still have any connection to the island?"
Francis shrugged, intent on renewing his assault on the snapper. "Quite possibly. When the Italian Fascists took the island from the Ottomans in the first part of the last century, they encouraged European powers to establish a presence there. With the order's political connections, I wouldn't be surprised if they were included."
Lang picked up his knife. "Very historically informative but what about today's version? I mean, you haven't told me why the order or whatever is anything but ceremonial, right?"
Francis shook his head. "Not necessarily. There are three types of Knights of Malta. First is the one you mentioned, the ones who are knighted because of some outstanding deed…"
"Like a major contribution to the church."
"That frequently is the case, yes. The other two types are described as 'chaplains' and 'hospitaliers.' The chaplains are priests and the hospitaliers still tend to the sick and are likely but not necessarily priests, too. The order is governed by the sovereign council, which meets every five years at the Rome priory to elect the grand master. In fact, I believe they'll be convening next week."