“It’s a symbol of some kind. The fact that we all have the same cards but each with a separate number means we are linked but each of us is special. It seems clear that we’re somehow supposed to be here doing what we’re doing,” speculated Rey.
“That feeds into what we all are feeling,” said Zack, a little discouraged, “but it doesn’t move the ball much.”
“Robby, tell us about the giant you met here at the park,” said Mel.
Robby told them the story, amid chuckles, about meeting the huge Santa or his really big elf “like in the movies” at the park.
“Go on,” Zack said. “Were you afraid?”
“No. That’s the thing. I probably shoulda been, but I wasn’t,” continued Robby. “He gave me the card, and then he turned to leave. But he turned back to me and threw me the leash for Bully. He told me to take good care of his dog.”
“Vat do we do now?” asked Anna. “Vatever we are doing, it cannot include a child.”
“I’m not so sure,” said Rey. “My faith tells me there’s something bigger here than just us. Somehow Robby’s part of it.”
“I agree,” said Zoe. “There’s a lot here we don’t understand. Robby’s got a card. He’s part of it. He’s even more special; he’s got Bully.”
Zack looked at the group and thought about Robby. It was true that he was young and under his parents’ authority; nonetheless, he had been given a card, so he was also under someone else’s authority, as they all were. To what purpose was this improbable group called, and were they capable of seeing it through?
“Robby,” said Zack kindly, “come sit with us while we try to figure out what’s going on, and then we’ll make sure you get home to your parents.”
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“Sire, we are confused,” said the curator with far more courtesy than Cloe could have mustered. “Our context for this discussion and the pledge of the ring was that the monsignor was here under your authority, although perhaps not a prisoner. The ring was to serve as security that he would return to finish his work here.”
“Quite … so,” replied the potentate. “While … he is under my authority, he is not here at Fort St. Elmo.”
“Highness, is he on Malta? Where is he exactly?” inquired Cloe sharply.
The potentate looked at her with increasing hostility.
“Madam … I do not think I much like you,” he said. “Here … you have asked my help to free your friend, and I’m doing all that anyone could do. But … you insist on questioning me like a common servant. No! This … will never do.”
“Sire, please accept my humble apology. I was overwrought and misspoke,” said Cloe, anger burning in her eyes.
“Well … I can’t be all day about this piece of business,” responded the potentate flippantly as he shot a look from the corner of his eye toward his adviser. “The … man you seek is my guest at the Ghallis Tower. My … advisers will write you a pass so you may go there and be reunited with your friend. You … may go.”
With that, the audience was over. Cloe, J.E., and the curator were hustled out of the chamber into the same anteroom where they had originally waited. The adviser who escorted them out handed Cloe a handwritten paper inscribed in Maltese.
“Your destination is on the eastern side of the island near Ghallis Point,” said the functionary. “The potentate’s troops who escorted you here will see you safely to the Ghallis Tower.”
“What about our escort, the two Swiss who came with us?” asked J.E.
“They will be safe here until you return,” came the curt reply.
Cloe worried the Swiss would be held as hostages against their return; there was little she could do but seek the monsignor without their protection. A few minutes later, they were once again in the vehicles rushing away from Fort St. Elmo and the potentate’s inner sanctum.
J.E. spoke up. “I’m sorry I couldn’t help back there, but it’s not what I’m trained for, and I thought the best thing was for me to keep my mouth shut.”
“You’re probably right, J.E.,” responded Cloe. “I should have kept my big mouth closed. I seemed to only antagonize him. Father Curator, I’m so glad you were with us, or it might have been a disaster.”
“Tsk, tsk, child; the good Lord guided us though,” replied the old cleric. “We can only pray that we have what we came for. I will say, though, that the man had a very strange speech pattern.”
“Yes. That thing where he would emphasize the first word of a sentence, gesturing emphatically and then pausing was very unusual,” replied Cloe.
“Unusual! It was very distracting,” added J.E. “I wonder if he does it intentionally for that purpose. I had the sense he was toying with us.”
“Perhaps, but in any event, we are well away from there,” observed the curator.
“What does the pass say?” asked J.E.
The curator read it closely. “It confirms our free pass to the Ghallis Tower under the authority of the most high potentate, ruler of all Malta, etcetera, etcetera. It is what he said it was.”
“What do you know about this Ghallis Tower?” asked Cloe.
“Well, it is a type of coastal fortification common on Malta. It and several like it were built by the Knights of Malta some four hundred years ago. It had some weaponry, but it functioned primarily as a watchtower,” replied the curator. “A series of these towers allowed communications all the way from the northernmost island of Gozo to the knights’ home base at Grand Harbour.”
“Knights of Malta?” mused J.E. thoughtfully. “I’ve heard of them. What do you know about them?”
“The knights are an ancient Christian military order that some say began as a group dedicated to hospital care of the poor in Jerusalem a thousand years ago,” replied the old priest. “Eventually, they became Malta’s defenders from invaders, a role they had for hundreds of years. The series of towers is only one of their works.”
“A thousand years ago? In the Middle Ages. That’s interesting. Do they still exist today?” asked Cloe.
“That’s not entirely clear,” replied the priest as they sped north toward their destination. “Over the years, the order has splintered, disappeared, and reformed in other areas such as Rome and as far away as England. Whether there are true descendants of the Knights of Malta is hard to say. Most of the modern groups are more like clubs doing charitable work. The real knights have not been seen in decades, if not centuries.”
Cloe surveyed the countryside as they hurried toward the Ghallis Tower. The three-car caravan was traveling on a winding, two-lane highway that hugged the coast. She could see the ocean, or at least one of the many bays that defined Malta, and she could smell the salt air through the open windows. Both sides of the road were covered with flora typical of sandy environs. She should have felt good about their progress, but she didn’t. Something was wrong.
“I’m anxious to see Albert and make sure he’s all right,” she said, putting the thought away.
“Mom, he’s okay,” said J.E. “He may be a priest, but he’s a tough bird—no offense intended, Father.”
“None taken,” said the priest. “We were all something else before we were priests, son. We might surprise you sometime.” He suddenly nodded. “There it is.”
Cloe and J.E. looked in the direction he indicated and saw a structure a mile or so off in the distance that looked like the tower of a child’s sandcastle. As they drew closer, it was evident the tower rose three or four stories off the ground. It was made of smooth stone and was almost windowless. A stout wall encircled its roof, which featured a small, pillbox-like structure. This must have been where the knights watched the seas for potential invaders, Cloe thought. When attacked, it also must have been where the defenders made their stand.
The vehicles pulled up to the entrance, and a detail of six armed guards advanced on the center ca
r occupied by Cloe, J.E., and the curator. One of the guards opened the door as they carefully surveyed them over the muzzles of their weapons.
“We have a pass from the potentate,” said the curator, bowing slightly to the leader of the group of guards. “We are here to see Monsignor Albert Roques.”
The guard looked down at the pass in the curator’s hand and sneered, “Welcome to Ghallis Tower.”
The guards formed up around them, and the whole group began to move toward the doorway. The rear door of the car they had just exited slammed shut, and all three vehicles roared off in a cloud of sand and dust.
A chill shook Cloe, and J.E. turned and said to no one in particular, “Wait a minute. How will we get back to the airport?”
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“It was the pass,” whispered Cloe, as they were marched into the tower. “I knew something was wrong.”
“The pass?” asked the curator.
“Yes,” Cloe replied. “It was just a one-way trip. It allowed us to go only from Fort St. Elmo to the Ghallis Tower. There was no return.”
“Perhaps we will get another pass from here to the airport after we collect the monsignor,” the curator speculated.
“Maybe,” said J.E. “But I think Mom’s right on and the double-cross is on the way. I’ve got a bad feeling about this.”
“Quiet!” screeched one of the guards, in English.
On they went, winding their way through the ancient tower, finally climbing an old stairway toward the roof. The stairway creaked and groaned with age as they passed, and at times the musty smell was almost overwhelming. About halfway up, they entered a narrow corridor framed with ancient wooden beams. J.E. had to bend over slightly to avoid scraping his head on the top of the passageway.
Cloe looked at the man who was the leader of the guards and said, “What are you doing? We have a pass from your ruler.”
He snickered and replied, “We are taking you to the monsignor. Is that not your goal? It is most certainly what the pass says.”
Before Cloe could reply, the detail stopped, turned, and faced a timeworn iron door mounted squarely in the stone wall. The head guard produced an oversized, old key and opened the ancient door.
“Your friend is just inside,” said the officer with a greasy smile.
“Whoa!” said J.E. “It’s a trap. I’m not going in there.”
J.E. rounded on the escort preparing to fight. The leader, quick as a snake, drew a pistol and put it to Cloe’s head.
“Die here or enter the cell,” he said. “It makes no difference to me.”
Seconds ticked by, but J.E. was beaten. Cloe knew he would not risk her life. As the old door swung wide open, they peered into the gloom of the cell. One by one, they entered, and when they were all inside, the cell door slammed shut behind them.
“I can’t see my hand in front of my face,” said Cloe into the gloom.
“Well, does anyone have an old Zippo?” came a voice from the darkness.
“As a matter of fact,” cried J.E., opening the steel cap with its trademark “zilk” and spinning the flint wheel of Serge’s old lighter.
There in the flickering light sat the monsignor.
“Oh my God!” exclaimed Cloe. “Albert!”
“Hello, Cloe,” he said, rising from his bunk.
As he stood, Cloe studied her friend. His usually immaculate cassock was stained and frayed. Even in the faint light of the cigarette lighter she could see the lines in his face were deeper. Still, the smile in the steel-gray eyes and the sardonic turn of the lip were there.
He hugged Cloe as if he had not seen a friend in a long time.
As he looked at the others, his smile broadened, and he said, “J.E. I see you once again have become entangled in the adventures of your mother and friends. I would have thought Michael and the Karik might have cured you of that.”
J.E. laughed and said, “It probably should have, but there you go again getting yourself in need of rescue.” J.E. clasped the monsignor’s hand in a hearty welcome, but Albert pulled J.E. to him in a manly hug.
The curator coughed and said, “There is some merriment here that escapes me. May I remind you we are all prisoners in a stone cell in a four-hundred-year-old watchtower on Malta—in the middle of the Mediterranean Sea?”
“I’m so glad to see all of you,” Albert said. “Even you, Curator. What news do you have?”
“It’s not good, Albert,” said Cloe. “The pope sent us to ransom you. He needs you. The potentate has taken the ransom, and we are now obviously his prisoners as well. The man has no honor.”
“No, he has no honor, but he is a small fish on the world’s stage,” replied the monsignor. “What is happening outside?”
“Chaos!” cried the curator. “St. Peter’s has been blown up, and the Vatican has been sacked and burned. The pope is at Castel Gandolfo.”
“The United States has withdrawn from its international role, recalling all its forces and giving its foreign bases back to the host countries. As we speak, its warships, planes, and personnel are evacuating to the US. The world is in disarray; evil is on the rise,” said Cloe.
J.E. had been studying the barred door when he turned and looked at his mother, stunned. “Evil?” he asked. “This is a change.”
“Yes, I’m convinced this is not merely civil disobedience. This is the rise of evil.”
“But, Mom, we have seen evil up close and personal. We saw it in the Kolektor and in the Karik. God knows the worst of the lot was Michael. They are all dead. It’s what you said. This may just be the disaffected youth. Admittedly, they are a mob, but evil? I don’t know.”
“J.E.,” said Cloe. “I have had my doubts as well, but priests are being burned alive. Youth are on the rampage with no moral compass. The Vatican has been destroyed, and Rome itself is burning. The pope is in hiding. Martial law has been declared in the US. In past battles, you have always recognized our enemies, and whether it has been the Kolektor, the Karik, Michael, or one of the rogue states, you have seen the influence of evil. Now, the pope has convinced me that it’s not just influence. It’s the real, direct deal. We are faced with a terrible, all-consuming pure tide of evil.”
“But in the past, evil has had a face. Here, what we have seems to be more of a movement,” replied J.E. thoughtfully. “Misguided, yes. Evil … I don’t know.”
“What do you think, Curator?” asked the monsignor.
The old priest scratched his chin thoughtfully. “What we have is unprecedented in our time. We must develop sufficient perspective to understand what is happening. This is why the pope wants you back.”
The cell was silent as the younger cohorts absorbed the wisdom of the old man.
Finally, the monsignor said, “The curator is correct. I suggest we table this discussion and put our minds to work figuring how we will get out of here.”
“Well, as far as I can see, there’s just one way in and one way out,” said J.E. “There’s no window, just the door—and it’s completely solid with a bolt only on the outside.”
“They bring me food once in the morning and once in the evening, usually fruit, rice, or some kind of porridge with a little meat in it,” said the priest. “I’m allowed on the roof for an hour a day, during which the cell is cleaned. I see no one but the guards.”
“Doesn’t sound like much chance for escape,” said J.E.
“I have been here for several weeks. Believe me, if I could have hit upon a way out, you would not have found me here,” said the monsignor.
“Well, this is certainly a dilemma,” observed the curator. “It looks like we may be here for a while.”
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The Burnt Man watched the figure framed in the three-story glass window on the 160th floor of the Burj Khalifa in Dubai. Towering more than a half mile int
o the desert sky, it was, without doubt, the tallest building in the world. It was the Tower of Babel in a modern world.
The man in the window was tall—over six feet—and gaunt. His hands were clasped behind his back as he gazed at the scene below. He was dressed, as always, in a black suit with a black shirt and tie. His black hair was combed straight back from his forehead.
These three floors had been reserved originally for mechanical systems in this modern wonder. The man standing in the window had acquired these floors at great expense and relocated the equipment. The man told the puzzled property managers that he simply liked the view.
What a view it was. Even a person as ugly and ruined as the Burnt Man could appreciate the vast and beautiful sea. The view to the north and east was of the Persian Gulf, extending to the south around the point of the peninsula on which Dubai sat, to the Sea of Oman. The sunrises were astounding, the sun being visible below the horizon because of the height of the building. The rest of the suite had a view of the desert. and given the sunsets, that, too, was beautiful. Yes, thought the Burnt Man, it is a splendid view.
He looked around the suite: the figure framed in the window used it as his workspace as well as his residence. It was one of the most peculiar places he had ever been. The interior was painted solid white, but there was absolutely no furniture or any personal articles in it. The man in the window always stood. He never sat, and, indeed, there was no place to sit. As far as the Burnt Man could tell, he never slept or ate either, or if he did, it was when the man went to his room on a lower floor. In any event, there was no food, no furnishings, nothing in the suite.
Almost nothing, the Burnt Man corrected. In a small room off the great living room was the radio equipment. The broadcast station, powered with five hundred thousand watts of FM power, could reach an astounding number of countries, depending on weather conditions. It was strictly illegal, but the figure paid Dubai handsomely to let him be. He spent twelve to fifteen hours a day, when he was in residence, broadcasting to his flock. His believers now numbered in the millions.
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