by Schafer, Ben
I swear, the woman blushed as she stamped his passport. She moved on to mine, then frowned. “Coming in from Afghanistan?” She stared at me. “What is your business in Malta, Mr.—” she read the passport, “Brown?”
A sick feeling settled in my stomach, but Cuvier’s grin only widened. “Nina, dear. Mr. Brown is a friend of mine. He’s just here catching up for old times’ sake.”
Nina blinked, then bit her bottom lip. “Okay, Bernard. But make sure you keep him out of trouble.”
Cuvier put a hand on his chest. “My dear, where’s the fun in that?”
Nina giggled and stamped my passport. “Welcome to Valletta, Mr. Brown.”
The terminal itself was crowded but surprisingly quiet. Little clusters of tourists that represented the whole expanse of the melanin rainbow gathered around television screens to study updated flight information. Others milled about in the trinket shops looking for last minute gifts to take back home. Numerous businessmen wandered the halls, almost always with a cell phone in hand. These professional travelers eyed the tourists with a mix of amusement and disdain.
Members of the Order did not take the strict vows of poverty our medieval predecessors had, but the issue was academic. The logistics required to travel around the world at a moment’s notice meant that Knights kept very little in the way of worldly possessions.
A clean-up crew had retrieved my gear in Kabul, which meant that Cuvier and I only brought carry-ons with us on the flight. We walked right past the crowd that had begun to form around the luggage carousel. Good thing, too. From what I could tell, several passengers had lost items during their journey and were venting their frustrations to anyone who would stop to listen.
Outside the terminal, it was a scene of controlled chaos as dozens of taxi drivers shouted for fares. Horns blared a constant chorus as pedestrians and vehicles alike cut one another off in the street. A green bus coughed as it sped away from the nearby stop. While Malta was famous for its bright orange public transportation, the bus system had been modernized in recent years.
A black town car waited for us when we stepped outside the terminal. Cuvier had not called anyone after we landed, so he must have contacted someone while we were still airborne. I didn’t recognize the driver, but I knew from experience that he had to be a member of the Order and not with some local taxi service. Usually the job fell to the most junior member of the support staff that was on duty.
I never quite figured out why the higher-ups felt they needed to control this leg of our journey. Any of the many taxi drivers who staked out the airport looking for fares would have done the job. We could have even taken advantage of one of the bus routes that used the airport as a hub. I’m sure the poor kid had better things to do than chauffeur people back and forth from the airport. Even if somebody tailed us, they would only discover that we were headed to the most popular tourist destination in all of Malta: Fort St. Angelo.
The fort was a huge stone structure that dominated the harbor and could be seen for miles. Those medieval engineers knew how to make stuff that lasts, and Fort St. Angelo ranked as one of the most impressive citadels in all of Europe. It was besieged by the Ottomans and bombed by the Nazis, yet it endured while those mighty empires faded into history. It felt bizarre to look up at such a structure and know that, barring some unforeseen disaster, it would outlast us all.
Tourism and commercial shipping were pillars of the Maltese economy, and the port was the center of all this activity. It was another reason the Order had set up shop here. The constant stream of people coming and going would mask the movements of our operatives. Everything from sleek cruise liners to bulky container ships to dozens of smaller private yachts and sailboats flowed in and out of the port.
Fort St. Angelo stood as a silent sentinel above them all.
The car pulled to a stop. Our driver opened Cuvier’s door, but I had to get my own. We left our bags in the trunk. Nothing inside of them belonged to either of us, and the driver would see to it that the items were returned to inventory. I shielded my eyes from the glare of the sun on the water as I gazed upon the fort. It was early in the day and traffic was light, just a couple of rented minivans and a bus from a local school.
Even though the fort was practically empty, Cuvier and I were careful to avoid being caught in some hapless tourist’s family photo. We strayed from the well-labeled tourist path and approached a wooden door, identical to a dozen others throughout the fort. It sat beneath an archway with a small, almost imperceptible shield carved into the stone. Cuvier reached into his coat pocket and pulled out an old brass key.
Cuvier inserted the key. When I heard the lock disengage, I pushed the door open. It was heavier than I remembered, likely reinforced with steel. At first, it didn’t seem there was anything worth protecting. The room inside was small and cramped. An old army cot and an empty Styrofoam cooler were positioned on the wall opposite from us. To our left, there were some beer bottles and snack wrappers scattered around two of the ugliest purple plastic chairs I’ve ever seen. The right wall had a squat bookcase filled with tattered paperbacks, an odd collection of English, Spanish, and Italian “literature.” A few other odds and ends were scattered around to reinforce the idea that this room was just an abandoned break room for the reconstruction crew.
Cuvier pulled the door closed behind him. As soon as it was shut, the locks slid back into place automatically. The only light in the room came from a small window that had been fitted with an iron grate centuries ago, but Cuvier didn’t need it. He moved with precision born of practice and pressed a hidden switch on the bookshelf. I heard the distinct sound of stone moving against stone as part of the wall next to the bookshelf began to slide open. I made a mental note to talk to someone about that. A secret passage hidden behind a book shelf was such a cliché.
I followed Cuvier into the opening. The passage stood open for only a few moments before the wall slid back into position. I had to cover my eyes as florescent lights activated, glaringly bright in such a small space. The cold light illuminated the only feature in the room: a large staircase cut into the rock. There was no railing and an intimidating drop to the bottom, so I watched my step as Cuvier and I descended. Numerous cameras were installed in the stairwell, and I could practically feel them watching me.
After three flights, the staircase ended at a featureless steel door that stood ten feet high and was wide enough for four people to enter side-by-side. As we approached the door, I saw that the old numeric keypad had been replaced by a handprint scanner. Once again, the lock could only be operated by Cuvier. It opened with a gentle chime and the large door swung out toward us. This one was much more ponderous than the others, indicating its greater density. It was tough enough to stop a speeding truck, though what a truck would be doing in a cramped stairwell was anyone’s guess.
Cold artificial light poured from the opening. I gestured to the open doorway. Cuvier nodded and took the lead, and I followed him through the ancient stone passage and into the heart of modern architecture.
Cuvier and I entered a large room, perfectly square, that could have been an interior office of any commercial building on the planet. The cold stone floor gave way to thick blue carpeting, and two rows of cushioned chairs faced each other in the center of the room. A small table with stacks of magazines from a dozen countries in a dozen languages sat between the rows of chairs. Numerous doors to our right and left led to the offices for the Order’s support staff. As I completed my visual scan of the room, the huge door silently sealed behind us.
The largest door sat beside a long mahogany desk on the far wall. Three middle-aged blond women who could have passed for triplets sat behind the desk typing on computers. The woman in the middle saw us enter and motioned for us to approach the desk. The secretaries were the only other people in the room, but I guessed that it could get quite crowded in here when the leadership called for a meeting.
Cuvier smiled warmly and spread his arms out wide. “Ah, Ca
roline. You grow more beautiful every time I see you.”
She slid a clipboard across the desk. “Save it, Bernard. Just sign the log.” Cuvier did as he was told. Once he was finished, Caroline retrieved the clipboard and picked up the telephone. She punched in a number without looking and said, “They’re here. Yes, both of them. Okay.” Caroline hung up and pointed to the chairs. “Take a seat, gentlemen.”
Cuvier sat while I perused the magazine collection. It had been months since I had come to Fort St. Angelo, but there were no new selections. It made sense, I supposed. The magazines were there to help pass the time, not to enable operatives to catch up on celebrity gossip from Portugal.
I picked out an issue of Autómovil, a popular car magazine from Madrid. I didn’t know the language, but I could at least look at the pictures. I picked a seat next to Cuvier and cracked the magazine open to the table of contents (at least, I think that’s what it said). Two minutes later, one of the doors swung outward. A young man with a dark complexion and slicked-back hair motioned for us to follow him.
Cuvier raised his eyebrows. “They seem to be in a hurry to see us.” He sounded impressed, but the scowl on his face worried me. It was unprecedented, as far as I knew, to be seen without waiting for at least an hour. Though the Order had been formed to bypass traditional government bureaucracy, it just meant that it had built its own pecking order.
Our escort led us down a short hallway. There were a few pictures on the wall, a collection of medieval saints and modern celebrities who supported the Catholic Church. Interposed between these photographs and portraits were short inscriptions in Latin, Italian, and English. Though official documents for the Order were in Italian, English was widely spoken in Malta and served as a common language most of the Order could use to deal with members from other nations.
The Operations Center, referred to by many members of the Order as the “Holy War Room,” once served as part of a war operations complex for the British Royal Navy during the early years of World War II. The Brits expanded and reinforced the old tunnel system under the fort to protect the occupants of the complex from aerial attacks and made the most of the extra room. As the war progressed, the British centralized all operations planning at the larger Lascaris War Rooms complex and the tunnels under Fort St. Angelo were abandoned.
Fast-forward seventy years to the formation of the Order of St. Adrian. Church leadership knew that the fledgling organization could have no official presence within the Vatican to preserve operational autonomy as well as plausible deniability. Around that same time the Order of Malta, which had once been the Knights Hospitaller, had been granted control of major portions of Fort St. Angelo by the Maltese government. When news of this deal reached the Vatican, they knew that they had found a home for the Order of St. Adrian. The Church, through a variety of funds and trusts, bought the rest of the fort under the auspices of restoring it for tourism. And they did. Fifty feet above us, school children from Valletta took class trips, at least through those areas of the fort open to the public. Who would look for a secret base inside a popular tourist attraction?
The retinal scanner by the door was only keyed to active Operations Center personnel. Cuvier could have taken us inside, but there was protocol that we had to follow. Our guide placed his eye against the scanner, and a moment later the large metal door gracefully swung open and the three of us stepped into the main room.
The view never ceased to impress. A vaulted roof came to an apex about twenty-five feet over our heads. The World War II-era displays had been removed and replaced with state-of-the-art plasma screens that constantly displayed new information as it came in from sources around the world. Relevant data from Knights and other intelligence sources around the world was received, processed, and displayed on these screens while it was cataloged and disseminated to operatives in the field.
A bronze plaque sat the center of the far wall. It was three feet wide and positioned so it could be seen from any point within the room. Written on the plaque was the motto of the Order: Dominus exercituum proteget eos. It was a phrase from the Latin Vulgate which translated to, “The Lord of hosts will protect them.” It was never made clear if that was supposed to be a rallying cry or a desperate prayer for divine aid, but after two years of experience in the field I leaned more toward the latter interpretation.
Underneath the plaque hung a downward-pointing sword which bore the same inscription on the blade. It was the ceremonial symbol of our Order. Every Knight was given their own hand-crafted sword when they completed training to symbolize their induction into this exclusive brotherhood. Some liked to display their swords as trophies. Few Knights had any form of real social life. Even if an outsider saw one, they wouldn’t know of its significance. My sword was in a storage locker in Georgia that couldn’t be traced directly back to me. It wasn’t like I had could hang it above my fireplace.
The Operations Center was a hive of activity. A series of workstations sat along the left side of the room, each with two or three people gathered around a computer and engaged in earnest discussions. Others darted with calm but deliberate motions between the workstations, passing handwritten messages and whispered requests for updates. As data came in and was analyzed by the men and women at the workstations, the information would be posted on the screens.
The four largest screens showed permanent maps of Europe, Africa, South America, and Asia. The Order had no operational capacity in either Australia or North America. Current trouble areas were indicated by red lights while areas of potential concern were marked with yellow lights. A green light meant that an operation was complete.
These operations were rarely as exciting as my trip to Afghanistan. We worked as trainers and advisors, not commandos. Most of our work involved teaching at-risk Christian communities how to take care of their basic security needs. Our services ranged from installing security fences for missionaries to teaching village groups first aid and basic self-defense. Knights were warriors, but we also knew that engaging in reckless combat operations could make matters worse for everyone who lived in the nations we visited. There was also the unspoken risk that the Order could be used for political reasons. It was one of the reason Cuvier had been uncomfortable with my mission in Afghanistan.
The boards were lit with wide swaths of red and yellow lights, and the green lights were far too few to keep up with it all. Still, I saw a new green light beaming along the southern border of Afghanistan, and it brought a smile to my face. Most of the other screens showed the trouble areas in greater detail along with relevant data like the type of threat present, disposition of the local population, and any Knights, support personnel, or friendly resources in the vicinity.
One screen showed a roster of all Knights currently engaged in operations. It was a short list, with maybe a dozen names on it, but it was everyone we had. I recognized a few of the names, either men I’d trained with or seen in the Operations Center over the years.
To maximize our limited manpower, each Knight was trained and expected to operate on their own. Intelligence, communication, and logistical support were all coordinated through the Operations Center, but when it came down to it we were all alone if something went wrong in the field. There was no cavalry to send to the rescue.
Now that the organization was firmly established and had several successes under its belt, the ranks would swell over the next few years and the Order would be able to maximize our effectiveness. But even our most optimistic recruiting numbers would be hard-pressed to allow us to keep up with the chaos.
There were a few men and at least one woman standing around the perimeter of the room. They dressed in black jumpsuits and combat boots. They each had an empty scabbard on one hip which indicated that they were not yet Knights. That didn’t mean that they weren’t dangerous. On their opposite hips, they bore a SIG Sauer P220 handgun in a leather holster. They were trained in marksmanship and urban combat. Among various other duties, these trusted individuals served as gu
ards for the Operations Center. But these young warriors were more than our last line of defense.
They were the future of the Order.
When I joined, each Knight was handpicked based on previous military or law enforcement experience and the recommendation of one of the select few priests who were trusted with knowledge of the Order. When selected, candidates were rushed through an intensive course that covered everything from battlefield first aid to free-fall parachuting to offensive driving along with combat training to provide all Knights a common baseline of knowledge. It was a matter of manpower. They needed to get skilled individuals out into the field as fast as possible.
But the process was not efficient, and it left gaps in training that a skilled enemy could use against us. Even though candidates for Knight training were kept in the dark about the Order until they graduated, we were still exposed to a great many people and places that could compromise the organization if someone washed out of the program and decided to go to the press for revenge.
So procedure changed. Recruits were hired to work for the St. Adrian Foundation, the private security and intelligence firm that served as our public face. They made up the bulk of our workforce. Many of them worked as analysts for the Intelligence Division while others provided technical and logistical support.
Roughly a third of our support staff were fully briefed on the reality of the organization. These individuals were trusted with the most sensitive support roles, including guard duty for the Operations Center. Some of the Knights referred to these assistants as our “Squires.” When one of the supervisors, someone like Cuvier, felt that a Squire was ready, they would sponsor them for advanced training to become a Knight. If they washed out of training, they would be allowed to return to their regular duties with no hard feelings. It was a badge of honor to be considered for promotion to Knight, so anyone who failed would still be well-respected by their peers.