The Malta Escape

by Chris Kuzneski

  With a cruising altitude of 41,000 feet and a maximum speed of Mach 0.925, the aircraft was pressurized to a comfortable 3,290 feet. That was twice as low as commercial airliners. The lower cabin altitude meant hearts and lungs didn’t have to work as hard to oxygenate blood, which reduced fatigue and helped passengers feel more refreshed upon arrival.

  All things considered, the jet was a technological marvel.

  No wonder Jones was so fond of it.

  “In case you can’t tell,” Payne grumbled, “I’m still waking up, so please ease up a bit until I get some caffeine and something to eat. You know I’m not a morning person.”

  “No worries, chief. I know the drill.”

  “Good. Then let’s start with the basics. Where are we?”

  “Somewhere over the Mediterranean.”

  “And why were we in Portugal?”

  “We stopped in Lisbon to refuel. That’s when you briefly woke up and mumbled something about a rock concert in your brain. I went up front to get you some Advil, but by the time I returned, you were sleeping again. I’ve been awake ever since making plans.”

  Payne rubbed his eyes. He couldn’t recall the conversation. “And when was that?”

  “About two hours ago.”

  He glanced outside a second time, still trying to make sense of things. “Wait. Why did we need to refuel? This plane has a range of eight thousand miles. Where the hell are we going?”

  Jones laughed. “Now that’s where things get interesting. I wanted to take you home last night, but you insisted on going straight to the airport. You even called the pilot from our casino limousine and told him we were on a secret mission for the Travel Channel. When he asked where we were headed, you told him it was classified.”

  “Are you serious? I don’t even remember being in a limo.”

  “That doesn’t surprise me. You actually fell asleep at the casino. You’re lucky some old lady didn’t rob you. Heck, you’re lucky I didn’t rob you. I’m black, you know.”

  Payne grimaced as he tried to piece things together. Although he enjoyed a beer or two on occasion, he wasn’t the type to overindulge. His former career wouldn’t allow it. He was expected to remain sharp at all times, just in case he came across an enemy from his past. He knew too much about too many things to let his guard down.

  And yet he couldn’t remember half of Monday night.

  Something wasn’t adding up.

  “Obviously,” Jones said, “the pilot needed a direction, so I told him Portugal. It’s a straight shot from Pittsburgh and the gateway to Europe. I hoped that would give you enough time to dream about our final destination. Unfortunately, you were still pretty out of it in Lisbon.”

  “Which doesn’t make sense. I remember having a couple of beers while playing pool, but I don’t remember having any drinks at the casino.”

  “I don’t think you did. Honestly, I think you were so mentally and physically drained from the whole corporate transition that your body finally gave out.”

  Jones grabbed a tray full of snacks and placed it on the table in front of Payne. He knew his best friend would think clearer once he had something to eat.

  “Thanks,” Payne said as he selected a blueberry muffin.

  “Remember, I’ve seen you like this before. You used to get this way after prolonged maneuvers in the field. Whereas I would get plenty of rest, you would stay awake for weeks at a time while under tremendous stress. When we finally got back to camp, you’d be loopy as hell. Sometimes you wouldn’t even make it to your bunk. Sometimes you’d just lay on the floor and pass out, and we’d have to step over you for a week. I think that’s what happened last night.”

  Payne considered the explanation. “I guess that makes sense.”

  “Either that, or you’ve become a total lightweight.”

  “I think I prefer your original explanation.”

  “I don’t know. You Navy boys are kind of soft.”

  “I forget, how many times have I saved your life?”

  “Almost as many times as I’ve saved yours.”

  “That’s only because you’re older than I am.”

  “And yet, you were the one who fell asleep like an old man in the casino.”

  Payne laughed. “Touché.”

  “So,” Jones said, “are you ready to get this vacation started?”

  “That depends. Where the hell are we going?”

  “Sorry, Jon. That’s classified.”

  “Oh, so that’s how it’s gonna be. I have one night of vulnerability, and you’re gonna make fun of it the entire trip.”

  “Of course I am! That’s the basis of our entire friendship.”

  “Fine, I’ll let it slide,” Payne said as he peeled the paper from his muffin. “But wherever we’re going, they better have one thing.”

  “Viagra?”

  “Nope. Somewhere to shop. Because I’m pretty sure we forgot to pack.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Officially known as the Republic of Malta, the scenic European nation is spread across a rocky archipelago in the Mediterranean Sea. Located south of Italy and north of Libya, Malta consists of three main islands (Malta, Gozo, and Comino) and several uninhabited ones. It is one of the smallest and most densely populated countries in the world.

  It is also one of the most picturesque.

  Payne was thrilled when he found out where they were headed. He and Jones had discussed Malta several times over the years, yet neither of them had vacationed there. Not because they didn’t want to, but because they hadn’t found the time to make the journey. Now, thanks to their recent unemployment, they had all the time in the world.

  But what they didn’t have was luggage.

  Jones tried to talk Payne into shopping at the Malta International Airport. He claimed airport stores had the finest clothes at the fairest prices, but Payne told him he was full of shit and insisted on going elsewhere. They ultimately agreed on the Point Shopping Mall, which was the largest retail mall in Malta. After converting a few hundred dollars into euros, they skipped the line for white taxis and found a guided-tour car service that offered daily rates.

  Their driver was a middle-aged man named Mark Galea. He had dark hair, tan skin, and a stocky build. He opened the rear door of the black Mercedes sedan, which was polished to a sparkling sheen. He waited for Payne and Jones to slip into the spacious backseat before he closed the door behind them. Then he opened the right front door and slid behind the wheel.

  “Is this your first time on Malta?” Galea asked as he pulled into traffic on the left side of the road, a remnant of the island’s days as a British colony.

  “Sorry,” Jones joked. “That’s classified.”

  “Ahhhh, military men. I should’ve known. We have a way of attracting soldiers.”

  “How so?” Payne wondered.

  Galea smiled. “My country is located in the middle of the Mediterranean, halfway between Europe and Africa. This makes us very popular. Over the centuries, we have been invaded by nearly everyone—the Phoenicians, the Greeks, the Romans, the Byzantines, the Arabs, the Normans, the Ottoman, the Spanish, the French, the British, and many others. I think the only country not to invade us is America. Or is that why you’re here?”

  “We’re the advance team,” Jones said with a grin. “We’re still deciding.”

  “Then please allow me to show you the worst of Malta. Perhaps I can stop your invasion before it even begins.”

  Payne laughed, glad they had lucked into a driver with a sense of humor. “That is an admirable tactic. What did you have in mind?”

  “Our first stop will be my mother-in-law’s house. One look at her, and you’ll be begging me to return you to the airport. She makes Medusa look like a supermodel.”

  Although Galea spoke in fluent English, his words were tinged with a unique accent that neither Payne nor Jones had heard before, a strange mix of Sicilian, Arabic, and the Queen’s English. Which, of course, made sense given Malta’s locat
ion and history. The United States is often referred to as a melting pot—a place where diverse cultures have mixed together to form a new one—but it has been bubbling for thousands of years less than Malta, a country that can trace its history back to the Neolithic temple builders of 3,800 BC.

  “As tempting as that sounds,” Payne said, “we have to get some supplies before we do anything else. What are your thoughts on the Point Shopping Mall?”

  “My thoughts? I think Malta is in trouble because you will like that area very much. Everything is brand new, and the mall is very large. It has three levels and many nice stores.”

  “Great. We’ll start our invasion there.”

  The mall was located on Tigné Point, a peninsula in Sliema in the Northern Harbour District. The area used to be occupied by the Tigné Barracks, a British military complex that had sat derelict for many years before it was demolished in the early 21st century. To honor the neighborhood’s past, parts of the mall contained architectural elements of the barracks, including a series of stone arches that ran along the upper plaza.

  Payne got out of the car in front of the mall and took a moment to soak in his surroundings. The sky was a brilliant shade of blue, and the temperature was a comfortable seventy-eight degrees. A gentle breeze was coming off the nearby harbor, bringing with it the scent of the sea. In the distance, he could see a ferry filled with people as it chugged its way toward the point.

  “Here’s my business card,” Galea said as he handed it to Jones. “Take your time inside, and ring me whenever you’re ready.”

  ◊ ◊ ◊

  Although they were in the middle of the Mediterranean and less than two hundred miles from Tunisia, the mall had an American feel.

  Stores on both sides of the structure lined a central atrium, giving shoppers a view of all three levels as they traveled between floors on the escalators that sliced diagonally across the open middle. Global brands—Adidas, Calvin Klein, Nike, and many more—dominated the landscape but were mixed in with European shops that Payne and Jones were unfamiliar with. But the one thing they instantly recognized was the sweet aroma of Cinnabon, which tempted them from the moment they entered and seemed to follow them wherever they went.

  Just like every mall back home.

  Payne and Jones weren’t extravagant shoppers. They had simple needs and simple tastes, honed by years of military service. They bought T-shirts and shorts, undergarments and socks, a wide variety of toiletries, and a couple of cheap suitcases. Since they were unfamiliar with Maltese dress codes, they bought some dress shirts, dress shoes, and khakis in case they stumbled across some nice restaurants, but they refused to buy anything fancier. Payne was still fantasizing about burning his business suits when he returned home.

  He wasn’t about to add to the bonfire.

  The two of them were getting ready to leave when they noticed a commotion on Level One. A line of people had gathered outside an Agenda Bookshop, where an event of some kind was being held. There was a large sign welcoming three international bestselling authors from America. As luck should have it, the event was directly across from the Cinnabon, so they decided to check it out since their stomachs were growling.

  Payne got excited when someone in the crowd mentioned Clive Cussler, but it turned out it was just two of his co-authors and a tall Polack who tried to write like he did. They were sitting at a long table that was covered in a red tablecloth. Copies of their books were stacked high. Two beautiful women fussed over the authors while an acclaimed member of the Maltese press chronicled the event. The authors obviously enjoyed the attention, probably because it was the only time that females spoke to them.

  “Who are the babes?” Jones wondered.

  “Don’t know,” Payne said.

  “Who are the writers?”

  “No clue.”

  “Want a cinnamon roll?”

  “Sure do.”

  “Cool. Me, too.”

  Then they turned their backs to the crowd and went about their day.

  CHAPTER NINE

  After devouring their cinnamon rolls, they called their driver. He met them outside the mall on the road that lined the Tigné seafront. Instead of carrying a bunch of shopping bags, they simply loaded their new clothes inside their new suitcases and wheeled them to the curb.

  Galea saw their approach and greeted them next to the open trunk of his sedan. “I have been doing my job for many years, but this is a first for me.”

  “What’s that?” Payne wondered.

  “I picked you up at the airport, and you had no luggage. Then I pick you up at the mall, and now you have luggage. This is all very confusing.”

  Jones smiled. “Goal number one of any attack is to disorient the enemy. It’s good to know our plan is working.”

  “It is working quite well. I am very perplexed.” Galea grabbed their suitcases and was surprised by their weight. “Please tell me your bags aren’t loaded with guns and explosives.”

  “Of course not,” Jones replied. “One bag is for guns, and the other is explosives. We would never mix the two. We aren’t amateurs.”

  Galea paused. “What?”

  Payne laughed to break the tension. “He’s kidding. Trust me, he’s kidding. He just likes to mess with people.”

  Galea glanced at Jones, who stared at him with unblinking eyes.

  “Are you sure?” Galea stammered.

  “Look,” Payne said as he unzipped his suitcase to prove their innocence. “We didn’t have time to pack before our flight, so we loaded up on clothes for the trip. I swear, we’re not doing anything criminal. We’re just here for some R and R.”

  “Whew,” Galea said, relieved. “He had me worried.”

  Jones continued to stare. “Why? Because I’m black?”

  “What? No! That has nothing to do with it!”

  Jones tried to keep a straight face but eventually cracked. “Dude, I’m just messing with you. I’ve got a weird sense of humor. I like making people uncomfortable.”

  Payne nodded. “Which explains why I’m his only friend.”

  “Actually, that’s because I’m picky. Not because I’m weird.”

  “Is it?”

  Jones laughed. “Truth be told, it’s probably a little of both.”

  Payne zipped his suitcase closed before he shut the trunk of the car. Then he turned his attention to Galea. “So, what’s next?”

  Galea looked at him, confused. “I think I’m supposed to ask that question.”

  “Why’s that? You know this place better than we do.”

  “True, but…”

  “But, what?”

  “But I don’t know what you like to do.”

  Jones spoke up. “I like it when a hot stewardess takes her—”

  Payne cut him off. “Let’s start with something simple. Where’s the best place to check out some scenery? I’m still trying to get a lay of the land.”

  Jones cleared his throat. “Speaking of the lay of the land—”

  “Just ignore him,” Payne said to Galea. “I’m the one paying, so only listen to me.”

  Galea couldn’t help but smile. He was used to dealing with snobbish clientele who either viewed him as a servant or ignored him completely. But Payne and Jones were treating him like one of the guys. To a working stiff like Galea, it was a breath of fresh air. “If you’re looking for some scenery, there’s no need to go anywhere.”

  Payne spun around in a circle and frowned. He saw the mall across the street and a road full of traffic ahead. “Unless the Maltese definition of scenery is wildly different than mine, then—”

  “Not here,” Galea said with a laugh. “Up the stairs behind you, there’s a pedestrian bridge that juts over the water’s edge. It gives you a brilliant view of Marsamxett Harbour and Manoel Island. I bet you’d like it over there. There’s a decommissioned fort on the island.”

  Jones perked up. “Did someone say ‘fort’?”

  Payne laughed. “Now you’ve done it. He
’s a sucker for old forts.”

  “Me, too,” Galea admitted. “And Fort Manoel is worth a visit. It was built in the early seventeen hundreds and is supposedly haunted by the Black Knight, who is said to appear out of thin air in the armor and regalia of the Order of St. John.”

  “Hold up!” Jones blurted with a look of sheer joy on his face. “Are you telling me that there’s a fort on Malta that is haunted by a black ghost? That may be the coolest thing I have ever heard!”

  Galea tried to correct him. “I didn’t say the ghost was—”

  “Jon,” Jones said excitedly, “what have I been saying for years?”

  Payne shrugged. “That cornbread makes you constipated?”

  “Well, it does,” Jones admitted, unwilling to let Payne derail his momentum. “Which doesn’t make sense at all. I mean, corn doesn’t bother me, and bread doesn’t bother me, but when you combine the two, it magically clogs me up faster than a bottle of rubber cement. But that’s beside the point. What else have I been saying?”

  “That spiders are an alien race, but you don’t have the proof just yet?”

  Jones groaned. “Yes. That is also true, and I’d be more than happy to share my latest research over dinner. But for the next thirty seconds, it would be quite helpful to me if you’d limit your answers to the topic of the paranormal.”

  Payne sighed theatrically. “Fine, I’ll play along. For as long as I’ve known you, you’ve been telling anyone who’d listen that all ghosts can’t be white.”

  “Exactly!” Jones blurted as he headed for the stairs. “I mean, Casper is white. And Halloween ghosts are white. And Ghostface from Scream is white. Hell, the only thing that’s black is Ray Parker, Junior—the brother who sings the Ghostbusters song. Other than that, every ghost is white, white, white! It’s a conspiracy, Jon. And you know it! Black people die, too!”

  Galea waited until Jones had disappeared from view before he spoke again. “Just to be clear: I never said the ghost was black.”

  Payne nodded. “I know, but let him have this. Otherwise, he’ll pout for the rest of the trip.”