Before he left, Galea gave them a few more tips about the waterfront. “Just south of the museum is Saint Lawrence’s Church. It’s a beautiful baroque church that was founded way back in 1681. If that isn’t your cup of tea, the Inquisitor’s Palace is just to the east. It was the seat of the Maltese Inquisition from 1574 to 1798 and is often referred to as the Sacred Palace.”
“You sure know your history,” Payne said.
Galea shrugged. “I’ve lived here all my life. It kind of sinks in.”
“Here in Birgu?”
“No, in Malta. But I come here all the time. It is very popular with tourists.”
Payne glanced around. “Speaking of tourists, are there any shops around here where we can buy some backpacks? I’d rather look like a tourist than a hobo.”
“There are several shops on the side streets that sell T-shirts, and postcards, and typical tourist wares. You might able to find bags in one of those. If not, the Birgu Farmers’ Market is a few blocks southeast of the Inquisitor’s Palace. You never know what they may be selling.”
“That sounds like fun. What street is it on?”
“Triq San Dwardu,” Galea answered.
Jones scrunched his face. “Whoa, whoa, whoa! What language was that?”
Galea laughed. “That was Maltese.”
“Are you sure it wasn’t Dwarf? I could’ve sworn I heard the same thing in The Lord of the Rings. Or was it The Hobbit? It was one of those movies with the midgets.”
“DJ!” Payne blurted. “You can’t say that.”
“Say what?”
“Midgets.”
“Why not? You just did.”
“I know I did, but—”
“What? You can say it because you’re white. How’s that fair?”
“Not because I’m white, because—”
“I’m black?”
“No,” Payne assured him. “Color has nothing to do with it.”
“Of course it does. I’m sure black midgets get teased even more than white ones.”
“They might, but what does that have to do with anything?”
“Beats the hell out of me, but I thought it was important to say.”
“Great! Now that it’s been said, why don’t you take a walk? The adults are talking.”
“The adults are talking,” Jones mimicked in a childish voice—a split second before the irony dawned on him. “Ah, crap. I think I just proved your point.”
“You think?”
“Fine,” Jones grunted as he trudged away. “I’ll be right over here.”
Payne took a deep, cleansing breath. “Sorry about that. What were you saying?”
Galea laughed. “Honestly, I have no idea.”
“I know. Trust me, I know. And he’s not even senile yet. Do you know what he’s gonna be like when he gets older? I’ll need to buy him a muzzle.”
Jones heard the comment from halfway down the street and shouted his reply over his shoulder. “Good luck putting it on me! I ain’t wearing a muzzle, you kinky bastard!”
Unfortunately for Jones, he was so focused on his retort that he didn’t notice the family of four that was walking toward him. The young parents took one look at the seemingly homeless black man who was shouting vulgarities to no one in particular that they pushed their strollers into traffic to avoid him. Cars slammed on their brakes and beeped their horns as the family darted from the scenic waterfront to the relative safety of the buildings across the street.
Jones was so mortified by the consequences of his actions and so worried about the family’s wellbeing that he ran after them to apologize until he correctly realized that a foot chase would only make things worse He abruptly skidded to a halt in the middle of the road while angry drivers yelled at him in multiple languages, some of which sounded like Dwarf.
At that very moment—standing in traffic, carrying a green garbage bag filled with fancy rubbish, and watching as a family of four fled in terror—Jones assumed he couldn’t possibly feel any lower, but all of that changed when a loud, distinct voice rose above the commotion of the gathering crowd.
“David?” the voice roared. “Is that you?”
His heart dropped to new depths at the sound of his name.
“David!” the voice repeated. “It is you!”
Jones turned his head toward the entrance of the museum and saw a barrel-chested bear of a man charging toward him. He had long, greasy hair, a face full of stubble, and a big round belly that stretched the limits of a cotton shirt that had gone out of style more than a century ago. The puffy white blouse looked like something from a black-and-white pirate movie, which made perfect sense because so did the man wearing it.
His name was Jarkko, and he lived at sea.
Payne and Jones had first met Jarkko several years earlier when they had needed secret passage into Russia. A black-market contact of theirs had directed them to the Kauppatori Market in Helsinki, Finland, where they were told to locate a specific stall at a specific time. They had expected to find a slick-dressed Cold War operative who would smuggle them into Saint Petersburg in the comfort of a bulletproof limo. Instead they had found Jarkko, a hard-drinking Finn who was wearing a rubber apron and covered in fish guts.
On the surface, he seemed like a stereotypical fisherman, someone who had spent his entire life on the water and had nothing to show for it but gnarled hands, weathered skin, and a severely pickled liver. But they had quickly learned that Jarkko was a cagey operator who had amassed a small fortune from his covert activities. In fact, his side business was so successful that he spent half of the year sailing the Mediterranean in luxury on his massive yacht.
And that was before his adventure with Payne and Jones.
One that had led to an even bigger windfall.
During their journey to Russia and their return trip to Finland, the duo had warmed to the colorful fisherman and his unique zest for life. After he had provided them with a key piece of information in their search for a lost treasure, they had hired him to sneak them onto the sacred grounds of Mount Athos, where they eventually had found one of the seven wonders of the ancient world. Although they weren’t allowed to keep the treasure for a number of reasons, Payne and Jones were given an exorbitant finder’s fee, which they happily had shared with Jarkko even though it had never been discussed or agreed to.
For a man like Jarkko, who had made most of his cash dealing with the seedy underbelly of the Russian black market, it was the ultimate sign of respect.
And it had earned them a friend for life.
“David Joseph Jones!” Jarkko bellowed as he waded into traffic. “It is excellent to see you, but not like this. Why are you carrying garbage bag in middle of street?”
“It’s a long story,” Jones said, embarrassed.
“Jarkko has time. Cars can wait.”
Unfortunately, the closest drivers didn’t agree, so they beeped their horns and yelled obscenities to voice their displeasure. But all this did was make Jarkko mad.
In the blink of an eye, he transformed from a happy fisherman to an angry pirate. He lifted both of his hands above his head and then brought his fists down with so much fury upon the front hood of a Fiat 500 that it left Hulk-sized dents in the metal.
“You will stop mocking my homeless friend, or I will break car!” Jarkko screamed.
The beeping stopped instantly, and so did the yelling.
A moment later, Jarkko was completely calm.
“Tell me, David. How long have you been homeless?”
“I’m not homeless,” Jones insisted as he grabbed Jarkko by his puffy sleeve and pulled him toward the sidewalk. “I’m on vacation.”
“On vacation? Does this mean you have job?”
“Well, technically no, but—”
Jarkko pulled out a large wad of cash. “Here, take money. You need it more than Jarkko.”
Jones pushed it away. “Jarkko, I swear to you, I’m not homeless.”
“Are you sure? I could buy
you some soup.”
“Look!” Jones said, relieved. “Here comes Jon. He’ll explain everything.”
Payne heard the commotion and jogged down the street, hauling a garbage bag of his own.
All it took was one look at him, and Jarkko felt like crying.
“Noooo!” Jarkko wailed. “How can this be? Jon is homeless, too!”
Meanwhile, Payne’s reaction was the exact opposite. The instant he saw Jarkko, his mood brightened. He tossed his garbage bag aside and then wrapped his arms around his old friend, lifting him high into the air. Jarkko was a burly man, but he seemed small in Payne’s grasp.
“Jarkko, my friend. It’s great to see you!”
“You, too,” Jarkko grunted as he patted Payne on the back while still in midair. “But please, tell Jarkko truth. Why are you and David homeless?”
Payne laughed and put him down. “We’re not homeless. We’re on vacation.”
Jarkko breathed a sigh of relief. “This is such good news. It brings a smile to Jarkko’s heart.”
“Wait,” Jones said, somehow offended. “That’s it? That’s all he had to say for you to believe him? I said the same damn thing, and you offered to buy me soup!”
Payne licked his lips. “Hmmm. Soup sounds good.”
“Doesn’t it?” Jarkko said. “Maybe some fish chowder with warm loaf of bread.”
“Jarkko!” Jones snapped. “Why did you believe Jon and not me?”
Jarkko shrugged. “He was more believable.”
“Why? Because he’s white?”
“No,” Jarkko said, offended, “because you were chasing scared family across street and screaming something about kinky muzzle.”
“Oh,” Jones groaned.
“But what does it matter?” Jarkko said with a smile on his face. “The important thing is you still have home, and I have forgiven you for calling me racist.”
Jones shook his head in embarrassment. “Sorry, man. I didn’t mean to—”
Jarkko cut him off. “It is forgotten like old bout of syphilis, but if you are sad and would like to make friends with Jarkko, there is something you can do.”
Jones smiled. “Buy you a drink?”
Jarkko nodded. “And some soup. Jarkko hungry after punching car.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Payne, Jones, and Jarkko found a restaurant that served soup near the Malta Maritime Museum and grabbed an open table on the patio that overlooked the Grand Harbour Marina. Boats of all sizes bobbed up and down in the water as a gentle breeze came ashore, keeping the three friends cool as they sat in the shade of a large umbrella and ordered their first drinks of the day.
As was his custom, Jarkko ordered first. “Jarkko will have vodka and soda. But instead of soda, put in extra splash of vodka because Jarkko is extra thirsty. But do not charge for extra vodka because Jarkko order vodka in tricky way.”
The well-dressed waiter didn’t smile. “Of course, sir.”
Jarkko pointed at Jones. “This is David. He is not homeless. He will pay for drink and soup.”
The waiter nodded. “You would also like soup?”
“Yes. And warm loaf of bread. Jarkko will dip bread in soup.”
“Excellent plan, sir. I think you will be pleased.”
“Jarkko agrees. That is why Jarkko ordered both bread and soup.”
The waiter turned his attention to Payne, who was trying hard to keep a straight face after listening to Jarkko’s order. “I’ll have what Jarkko’s having, but instead of a vodka with extra vodka, I’d like a Diet Coke with extra ice. And when I say extra ice, I mean fill my entire glass with ice—all the way to the top. I like my caffeine extra cold.”
The waiter nodded. “A Diet Coke with all of our ice, a bowl of soup with a warm loaf of bread, and the non-homeless guy is paying for everything.”
Payne grinned. “Perfect.”
“Wait, what?” Jones complained.
The waiter glanced at him next. “And for David?”
“I actually just ate waffles, so I’ll stick with water for now.”
“Sparkling or flat?”
Jones grimaced. “How about tap?”
The waiter sighed. “If you must.”
Then he walked away in disgust.
“So,” Jarkko said excitedly, “you are not homeless. This is excellent news. But why are you carrying bags of trash in streets of Birgu? Jarkko is confused.”
Payne explained everything as succinctly as possible, from the pressure of his family’s business, to the sale of Jones’s agency, to their sudden desire to hop on a plane to escape it all. Jones threw in some details about hot stewardesses and black ghosts, just to keep things lively, and before their soup was even served, Jarkko was caught up on everything.
Jarkko beamed as he glanced across the table at his friends. “Jarkko is so happy to see you. It almost blows Jarkko’s mind. Until today, Jarkko did not believe in fate, but now Jarkko is not so sure. Perhaps Jarkko was supposed to see jobless friends on street for reason.”
Payne pointed at Jarkko’s empty glass. “Is that reason to buy Jarkko another drink?”
Jarkko smiled. “That would be nice. Thank you, David.”
“You’re welcome,” Payne said as he winked at Jones.
Jones rolled his eyes at the mounting bill but said nothing.
“Actually,” Jarkko said as he lowered his voice to a whisper, “reason is much bigger than single drink. Jarkko is not in Malta for good time. Jarkko is in Malta for secret treasure.”
Payne and Jones instinctively glanced at each other.
Few words piqued their interest more than treasure.
Despite having no formal training in the field of archaeology, they had been involved with some of the largest and most important historical discoveries of the twenty-first century, treasures so spectacular that the Smithsonian Institute needed to build a special wing to house their artifacts for an upcoming joint exhibition with the Ulster Archives.
“What kind of treasure?” Jones whispered.
“A secret one.”
“Yes,” Jones said with a chuckle. “I heard you the first time. I meant—”
“Shhhh!” Jarkko ordered. “Someone is coming!”
A young busboy approached their table while dragging a wooden contraption that was too cumbersome for him to carry and too old to work properly. He was under the age of ten and struggled to open the folding tray stand that would ultimately hold their food. The process took over a minute and would have taken longer if Payne hadn’t helped the grateful kid.
Their waiter arrived next. He still refused to smile. He placed his tray on the stand, the bread on the table, and then ladled their soup into two large bowls. It smelled so damn good, Jones instantly regretted not ordering some. He waved his arms above his head, trying to get the waiter’s attention so he could ask for an extra bowl, but the waiter ignored him, apparently still offended by his request to have a glass of tap water instead of a bottle of something fancier.
“Mmmmm,” Jarkko moaned. “This is better than blowjob.”
Payne laughed. “I don’t know about that, but it’s pretty fucking good.”
“Can I try some?” Jones asked with spoon in hand.
“No,” Jarkko said as he pulled his bowl toward his chest. “But you can have crust of Jarkko’s bread. Just like peasant in homeland that does not have job.”
“But I paid for it,” Jones grumbled.
“To Jarkko, it seems you are also paying for not ordering soup. Aren’t you, my friend?”
Payne bit his tongue to keep from laughing until Jarkko let out a hearty roar. His laughter was so contagious that even Jones joined in, despite being the butt of the joke.
“Of course you can taste!” Jarkko said as he pushed his bowl toward Jones. “You can have soup. You can have bread. You can even have vodka. Just not Jarkko’s vodka. There are some boundaries that men should not cross.”
“Understood,” Jones said as he tried Jarkko’s soup.
“Wow. That is good.”
Jarkko nodded. “You should get bowl. David is paying.”
“So,” Payne laughed, “you were saying something about a treasure?”
“Shhhh!” Jarkko ordered as he glanced around the empty patio to make sure no one was listening. “Okay, coast is clear. Jarkko will explain.”
Payne and Jones leaned in to appease their paranoid friend.
“As you know,” Jarkko whispered, “Jarkko is more than fisherman. Jarkko make big money dealing with Russian scum. Sometimes Jarkko bring people in. Sometimes Jarkko bring people out. And sometimes Jarkko do other stuff that Jarkko does not like to talk about.”
Payne and Jones figured as much, but they weren’t about to ask.
“Last month, Jarkko agrees to large job with much risk. Jarkko is given half of money up front. This is normal in delivery business. But when Jarkko complete job and ask for second half of payment, man does not have money. This is good man. Not criminal. This is man that Jarkko trust and work for many times. So what does Jarkko do?”
Jones shrugged. “You cut him some slack.”
“No!” Jarkko growled. “In Russia, you must never show weakness. So I kill man and burn down house. This is how Jarkko get respect.”
Payne and Jones tensed, unsure how to respond to Jarkko’s dark side.
Thankfully, they didn’t have to.
A moment later, Jarkko started laughing.
“Is joke!” Jarkko said as he pointed at his friends. “You should see face! David turn white, and Jon turn red. Both look like cartoons on broken TV. Color is not right!”
Jones put his hands to his face. He could literally feel the blood returning to his cheeks. “Damn, dude. Don’t do that!”
“But is funny!” Jarkko howled. “Jarkko like making joke with friends!”
Payne laughed, but he sensed underneath it all that Jarkko was fully prepared to hand out justice when the situation called for it. He knew there was no way that Jarkko could have lasted so long in a cutthroat industry like smuggling without occasionally getting his hands bloody. Even if that was just to punch a Fiat when his friend was in need.
The Malta Escape Page 7