The Malta Escape

by Chris Kuzneski

  “Hold up,” Payne grumbled. “You told me not to tell a single soul about the letter because my life depended on it, yet you talked to someone without my permission? Come on, Petr, you should know better than that!”

  Ulster stood his ground. “As a matter of fact, I do, which is why I called her to check on her availability without actually telling her anything about you or your project.”

  “Oh,” Payne said, his voice softening. “I guess now it’s my turn to apologize.”

  “Nonsense,” Ulster replied. “Consider us even.”

  Payne smiled. “And this is someone you trust?”

  “Absolutely! Years ago, she spent an entire summer at the Archives as an intern. I was so impressed with her work that I tried to hire her as a full-time employee, but I always knew she was destined for bigger and better things.”

  “And she’s based in Malta?”

  “In Valletta,” Ulster explained. “She’s currently working on some project that we didn’t have time to discuss, but she said she’d have time to meet with you today, if you’re interested.”

  “Yes. That sounds great. We’re free whenever.”

  “Splendid! I’ll call her back and text you the details.”

  ◊ ◊ ◊

  The earliest she could meet was 5:00 p.m., which gave them plenty of time to get across the harbor to Valletta. Or in this case, around the harbor.

  Galea picked them up where he had dropped them off—at the entrance to the marina. Jarkko got excited when he found out that Galea could speak Maltese and was willing to help him with the basics. So Jarkko sat up front while Payne and Jones listened from the rear.

  Back when they were in the military, the duo had been exposed to dozens of languages and dialects, some of which sounded like they were from another planet, but they had never heard anything like Maltese. It was descended from Siculo-Arabic, an extinct variety of Arabic that developed in Sicily and was introduced to Malta around the tenth century. But over the past thousand years, Maltese has been greatly influenced by the Romance languages—most notably Italian, Sicilian, English, and French—so its morphology was strangely unique.

  The duo listened quietly as they stared out of the tinted windows of the Mercedes sedan. Much like the conversation in the front seat, the outside world was an interesting mix of languages and cultures. Most storefronts and traffic signs were written in English, but towns and road names had a Game of Thrones feel, which seemed appropriate, given that the television series had filmed many scenes in Malta over the years.

  Jones was pretty good with languages. He could pick up words and phrases a lot quicker than most, but even he struggled with Maltese. There was something about its rhythm and its harsh consonant sounds that eluded his grasp, as if his brain was unable to comprehend the letters that were being thrown together to form particular sounds. Out of desperation, he focused on the passing street signs, hoping they would give him some visual clues on how to decipher the language, but the strange mix of letters only made things worse. As impossible as it seemed, each name that whizzed past was more complicated than the last.

  Xatt Il-Forn.

  Fuq San L-Inkurunazzjoni.

  Triq ix-Xatt ta' Bormla.

  Jones rubbed his eyes, but nothing changed.

  The letters on the signs stayed the same.

  “I don’t get it,” Jones whispered to Payne. “Why don’t Maltese kids dominate every spelling bee in the world? If they can spell the road they live on, they should be able to handle anything in the dictionary.”

  Payne nodded. “The last time I saw this many X’s was in the Red Light District of Amsterdam.”

  Jones sighed. “Mmmmm. I like that place. We should go there next.”

  “I don’t think we have time. We’re meeting someone at five.”

  “Good point.”

  “Just so you know,” said Galea, who caught the second half of their conversation while Jarkko was sneaking a drink from his flask, “we’ll be arriving in Valletta quite early, so if there is somewhere you wanted to go before your meeting, I’d be happy to take you.”

  Payne checked his watch. It wasn’t even 4:00 p.m.

  “Not really. It’s our first time in Valletta. We just wanted to walk around to get a feel for the place. Unless there’s something you’d recommend.”

  Galea nodded. “As a matter of fact, there is. Are you familiar with the Maltese tradition of the Saluting Battery?”

  “No,” Jones answered, “but if there are cannons, count me in.”

  “There’s actually eight of them.”

  “Then count me in eight times. Like Jon told you yesterday, I’m a sucker for old forts. And if they have cannons and black ghosts, even better.”

  Galea laughed. “I can’t promise you ghosts or even a fort, but I can guarantee the cannons. They fire one every day at noon and four.”

  “For what purpose?” Payne asked.

  “Nowadays it’s mostly ceremonial, but back in the eighteen hundreds, the noonday gun was fired so sailors in the harbor could calibrate their clocks.”

  “Oh. You’re talking about marine chronometers.”

  “Am I?” Galea said with a smile. “I’m not much of a boat guy. I prefer the smoothness of a paved road to the roughness of the open sea.”

  “Believe it or not, the rough sea is the reason that marine chronometers were invented. They’re highly precise timepieces that allow ship captains to determine longitude by celestial navigation. Back in those days, ships didn’t have GPS or long-range communication, so they needed to have extremely accurate clocks, particularly on long voyages, or else they could get miles off course. Pendulum clocks don’t work well at sea because the rolling of the waves throws off their rhythms, so inventors had to come up with a more accurate way to tell time.”

  “Which is what?” Jones asked.

  “Marine chronometers. Weren’t you listening?”

  “Surprisingly I was, although I get the sense you were just spewing information from one of your watered-down classes at Annapolis, pun intended. Then I countered with an engineering question that was referring to the mechanization of the device, which is the type of high-level stuff we learned at the Air Force Academy. Once again, pun intended.”

  “In other words, you want to know how the damn thing works.”

  “Yep.”

  “No idea.”

  Jarkko started laughing in the front seat. “Jon goes to fancy school for boats and doesn’t know how chronometer works. This is funny to Jarkko.”

  Payne raised an eyebrow. “So you know how it works?”

  “Of course! You look at hands, and it tells you time. Duh!”

  Jones laughed at Payne. “Yes, fancy man of boats. Duh!”

  Payne growled softly. Dealing with Jones was bad enough. If Jarkko started in on him, too, he wouldn’t stand a chance. So he smoothly shifted the focus back to Galea. “You said there were eight cannons but no fort. That seems strange. Where are the cannons mounted?”

  “In a public garden that overlooks the Grand Harbour. In my opinion, it’s the best view in all of Malta. And the Ottomans must have agreed, because they placed a cannon there during the Great Siege and fired on the Knights at Fort Saint Angelo.”

  “The fort in Birgu?”

  “The very same,” Galea said as he pointed toward the fort in the distance. “We basically just drove around the harbor and up this bluff to the higher ground of the Sciberras Peninsula. When the siege ended, the Grand Master of the Knights—a man called Jean de Valette—set out to build a new fortified city to strengthen the Order’s position on the island, and he realized this was the perfect spot.”

  “And the cannons?” Payne asked.

  “They guarded the harbor for centuries. When you get out of the car, you’ll see the reason why. From up here, you could fire on any part of the harbor without fear of invasion because of the bastions and defensive walls below.”

  Jones nodded. “We noticed those from Birgu
. This city would be tough to attack.”

  “When the Brits arrived in the eighteen hundreds, they would fire a cannon three times a day: when the city gates opened at sunrise, again at high noon, and when the gates closed at sundown. Nowadays we only fire them at noon and four. Although when cruise ships come to town, we put on a big spectacle and do a special salute.”

  Payne smiled. “Which is ironic, if you think about it, because the last thing you want to hear on a ship is cannon fire headed your way.”

  Galea laughed as he pulled to the curb. “That’s a very good point. I’ll have to mention that at the next city meeting. Maybe we can come up with something better.”

  Jones opened his door. “So, where are we headed?”

  Galea pointed toward a stone gate. “The cannons are straight through there at the far end of the plaza, but your meeting is a few blocks to the northeast. I can wait here and drive you if you’d like, but this whole area is made for walking. I recommend going on foot.”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  The Upper Barrakka Gardens are located on the upper tier of the St. Peter & Paul Bastion in the fortified city of Valletta. Originally used by the Order of Saint John for recreation, the gardens were opened to the public following the end of the French occupation of Malta in 1800 AD.

  Payne and Jones entered the gardens from the north in search of the cannons and were immediately transported to a different realm. Thanks to the walls and buildings that lined the gardens, the soothing sound of splashing water quickly replaced the noisy traffic behind them. The source of the sound was a giant fountain that sat in the middle of a plaza that was shaded by a canopy of coniferous trees. Wooden benches faced the fountain, while an assortment of brightly colored flowers filled the gaps between stone paths and sculptures.

  Jones stopped next to an oddly shaped tree and stared at its twisty limbs. It was unlike anything they had back in Pittsburgh. He glanced over his shoulder and spotted Jarkko, who was several steps behind them and lost in his own little world. He was whistling a tune and dancing a jig to a band that wasn’t there. Whether it was the vodka in his system or the promise of treasure, he seemed extremely happy.

  Perhaps it was the presence of his long-lost friends.

  “Jarkko,” Jones called out. “Come over here. I have a question.”

  Jarkko happily obliged. He danced his way over to Jones and greeted him with a brotherly hug. “What is it, my friend?”

  “You’ve been here before, right?”

  “Yes. Many times. Maltese women keep Jarkko warm in winter. Why?”

  “Do you know what kind of tree this is?”

  “No. What kind of tree is this?”

  Jones shook his head. “No. I was asking you.”

  “How Jarkko know about tree? Jarkko fisherman, not farmer.”

  “Sorry, I thought maybe—”

  “You point at fish, Jarkko will tell you. You point at tree, Jarkko feel dumb. Why you make Jarkko feel dumb?”

  “Sorry, man, I didn’t mean to—”

  “Ugh! And splashing sound from fountain make Jarkko have to pee.”

  “Well, don’t do it here.”

  “Of course Jarkko don’t do it here! Jarkko not animal. Jarkko not going to whip out willy and pee in park in front of kids and babies. What is wrong with you?”

  “Nothing is wrong with me. I just wanted to know what kind of tree this is!”

  “Then why you talk about my willy?”

  Jones honestly didn’t know how to answer that without upsetting Jarkko further, so he was beyond thrilled when he heard his name being called from ahead.

  “DJ,” Payne shouted, “the ceremony is starting.”

  Jones breathed a sigh of relief. “I gotta go look at some cannons.”

  Jarkko nodded. “And I gotta go pee with mine.”

  “Meet you here in a little bit.”

  “Okay. Sounds good.”

  Then they hustled off in opposite directions.

  Payne was waiting for Jones near a series of stone arches that lined the rear of the gardens. Built by an Italian knight named Fra Flamingo Bambini in 1661 AD, the terraced arches were originally roofed, but the damaged ceiling was removed following the Rising of the Priests, a Maltese rebellion that was squashed by the Order of Saint John in 1775 AD.

  “What was that about?” Payne asked.

  “I wanted to know what type of tree it was.”

  “How’s Jarkko supposed to know that? He’s not a farmer.”

  “Wow. That’s exactly what he said.”

  Payne smiled. “I know. I could hear him from here.”

  Jones laughed as they walked under the first set of arches. Made of large, tan bricks, the massive arches soared over them by at least fifteen feet. “Wow. These are awesome.”

  “Wait,” Payne assured him. “It gets better.”

  They walked across a long, narrow plaza made of decorative bricks and headed for the second series of arches. As they got closer, Jones could finally see what Payne was referring to. The rear arches opened to a wide terrace that overlooked the breadth of the Grand Harbour. They could see everything Galea had promised and a whole lot more.

  “Holy balls,” Jones muttered as he made his way through the small crowd that had gathered for the ceremony. “This view is unbelievable, but where are the cannons?”

  The duo slid twenty feet to the left until they found an open spot along the metal railing. Only then could they clearly see the lower level of the gardens—a grassy terrace that jutted out from a hidden set of arches that supported the plaza that they were standing on. A central stone walkway bisected the green grass below, leading to a wide strip of tan bricks at the edge of the bottom plaza that served as a mounting point for eight black cannons.

  “My, oh my,” Jones said in appreciation. “Those are smooth-bore, breech-loading thirty-two pounders. They could take down a cruise ship before the lifeboats even hit the water. Truth be told, I’d pay good money to see that happen. It would be awesome.”

  A foreign couple standing next to him gave him a look of concern.

  Jones quickly realized his faux pas. “Not with people on it. I just meant a ship.”

  His explanation didn’t seem to work as the couple scurried away.

  Payne couldn’t help but laugh. “First Jarkko, and now them. You’re on quite a roll. Want to make fun of my dead parents while you’re at it?”

  “Shut up,” Jones mumbled. “I’m watching the ceremony.”

  In truth, there wasn’t much to the ceremony, at least compared to the ones that Payne and Jones had participated in over the years—which, at times, involved hundreds of soldiers, marching bands, and complex choreography to showcase their discipline. And yet, there was something about the simplicity of the saluting battery that was somehow captivating.

  A single soldier in a tan uniform marched out to the cannons. He selected the gun for the ceremony (in this case, the fourth from the left), opened the back of the artillery, and loaded it with a three-pound charge of gunpowder. Orchestra music began to swell over the public address system as the soldier attached a cord to the trigger and stepped to his left while facing the crowd on the terrace. With the cord in his right hand, he shifted his focus to the timepiece he held in his left. His gaze never left the sweeping dial of the second hand as it ticked toward the top of the hour. A moment before it reached its apex, he shouted a word of warning to stand clear, and then he pulled the cord in front of his chest with a violent flourish.

  White smoke burst from the muzzle as the cannon roared.

  In that instant, Payne and Jones were transported again, this time to their former lives—where the sound of gunfire often meant death and destruction. Although they knew it was going to happen, the loud blast made them flinch like thoroughbreds at the start of a race. Their hands instinctively inched toward the weapons they had concealed under their shirts, while their gaze shifted to center mass on the man that had pulled the trigger.

  Just
like they had been trained to do.

  The polite applause of the crowd broke their focus and brought them back to reality. No words were spoken, but each man realized what the other had done.

  And it brought a smile to their lips.

  It didn’t matter if they were jobless, or retired, or somewhere in between: they would remain deadly until the day they died.

  “You ready?” Jones asked.

  “Been ready.”

  “Then let’s go find us a treasure.”

  ◊ ◊ ◊

  Before he had killed Sergei Bobrinsky in the tower in Tallinn, Ivan Volkov had obtained as much information as possible about his soon-to-be-extinct smuggling operation. In particular, he was interested in the deliverymen who had received their payments before he’d received his.

  In Volkov’s mind, that money belonged to him.

  And he was willing to do just about anything to get it back.

  He had become even more intrigued when he had found out that one of the smugglers had received his compensation in the form of rare Russian documents. Volkov had an appreciation for his country’s history, particularly its violent past when real Russians handled their issues with the same brutality that he preferred. Back then, the ruling class would beat people in the street just to let them know that they could—and no one would even complain about it.

  How he missed the good old days!

  Of course, there were some things about the present that he enjoyed as well—like the cadre of hackers on his payroll. In little time, they had been able to track down everything he had needed to find the mysterious Finn, including his yacht’s location in Birgu.

  Volkov had loaded his private jet with many of his best men and had landed in Malta that morning. From there, they had headed to the Grand Harbour Marina where they had narrowly missed him and his two apparent bodyguards.

  Volkov knew nothing about the black-and-white duo, except that they would be severely outnumbered when his Russian-trained soldiers moved in to question the Finn.