The Malta Escape

by Chris Kuzneski

  Thankfully, Payne and his friends had been prepared.

  After opening the wooden crates and documenting the assembled riches in the hidden room, the team had notified the Maltese government about their find. With the Ulster Archives taking the lead, Ulster had flown in his staff to coordinate the logistical nightmare of preserving, cataloging, and eventually displaying the treasure, while also asking Marissa to handpick a few regional historians to join the team. Not only would their expertise be invaluable, but it would generate goodwill amongst the locals.

  With a grin on his face, Payne went back and grabbed their driver. Appreciative of Galea’s work, he made an announcement to the crowd. “This is Mark Galea. His local knowledge was crucial during our search for the treasure. You should be taking his picture, too. And if you need a local guide, he’s the best one in town.”

  Galea beamed as people shook his hand and asked for his business card. “You didn’t have to say that,” he whispered to Payne. “I’m glad you did, but it wasn’t necessary.”

  “Of course, it was. And I meant every word.”

  Payne was about to say more, but he felt the vibration of his phone before he had the chance. He pulled the device from his pocket and glanced at the screen. “Hey Mark, I need to take this. I’ll see you downstairs in a few minutes. Just follow DJ. He’ll get you into the site.”

  “Sure thing,” Galea said as he hustled after Jones for access to the treasure.

  Payne answered the call. “Mister Dial.”

  Dial laughed in his office at Interpol. “Mister Payne.”

  “Hang on,” Payne said before he turned up the volume on his phone. “Can you hear me okay? It’s kind of crazy here.”

  “I know. I’m currently watching you on my computer screen.”

  “That’s kind of creepy, Nick. Please tell me you’re wearing pants.”

  “I am, but you’re definitely not.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Wait!” Dial said with a laugh. “I didn’t mean it like that. I meant, you’re being broadcast around the globe from Malta in your cargo shorts. You’re such an American.”

  Payne smiled. “I’ve been called worse.”

  “Listen,” Dial said, “I know you’re busy, but I just wanted to thank you again for giving me the heads up on Volkov. As you can imagine, the Finnish authorities were overjoyed when they learned of his demise. His organization has been causing them problems for years, so they’re more than willing to let your role at the fortress slide.”

  On his flight to Helsinki, Payne had called Dial to let him know that he would be meeting with an antiquities dealer on Suomenlinna and feared that Volkov might try to intervene. Without giving up Kaiser’s name or any specifics about their plan, he had assured Dial that he and Jones would be safe and any effort by Volkov would be thwarted. Dial had made Payne promise that he wouldn’t be the aggressor, and Payne had kept his word. He hadn’t fired his weapon until after the kamikaze drone had killed two of Kaiser’s men.

  “What role is that?” Payne demanded. “Everything was self-defense.”

  Dial laughed. “Once again, you keep forgetting about international gun laws. I really need to send you a pamphlet or something, because it’s just not sinking in.”

  Payne smiled. “Please do that, but you should probably send it here to Malta. I plan on sticking around for a while.”

  “That’s right! You don’t have a job to worry about. I wish I could say the same.”

  “Actually,” Payne said, “I’ve been giving your situation some thought.”

  “Which situation is that?”

  “You know, the one where you hate your fucking job?”

  Dial chuckled. “Oh, that situation. What about it?”

  “Correct me if I’m wrong, but weren’t you the one who built the homicide division at Interpol? I mean, you’re literally the guy who came up with the basic framework of the department, the chain of command, and so on. Right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “And the head of Interpol doesn’t want you leaving your desk because he feels a division head shouldn’t be involved in fieldwork because he views your post as a supervisor position?”

  “What are you getting at?”

  Payne smiled. “If you have the power to invent a new job in your department, why don’t you create one that you actually like? Call it, Chief Investigator or some shit like that. Then instead of taking applications to fill the post, leave your job as division head and take the position yourself. That way you get to do what you actually want to do—which is investigative work—and you can stop doing all of the political bullshit that you hate.”

  Dial pondered the suggestion. “Wow.”

  Payne paused, unsure. “Good wow or bad wow?”

  “Great wow,” Dial said as he thought things through. “Obviously I’d need to make sure that my replacement is someone I can live with—”

  “Meaning not your assistant Henri.”

  “Precisely! But, yeah, holy shit! That’s exactly the type of gig that I’m looking for.”

  “Then you should go for it, Nick. No job is worth your current level of misery. Take my advice, and escape while you can.”

  ◊ ◊ ◊

  Dressed in the same rumpled sport coat that he always wore, Boris Artamonov left the State Hermitage Museum in Saint Petersburg after his volunteer shift had ended and strolled along the Neva River. After spending the day amongst the artifacts that he loved so much, the former curator always liked to take the scenic route to his apartment.

  Like many older Russians, he avoided modern technology whenever he could, so he knew nothing about the discovery in Malta and wouldn’t find out about it for weeks.

  But that didn’t mean he was clueless about the treasure.

  In fact, he knew exactly where it had been hidden.

  Only he had kept its location to himself.

  During his long and colorful life, Artamonov had faced countless bullies in the former Soviet Union and had plenty of experience in handling them. So when Volkov’s men had stormed into his place of work—the building he loved more than any in the world—and had strong-armed him into the waiting limousine, the crafty old man knew exactly how to play it.

  He would pretend to be helpful while doing the opposite.

  Just like he had done with the dreaded KGB.

  Although Volkov had kept his word and had provided both dinner and dessert for their tutorial, Artamonov knew that Volkov was an evil man who had no appreciation for history. That was obvious as the old man had tried to explain the significance of the ancient collection that Volkov had carelessly scattered across the floor. Dozens of museum-worthy documents had been trampled as Volkov paced back and forth while shouting insults at his employees.

  During one particular tirade, Artamonov had used the distraction to pocket a priceless letter that had been penned by Ferdinand von Hompesch, the former Grand Master of the Order of Saint John. Written in German to one of his knights already stationed in Saint Petersburg, Hompesch explained that the French armada had arrived in the Mediterranean before he could safely move the treasure off the island. Unwilling to let it fall into the enemy’s hands, he had sealed the tunnel near Marsamxett Harbour in order to prevent its discovery. Hompesch had volunteered to go back to Malta to recover the riches for the betterment of the Order, but he required men and ships from Paul the First in order to safely complete the journey.

  As an expert in Russian history and a speaker of German, Artamonov realized the significance of the letter and knew that the Maltese treasure had never been found.

  And thanks to his quick hands, it never would be.

  At least not by Ivan Volkov.

  When Artamonov got home from his walk along the river, the first thing he did was pull the letter out of his drawer. As a former curator, he realized that the document should be displayed in the museum that he loved so much, but he wasn’t ready to part with it just yet.

  After spending so muc
h of his life taking care of artifacts for the enjoyment of others, he had decided to hold onto this one for a little while longer. Not only to keep it away from the likes of Volkov, but because he liked having something precious to come home to.

  At this point of his elderly life, the past was all he had.

  ◊ ◊ ◊

  Payne spotted Galea near the stone wall, as the driver peered through the missing door in order to get a glimpse of the treasure inside the makeshift chamber.

  The bricks and mortar that Payne had chipped away with the sonic baton had been moved elsewhere to make room for all of the people and equipment that filled the space. Despite the apparent chaos, everyone had a purpose as they buzzed around the site like a colony of worker bees, all of whom were trying to please the queen.

  Or in this case, king.

  Ulster’s voice could be heard out in the tunnel. “Outstanding work, everyone! If you keep this up, I promise to whip up a batch of my cream-cheese brownies. That’s what Marissa and I nibbled on while celebrating our big discovery. Speaking of big discoveries, let me tell you about this restaurant that I recently visited in Birgu. They make the most delicious soup I have ever tasted. My good friend Jarkko took me there, and let me tell you, it was heaven on a spoon.”

  “Mark,” Payne said as he approached the driver. “Did DJ show you the site?”

  Galea turned around and smiled. “Let me see if I got this straight. When I picked you up at the airport, you had no luggage. Then when I picked you up at the mall, you suddenly had luggage. Then when I picked you up at the hotel, you had trash bags filled with fancy rubbish. Then when I picked you up at the marina, you had absolutely nothing, but I had a van filled with mysterious wooden crates. And now when I come to see you at work, you have an entire tunnel filled with ancient riches dating back to the time of the Crusades?”

  Payne nodded. “Yep. That sums it up.”

  Galea shook his head. “I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but there’s no way in hell that your knickknacks are going to fit in my trunk.”

  Jones heard the comment and turned around. “What if you fold down the backseat?”

  Galea laughed. “Not even if I remove the backseat.”

  Jarkko saw the group and rushed over. “Mark is selling backseat? Jarkko will buy!”

  Galea smiled. “Why in the world do you need a backseat?”

  “Russian scum stabbed seats in yacht with knife. What is price?”

  “Jarkko,” Galea said, “it was a joke. I’m not selling my seat.”

  “Mark is playing hard to get. Jarkko respects that. But Jarkko has deal that Mark will like.” Jarkko unbuttoned his puffy shirt and revealed a priceless artifact around his neck. “For your backseat, Jarkko will give you gold crucifix from Holy Roman Empire.”

  “Jesus!” Jones shouted in astonishment.

  “Yes,” Jarkko said. “That is Him on cross. Pretty good deal, right?”

  Payne growled at his mischievous friend. “Jarkko! How many times do I have to tell you that you can’t touch the treasure?”

  Jarkko pouted. “But Jarkko open door, so this is Jarkko’s treasure.”

  Payne shook his head. “DJ, please deal with Jarkko.”

  Jones grabbed the Finn’s arm and dragged him toward the treasure room. As he did, he whispered to his friend. “That was awesome! You should do the same thing to Marissa. I bet she totally freaks out and loses her mind.”

  Payne rolled his eyes as they walked away.

  Galea glanced at him. “Speaking of which, who actually owns the treasure?”

  Payne shrugged. “Truth be told, we’re still trying to sort through the details. Obviously, with a major find like this, everyone is going to want a piece—whether that be the Maltese government, the country of origin of individual artifacts, even Jarkko himself. In the end, we’ll do our best to make sure we honor the Knights of Malta for protecting this hoard. If not for Hompesch and his men, it would have been taken by Napoleon for sure.”

  “You know, the modern version of the Order does a lot of charity work here in Malta. Perhaps you can funnel some money their way?”

  Payne nodded. “Trust me, they’re high on the list.”

  “Good,” Galea said, “then my job here is done.”

  Payne looked at him funny. “Wait. What?”

  Galea smiled and pulled out a second business card. Unlike the one he had used for work, this one identified him as a member of the Sovereign Military Order of Malta, which was the modern-day iteration of the Knights Hospitallers. “I rarely discuss this part of my life with clients, but I figured I’d make an exception in your case. Our organization does incredible work around the globe. Once you figure things out, give me a call and I’ll make sure I put you in touch with the right people. Your discovery could do a lot of good.”

  Payne shook his hand. “You mean our discovery.”

  Galea furrowed his brow. “How’s that?”

  “You helped us transport tools and equipment. You watched over us as we crept under your city streets. You even helped cover our tracks. The Knights of Malta were sworn to protect this island, and you must’ve had your suspicions that we were up to something. You could have put a stop to it anytime. But you didn’t. That makes you a part of this.”

  Galea smiled. “The second obligation.”

  Payne grimaced, confused.

  “To have faith,” Galea explained. “I had faith that your intentions were honorable.”

  Galea turned to walk away, but then he stopped. “You’re a good man, Jonathon Payne. I’m glad you were the one who found the Knights’ treasure.”

  Payne waved goodbye and turned to enter the treasure room. But before he reached the missing door, Marissa came charging out.

  “You have to do something about Jarkko!” she said in exasperation.

  Payne groaned. “What did he do now?”

  “He found a cache of ancient swords, and he challenged David to a duel.”

  Payne laughed. “My money’s on DJ. He’ll definitely use his gun.”

  Marissa smiled. “I think you’re missing the point. Jarkko with a sword in a narrow tunnel filled with people is not a good idea.”

  “Good one! Tell that pun to Petr. He’ll enjoy it.”

  “What pun?” she asked, confused.

  “You were talking about a sword, and said I’m ‘missing the point’.”

  “Oh,” she said with a laugh. “Completely unintentional. Actually, I shouldn’t have said that. Petr told me to never apologize for a good pun.”

  “Good advice,” Payne said with a smile. “Speaking of Petr, has he had any sleep since you arrived from Switzerland?”

  “Maybe an hour or two. Honestly, I have no idea how he does it. I’m ready to drop from exhaustion, but he’s running around in there like a cartoon mouse.”

  “He’s definitely animated, I’ll grant you that.”

  She laughed. “I caught that one.”

  “So,” Payne asked, “how do things work around here? Are you on a set schedule? Or can you come and go as you please?”

  “Things are pretty flexible. Why?”

  Payne shrugged. “Since you’re so tired, I thought maybe you could use a good meal to recharge your batteries.”

  “Yes,” she said with a smile. “That sounds wonderful. What about you?”

  He nodded. “I could eat.”

  “Great! I know this fabulous place that looks out over the harbor. Does that work for you?”

  He looked at her. “Do they serve food?”

  She nodded. “Yep.”

  “Will you be joining me?”

  “Definitely.”

  Payne smiled. “Sounds perfect, but before we go, there’s something I need to do.”

  “What’s that?” she wondered.

  “I have to return the albino tiger.”

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  Many of my longtime readers are aware of my connection to Malta, but for those of you who are new to my novels,
let me take a moment to explain how I fell in love with this amazing country in the middle of the Mediterranean Sea.

  My first international bestseller was a religious thriller called Sign of the Cross. Although it was the second book in the Payne & Jones series, it was the novel that allowed me to quit teaching to become a full-time writer. Back then, social media was in its infancy, but I encouraged readers to contact me via email through my website.

  As a new author, I loved keeping track of where my fan mail came from. At first, it was strictly from North America, but once the British version of the book was released, I started to get mail from overseas: England, Ireland, Northern Ireland, Scotland, and Wales. After years of grinding, and rejections, and wondering if my books would be published in the United States, much less anywhere else, it’s impossible to describe how exciting it was to hear from readers across the Atlantic.

  As surreal as it was to have fans in the United Kingdom, at least I could figure out how they had heard of me. Penguin UK was based in London, and there had been a huge promotional campaign for the book, which ended up debuting on the Sunday Times bestseller’s list. So fan mail from that part of the world made sense to me on some level. But what didn’t make sense at all was the letter I received from Malta.

  For one reason or another, that completely blew my mind.

  Obviously I had heard of Malta, but I knew very little about the country. So little, in fact, that I couldn’t comprehend how a copy of my book had ended up in the middle of the Mediterranean. Although my agents had sold the foreign rights to Sign of the Cross to publishers around the globe, I knew I didn’t have a publisher in Malta, so I wrote back to the reader (Robbie Govus) with more questions for him than he had for me.

  Truth be told, I felt like Payne and Jones trying to solve a mystery.

  Eventually I learned that Malta was part of the British book distribution channel, and the reader had purchased a UK paperback from a store in Malta. And yet, all I can remember thinking was that my novel had somehow made it to the middle of the Mediterranean. As a neophyte author, I thought that was the coolest thing in the world!