The Maltese Goddess

TEN

It is come. The Ottoman fleet. Thirty thousand men strong. Beacons flare along the coast, My people scurry for shelter. In vain. The stench of death is everywhere. Ditches fill with putrifying corpses, headless bodies float on crosses in the harbor, the water red with blood. But still the Knights, stubborn, no, reckless, in their faith, hang on.

Is it possible? That flag? The Knights’ Cross? Is the battle won? Will there be peace at last?

“Would you like to tell me about it?” the Mountie said in a studied casual tone as he handed me the chopping board, knife, and a bunch of parsley and gestured to me to start chopping.

It was late in the day following my discovery of the body in the museum. I had gone for help, of course, and had once more found myself at police headquarters in Floriana. This time, however, it was Tabone’s day off, and I was forced to endure a questioning that bordered on interrogation from another policeman who evidently felt Tabone’s belief in my innocence misplaced. In retrospect I suppose it was understandable, this being the second dead body I’d found since arriving on these shores. The more he badgered me, however, the more closemouthed I got, refusing to tell anything other than the details of how I’d found the body. I said nothing about the episode in the market, nor my other encounters with the deceased, deciding to wait until Tabone’s return even if it meant a night in jail. I did learn one thing while I waited. The police had no more clue than I did as to the identity of the body.

It was the wee hours of the morning before Tabone could be located by telephone, and I was allowed to leave in the custody of the Mountie. Rob had brought the car and drove me home, and I’d have to say he showed a tact I wouldn’t have credited him with in that after asking me if I was okay, and hearing my rather prim answer that I was, he’d not bothered me for information on the way to the house. I went straight to bed when we got there, and slept pretty well all day, not awakening until almost dinnertime.

When I went downstairs, Rob was already starting dinner preparations. He’d put on his apron and a pair of those demilune reading glasses through which he was peering at a piece of paper, a recipe presumably, on the counter. It gave him a rather endearing air, I had to admit.

“What are you making?” I asked in a feeble attempt to avoid his question.

“Something called beef olives if I have understood the name correctly,” he replied. “Beef sliced very thin, then rolled and stuffed with ground pork, hard-boiled eggs, tomatoes, and spices. It’s cooked in a red wine, onion, and tomato sauce. I decided to try to make something local. A very nice woman in the grocery store gave me detailed instructions,” he added, gesturing toward the piece of paper on the counter.

“You do very well with the women in the stores here,” I said, recalling the women in the bakery in Mellieha.

“Don’t I?” he replied, grinning. “Found the same grocery store as before. The proprietor and I are old friends now. I’m starting to get the hang of finding my way around here. You ignore the signs, I take it. Just because you think your route takes you to Siggiewi, for example, doesn’t mean you follow the signs for Siggiewi. You just head in its general direction. It’s sort of like a bypass on the thru way right?”

I nodded.

“And the rules of the road. Technically, I know, one should yield to the right. I say technically, because as near as I can tell, no one yields to anyone or anything. But once you enter into the spirit of it all, approach driving with a kind of joie de vivre, shall we say, and as long as you don’t mind the odd dent or two, it begins to work for you.

“I’m also getting used to the car. In fact, I’m wondering why Ford and General Motors ever felt the need for second gear! Now, after that pleasant diversion, perhaps we should get back to the subject at hand,” he said, peering at me over the top of his glasses.

“Which is?” I tried, assiduously lining the parsley up in neat little rows and starting to chop.

“Which is, the corpse in the safari suit, of course.”

“Why would you think I would have anything more to add to what I’ve already told the police?” I asked, the knife frozen in mid stroke.

He looked at me for a moment. “I’d like to say it was intuition honed by twenty-five years of dazzling detective work, but the real answer? Let’s just say you shouldn’t take up poker. You don’t have the face for it. And… how do I put this delicately? You seem to be developing the bad habit of finding murder victims, or being associated with them in some way. And not just in Malta either.”

“I assume that in addition to Martin Galea and the guy in the safari suit, you’re referring to an incident in Mexico a couple of years ago.”

“I am.”

“So you’ve been checking up on me.”

“That’s my job,” he said mildly.

I could hear a certain tone creeping into my voice. “And your conclusion?”

He looked across the counter at me. “I’ve just handed you the sharpest knife in this kitchen. You could, if you chose to, take that as a solid vote of confidence.”‘

I really didn’t know what to think of this man, but I willed myself to relax. He smiled at me. “So what do you have to say?”

“There’s nothing much to say, really. I first saw the man in a safari suit on the plane from Paris. He was causing a bit of a scene. Wanted to bring his own drinks on board. I saw him later at customs. I did notice one thing: He had a metal detector stuck in with his golf clubs. He does stick out in a crowd. There aren’t too many people running around this island in that getup.”

“Not many people with golf clubs either,” the Mountie said. “I’m told there is only one golf course on this island. But go on.”

“The next day I kept running into him, sometimes literally—I stepped on his toe—around Valletta. Anthony was taking me on a tour, and we kept ending up at the same places as this guy—the Archaeological Museum, St. John’s Co-Cathedral, and so on.”

“These are all normal tourist spots, I take it?”

“They would be, I think. Anthony was showing them to me because they were all designed and built by the architect Gerolamo Cassar, who he says is an ancestor. ”

“Is that it?”

“No. There’s more. I was trying to drive to the University. I got lost near a place called Verdala Palace, and you know the car… I went past him very quickly, but then he tried to run me off the road.”

“Did he now? Whatever for?”

“I thought at the time it was my terrible driving. But really I have no idea. I didn’t see him for a few days after that, until after Galea turned up, and then, while I was looking around the crypt in the cathedral…”

The Mountie raised his eyebrows and looked at me skeptically.

“I don’t know why I went there. Perhaps I was a little obsessed with death, and maybe I was entitled to be, under the circumstances.” I glared at him. “In any event he was there, and we had this bizarre conversation. He looked very strange, frightened, I’d say, when he saw me, and offered me thirty percent.”

“Thirty percent?”

“Of what, I know you’re thinking. Whatever it is, or was, we got up to splitting it fifty/fifty.”

“You bargained with a stranger for something that you have no idea what it might be? You are nuts!”

“It wasn’t like that. I was tired and a bit out of it, so I just stood there looking surprised, I should think. He took this to mean his offer wasn’t good enough, I guess, and revised it. It’s a technique, I’ve been thinking, that once perfected, could be used to real advantage on my buying trips,” I said, trying to make light of the matter.

“I think he finally figured out that I had no idea what he was talking about, because he ended up by saying, ”Then it isn’t you!“ or something like that,” I continued. “And then he gave me a good push out of the way and dashed out of the crypt. That’s the last time I saw him until yesterday.”

“In the museum.”

“Well, no. Actually in the market. He grabbed me and pulled me into a doorway, told me we had to talk, there was something wrong, danger for me and for others.”

“And this dangerous thing was?”

“I don’t know. I ran away. But then I got mad, and followed him into the cathedral, and from there into the museum. You know the rest. Do the police know who he was?”

“Not yet. There was no ID on him. No wallet, passport, money. You have any idea what his name is?”

I paused. “I am trying to recall if the flight attendants referred to him by name. I think maybe they did, but I’m not sure I can remember it.”

“Accent?”

“American. California, maybe.”

“So what have we got here? An American in a strange outfit flies here from Paris. He’s got a metal detector with him, so presumably he’s looking for something metal. He may, or may not, be a fan of Gerolamo Cassar, but more likely he’s a tourist, visiting historic places of interest. I say that despite the fact that he would appear to be a little, shall we say, nervous, or even possibly paranoid. And his name is…” He looked at me and the name clicked into place.

“Graham. They called him Mr. Graham.”

“Well done!” Rob smiled. “I’m calling Tabone. Here, stir this from time to time, will you?” he said, gesturing toward the skillet.

He came back a few minutes later and checked on my work. It really smelled delicious, I had to admit, and apparently my stirring technique was acceptable, because he appeared satisfied.

“Tabone is suitably grateful for the name. He hadn’t narrowed it down to Mr. Graham yet. As for the murder I’m here to investigate, I also told him about our visit to Mellieha. I expect he’ll be asking Joseph in for a little chat shortly. The good news is that Tabone’s been able to convince the former coroner, Dr. Caruana, in whom he places much more confidence than in his successor, to come out of retirement just this once to help us out. We should start getting some more satisfactory answers as early as tomorrow or the day after. And”—here he smiled at me—“with any luck your friend Joseph will be off the hook.”

“And my friend Marilyn will be back on, I suppose. Has she turned up?”

“Nope. No sign of her. I talked to my chief before you got back. We’ve had men with dogs out searching the ravine behind the house, and we’ve gone over the house and his car in the airport garage with a fine-tooth comb. No blood in the car anywhere. Only the fingerprints you’d expect in his car and his house. His, the maid’s, and lots of other prints we assume are hers. We have his prints from his visa application, and Tabone has also sent a copy of the real thing from here. There aren’t many prints on the steering wheel. He wore driving gloves most of the time, I’m told. Anyway, the short answer to your question is that there is no sign of Mrs. Galea.”

He served up the beef with a green salad and poured a very passable Maltese Cabernet. As we ate we talked about our experiences as tourists on this charming island, and we seemed, for a brief moment or two, to be establishing rapport.

Inevitably, however, the conversation turned to the two murders.

“Don’t you think it’s odd that two foreign visitors turn up dead—murdered no less—on this tiny little island within a few days of each other?”

“Tabone said much the same thing. He said the place was going to the dogs, or words to that effect. Two visitors murdered, and a couple of priests attacked someplace—Mdina, I think he said. You’d think priests would be pretty safe in a place like this, wouldn’t you? All these churches!” he mused. “But if you’re thinking there might be a connection, very unlikely, I’d say.”

“I don’t know why, but I can’t shake the feeling that they are linked in some way, that if we followed the threads, worked our way through the two cases, we’d end up at the same place, somehow.”

“I’m here to investigate Galea’s death and I’m going to stick to that. Investigating Graham would be a waste of time, in my opinion,” he said. “I mean if you’re looking for a link between Galea and Graham, the only obvious link is you. You knew Galea, you were on the same plane as Graham, you’re the one who kept bumping into him. I didn’t come here to investigate every crime on the island!”

I could feel myself getting really irritated. “And why exactly are you here?” I asked in a faintly accusing tone. “Do they usually send a sergeant from the RCMP every time a Canadian gets killed abroad? What is this, a reward for good behavior or something? Got some information on your chief he’d rather you not report?”

He looked at me for a second or two. “Consolation prize, more likely,” he said finally. “I’ve been on disability leave for a while. Had a bit of an accident. I thought I was closing in on some big-time drug dealers. It turns out they were closing in on me.” I just looked at him, and after a pause he continued.

“We had a bit of a confrontation, of the automotive sort. The trouble was, I was driving a squad car, they were driving a truck. I don’t remember much except the headlights coming at me broadside. I woke up a few days later in hospital. I was a bit of a mess. I’d like to say ‘you should see the other guy,” but the other guy got away. I had a lot of time to contemplate the state of the universe, whether to stay on—on the force, I mean—and I guess I will. I’m due back soon, but I guess I’m in for a desk job. I hope I’ll get used to it,“ he said tersely.

“But to answer your question more directly: The Maltese authorities asked for some help with this one. There really wasn’t anyone available, but I guess they thought I was well enough to muddle my way around an island sixteen miles long.”

“I’m sorry,” I said, feeling like a jerk. I’d noticed he was limping a couple of times, and I’d just never thought about it. I wondered why this was the way it was between him and me. I always assumed the worst about him, and then found out that quite the opposite was true. “I was being a bit of a pig.”

“Forget it,” he said. “I was being a bit of a pig myself. To give your musings the attention they deserve, let’s assume there is a link somehow between the two. What would Graham be doing here that would get him killed?”

“I kept wondering if all the places where I saw him have something in common, other than Gerolamo Cassar, I mean,” I replied. “I did a little research and found they do. Although what it all means, I’m not sure.”

“Go on,” he said.

“Well,” I said, drawing a deep breath, “Anthony emphasized the architecture of Valletta, overemphasized it, I’d have to say, because of his enthusiasm for his subject. He took me to see many of the buildings designed by Gerolamo Cassar, but other than mentioning briefly that Cassar had studied with some other architect—Laparelli, I think he said—who was the Pope’s architect, he didn’t say much about him. But Cassar was the architect to the Knights of Malta, or more formally, the Sovereign Military and Hospitaller Order of St. John of Jerusalem, Rhodes, and Malta, the so-called Knights of St. John. Malta was their home for about 250 years.

“The Knights were organized into what were called langues, languages or tongues. There were eight originally, named for the countries the Knights originally came from. Langues were headed by piliers or priors and were accommodated in their own inns or auberges. The Head of the Order was called the Grand Master.”

“And so?” Rob said.

“So, all the buildings Anthony took me to were originally buildings belonging to the Order. The Prime Minister’s office: originally the Auberge of Castille et Leon; the Post Office, the Auberge d’ltalie; the Museum of Archaeology, the Auberge de Provence. The House of Representatives was the Palace of the Grand Master. Verdala Palace—it was near there that I had the little incident on the road—was once the summer house of the Grand Master.

“And the clincher,” I said, “is St. John’s Cathedral. That was the Knights’ own church, and the crypt is where many of the Grand Masters are buried!”

“And your point is… ?” the Mountie said.

I glared at him. “I’m not really sure. But every place I saw Graham was related in a very direct way to the Knights. There are lots of stories about the Knights, both the Knights of St. John and the Knights Templar, those whose job it was to guard the temple in Jerusalem. There are all kinds of rumors of great treasure of incomparable worth hidden by the Knights, like the Chalice, for example, and more than that, lots of conspiracy theories, that some of the Knights went underground, so to speak, and are now in very powerful positions, except that we don’t know who they are.” I knew as soon as the words came out of my mouth that they would not sit well with this particular law enforcement officer.

He looked at me rather disdainfully. “I’ve read about those. What’s that Italian semiotics professor—Eco? He wrote a book about that.”

“Foucault’s Pendulum!”

“Right. That’s the one. Great book, or should I say, great work of fiction. Surely you are not talking about secret societies that rule the world unbeknownst to us! Are you saying that Graham, if that’s his name, was killed to protect the conspiracy, or something? That he was stuck on a Knight’s sword as a sign, no better still, a warning?”

It did sound rather ridiculous. “Not really, I guess,” I said lamely.

Just then, almost as if to spare me further embarrassment, the phone rang. It was Alex, checking up on me. I told him about the most recent developments, and I could hear the concern in his voice. “I hope you aren’t investigating the murders, Lara. Leave that stuff to the police,” he said severely.

“I know. There’s a policeman right here, as a matter of fact. So don’t worry, Alex.” I was about to say good-bye, when I thought of something else.

“If you can, do some of your wonderful research and find out what a Mintoff man is. It’s been bothering me ever since I heard it.”

“I know the answer to that one already,” Alex replied. “I visited Malta a few times when I was in the merchant marine, you know. It was a stop on a route from Southampton to Piraeus via Malta, Cyprus, and, in the old days, Beirut. The Grand Harbour was one of our ports of call. Splendid place, although there was always the Gut, of course.”

“What in heaven’s name is the Gut?”

“Let’s start with your first question.” He laughed. “Mintoff would be Dom Mintoff, head of the Labour Party, and the Prime Minister of Malta for many years. Became PM in the mid-fifties, if I recall. A Mintoff man, I presume, would be a supporter. Mintoff was a charismatic and some would say quixotic leader. One day you’d be his friend, the next his bitter enemy. After the War, Mintoff originally wanted Malta to integrate with Great Britain, to have representation in the House of Commons and so on. He held a referendum of sorts on the subject, and the majority of Maltese voted in favor of integration, but the British were cool to the idea. Mintoff went off the British and started pushing the cause of independence. Malta achieved nationhood in 1964,I believe. One thing you’ll find out if you get into a political discussion, which frankly I wouldn’t advise, is that politics is a very heated subject in Malta. People are avid— perhaps rabid is a better word—supporters of a particular political party. They hold their political loyalties for their whole lives.”

“That would explain why the Hedgehog—don’t ask, Alex!—thought Giovanni was a traitor for changing political parties!”

“I have no idea who Giovanni is, nor do I believe I have ever heard a hedgehog speak, but the substance of what you are saying is true. Politics in Malta has divided whole communities and has resulted in violence from time to time. But I’ve talked your ear off, and should get off the line.”

“Not so fast, Alex. What’s the Gut?”

“The Gut is a backstreet in Valletta. It was originally the only place the Knights were allowed to fight duels. Did you notice several of the steep streets in Valletta are made up of tiny steps? That’s the only way Knights in full armor could navigate a steep hill, by swinging their legs out to the side and up. The steps are just the right height for a Knight in armor. Later the street became the place to find sleazy bars. Notorious place. You could get yourself into a lot of trouble. I imagine it’s been cleaned up since I was there,” he replied.

“Alex! This is a whole new side to you I’d never have guessed.” I laughed.

“You lead a sheltered life, my dear. Be careful, please,” he said and rang off.

I told Rob about my conversation with Alex, particularly the part about politics. Rob was very quiet while I spoke, perhaps because the conversation about his injuries had depressed him in some way. I took his silence to be my advantage, and started plotting our next moves.

“This makes me think we should go and have a chat with this Giovanni fellow, the childhood chum of Martin Galea. Maybe the killing was politically motivated. Surely it can’t be difficult to locate a Cabinet Minister. Maybe he was to be one of the mystery guests at the social event here. It makes sense, with the two of them having been friends in childhood. And I know Galea was not above using his connections. Maybe he asked Galizia to set it up.”

“I doubt Galizia has anything to do with it, and I imagine that it may be easy to locate a Cabinet Minister, but not so easy to get in to see him,” Rob replied. I detected, or perhaps imagined—in retrospect I’m not sure—something patronizing in his reply, and it irritated me. I resolved to do a little investigating of my own, without him.

Perhaps as he’d mentioned, I don’t have the face for deception, because he said, in a supercilious tone, “You’d do well to remember the words of George Bernard Shaw: ‘Hell is full of amateurs.” Man and Superman, I think. Actually he said musical amateurs, but you get the general idea.“

My, my, I thought, a literate cop. First Umberto Eco, and now George Bernard Shaw. It might actually be possible to have a civilized conversation with this man. But not tonight. “And you might do well to remember,” I shot back, “the Chinese proverb that says something to the effect that a man should take care not to anger a woman, because he has to sleep sometime, with his eyes closed.”

“Sleep? You who sleeps in a huge bed with a down duvet! You think I sleep on that nasty cot? It’s… it’s—what do you call those temples you’re always going on about?—Neolithic, that’s what it is. No, way older than that. Pre-Neolithic,” he sputtered.

“Paleolithic?” I smiled sweetly. “Tough!” I went up to my room and shut the door—I like to think I didn’t slam it, just closed it firmly—and resolutely thought about Lucas. Kind, sweet, and hardly ever argumentative Lucas. Not that Lucas was perfect or anything. He had his faults, like everybody. He was still, after a relationship of two years, a bit of a cipher to me, a part of him always held back. There were so many things about him I still didn’t know. Like his politics, for example, since that had been a topic of conversation that evening. I knew Lucas had ties of some kind with a radical underground group that fought for the rights of the native peoples of Mexico, but how radical and how involved, I didn’t know. I didn’t ask either, because I knew he wouldn’t tell me. But compared to someone like the Mountie, Lucas was a prince.

That night I dreamed the Mountie and I were taking part in a round dance. We were in a large group of people, several of whom I knew: Marilyn Galea, Anna Stanhope and her Victor, Sophia and the Farrugias, Vincent Tabone. Even the Hedgehog was there. We were dancing in a large circle in front of Mnajdra. It was night, but we were lit by a spotlight.

From time to time the steps of the dance would fling Rob and me into the middle of the circle, where we’d smile and whirl, the picture of friendship. But then the music would change, the pattern would move on, and we’d be separated by the circle once more.

As bright and noisy as the dance was, I knew there was menace there, a terrible darkness oozing around the stones, swirling about the feet of the dancers, insinuating itself in our souls. In the dream I knew it to be Ahriman, ancient Persian god of the underworld, the embodiment of pure evil.

I could not stop the dance.

ELEVEN

Have you forgotten what it is to be a Knight? What has become of the vows you took, the sacrifices you promised, the valor you espoused? Look at you, bickering, brawling, whoring, duelling, drinking, your minds and bodies bloated with dishonor. You disgust Me! Soon, displaced and discredited, you will be driven from My islands, as you so richly deserve.

The storage shed at Mnajdra was broken into during the night. Anna Stanhope, Victor, and I were called to the site the next morning. Mario Camilleri and his assistant Esther met us there, along with a rather officious policeman who did not appear to have Tabone’s sensitivity or sense of humor.

The shed, one of those temporary aluminum structures, a somewhat larger than usual version of a garden shed, had been spray painted in swirls of a rather nasty green. There was also some hastily scrawled text. “Rude expressions,” the policeman replied to my query. There was no translation forthcoming.

More seriously, the padlock had been forced and broken. We gingerly stepped inside to find the place in disarray. Clothes were scattered everywhere, and the boxes containing the light and sound equipment had been upset. “Perverts!” Anna muttered under her breath.

We got down to work. Anna and I started gathering up the costumes, inspecting them and putting them on hangers and back on the rack where I’d left them. Most were just dusty, a couple required washing, and one, roughly handled, had caught on the hook of a metal hanger and was torn. I noticed with genuine regret that it was Sophia’s. The tear didn’t look too serious to me, although no one has ever complimented me on my sewing. Marissa, who’d mentioned that she’d sold her lacework, seemed the logical candidate for the job, not the least because of what I saw as genuine affection for her son’s girlfriend. I figured she could probably also use a bit of a diversion too. I told Anna I’d see to it that the costume was taken care of in lots of time for the performance.

Victor fussed around his boxes with Mario’s help, but they had not been opened, the locks still intact and functioning. He reported two spotlight bulbs smashed and said he’d get them replaced right away.

“Sheer vandalism!” Anna said. “If they’d wanted anything of value, they would have broken into the boxes and taken the sound equipment. If they can get in the door, those little locks would have given them no trouble. Whoever it was just wanted to stop the performance. Perverts!” she repeated.

It certainly looked that way, although I must say I had the impression that, for a very small island, a lot of very strange things were going on. We all worked at tidying up the place, even the rather retiring Esther.

“Esther, I’m not sure we’ve been officially introduced,” I said when we were outside together straightening out the costumes and inspecting them in the sunlight for dirt and damage.

“Esther Aquilina.” She smiled. “I hope you are enjoying your stay in Malta,” she said, then looked dubious. “Except for this, I mean,” she gestured toward the shed, “and of course, the murders.” She bit her lip.

“I am, actually, despite these things. Malta is an exceptionally beautiful place.”

She brightened. “You must have a very interesting job, Esther,” I said, “working in the Prime Minister’s office.”

She nodded. “It’s Mario who works for the Prime Minister,” she said. “I work in the Protocol office, the External Relations Ministry. I work on visits of foreign dignitaries, that sort of thing. It’s actually lots of detail work, not very exciting sometimes, until they get here, and then it gets way too exciting. Worrying everything will go okay and all,” she explained.

“You must know the Minister, then,” I said, in what I hoped was a casual tone. “What’s his name again?”

“Giovanni Galizia,” she replied obligingly. “Yes, I work for him. But of course someone of my level in the organization doesn’t get to deal with the Minister very much. He’s very nice, very charming, though. Except, of course, when something goes wrong,” she sighed. “I’m hoping he won’t hear about this,” she said glumly.

“But you must get to meet some very interesting people, and attend some lovely events,”‘ I said, trying to sound suitably awed by all this. In fact, I’d had the dubious pleasure of meeting a couple of Cabinet Ministers who’d been patrons of the shop. Neither had particularly impressed me, burdened as they were by unbridled ambition untempered, in my opinion, jaded though that may be, by an equal passion for public service. It sounded, come to think of it, a little like the person the Hedgehog had described, and would not have been out of keeping with a close friend of Martin Galea. Perhaps public service is not the high calling it once was.

“I’m still pretty new to the job,” she replied. “So I haven’t really met that many people. The Minister, though, is the Prime Minister’s closest advisor,” she said proudly. “His office is very close to the Prime Minister’s.”

That might be true about the location; as to the rest of it, not from what I’d heard. “And where is that?” I asked.

“The Palazzo Parisio, around the corner on Merchant Street. Napoleon stayed there; he slept right in the alcove in the Minister’s office. In what is now the Minister’s office, I mean. He, Napoleon that is, was on his way to Egypt, and he captured Malta first because of its strategic importance.”

She went on a bit more about various other aspects of Malta’s history, and what she had to say was very interesting. Until I’d arrived here, and particularly until I’d become involved with Anna Stanhope’s historical drama, I’d had no idea that Malta had played such an important role in Mediterranean history, and once again wished Galea had given me more than twenty-four hours notice about this trip. But there was something in the way that Esther was talking about it. She sounded as if she’d memorized it all, somehow, as if a button had been pushed and now the speech was to unfold in its entirety. Characteristic of a recent protocol school graduate, I thought, or someone determined to please. I was glad when the speech was over. I had what I wanted: an address for the man I wanted to see. I had learned something else too. Esther made much of the fact that her minister lived in Mdina, among the rich and famous, I could tell.

Soon Victor, Mario, and Anna joined us outside, and we all surveyed the damage.

“We must get this painted,” Victor said, eyeing the shed severely. “I have a friend, a cousin actually, who will help us with this.” And with a bow in our general direction, he started up the causeway to the exit.

“We’ll get some of the boys to help,” Anna called after him. “Maybe Sophia’s young man… Anthony, I think his name is.” She turned to me. I nodded.

“Isn’t he a lovely man?” she said to the retreating back of Victor Deva.

“Lovely,” I agreed.

“I haven’t had much experience with men,” she said in a low voice. “I’m not the type men go for, you know. Never got to the prom, so to speak. Too big, too loud…”

“Too smart?” I added. She smiled at me.

“Thank you. I like that better. I’m such a novice. At my age! I’m just kind of trying to find my way with Victor, taking it one day at a time. I feel totally inadequate but also totally exhilarated!” She paused for a moment, then said, “I know what you’re thinking. That I’m an old fool.”

“Not at all,” I said. “I think he’s perfectly charming, and he obviously has a crush on you. I think that’s just great.”

She beamed. “Thank you again,” she said, squeezing my hand. “Now we must get back to work. Lots to do before the rehearsal tonight. Do you think you can get these costumes in shape?”

“Sure. Esther is giving them all a good going-over. Most of them just need to be brushed off. There’s only one that really needs work, and I will get Marissa, Anthony’s mother, to work on it if she’s willing. I’ll be off now. See you about six.”

She stopped me for a moment as I left. “I should tell you that the girls are quite chuffed at how well the play is looking with Victor’s lights and music and the improvements you’ve made in the costumes and the way things flow,” she said rather shyly. “There’s no question that between the two of you, you’ve moved the production up a notch, professionally speaking. I want you to know I appreciate it as much as the girls do.” I was grateful for her kind words. With so many bad things happening, any thoughtful gesture almost brought me to tears, and so I waved my thanks and got on my way before I embarrassed myself.

I was in a hurry to get back to the house. It was, with all the fussing about at Mnajdra, getting well into the afternoon, and I was expecting Alex to call. I’d left a message on the answering machine at the shop, knowing that Alex always checked that from home very early, and it had been the middle of the night Toronto time when I’d been able to extract details on the Great White Hunter out of the Mountie. I’d learned, after considerable dancing around the subject, a great deal of pretending that our tiff of the evening before had never taken place, and on top of it all, having to cook him breakfast, that the corpse in the safari suit was an American by the name of Ellis Graham. His home address was Los Angeles; his occupation was listed as film producer. Rob had obviously had a call from Tabone the previous evening. I’d heard the phone ring but was too busy sulking to ask about it at the time, and too proud to ask directly the next morning.

Alex, a man of many talents, had worked very briefly as an actor when he retired and was trying to find a way to supplement his pension. He’d gone to one of those cattle call auditions and actually got to play the grandfather in a commercial for a burger chain. As a result, flushed with success he told me, he’d joined Actors Equity. It was his first and last part, but I figured his union connections might assist us in getting information on Ellis Graham, film producer.

While I waited for his call, however, I had to deal with a sad Marissa and a very agitated Anthony. He arrived just as I was explaining to Marissa what had happened at Mnajdra and was showing her Sophia’s torn costume.

“Mum!” he shouted, coming through the door at breakneck speed. “Where are you? They’ve taken Dad away. The police. They’ve taken him to Floriana for questioning. What will we do?”

Marissa looked sad and uncomfortable. “Anthony,” I said, “relax. They’re interviewing all of us. I was there a couple of days ago and so was your mother.”

“But Dad wasn’t even here when Mr. Galea arrived, I mean, when his body got here. I don’t understand this!” he exclaimed, his lower lip trembling.

“I’m sure they are talking to everyone who knew Mr. Galea, to help them with their investigation,”‘ I said in my most soothing tone, the one usually reserved for irate customers. “I’m sure your father will be glad to help the police with their investigation.” Anthony looked somewhat mollified, but I felt awful.

“Anthony,” I said, “how’d you like to help out with a real problem? The storage shed at Mnajdra was broken into last night, and the outside was damaged. It needs to be painted, and with the performance only two nights away, it’s a bit of an emergency. Victor Deva, a friend of Dr. Stanhope, is getting paint and some help from a cousin of his, but I’m not sure they can get it done in time. It’s a big job. Do you think you could help? I’m sure Sophia would really be pleased.”

Anthony looked slightly dubious.

“You could take the car. That is, if your mother thinks it’s okay,” I added. Anthony capitulated totally. Soon he was off, engine revving, to help out at Mnajdra.

“Thank you,” Marissa said, taking Sophia’s costume out of my hands and smoothing it carefully. “I’ll take very good care of this dress,” she said. Then, as she turned to leave, she asked, “Do you have children?”

“No,” I replied.

“Perhaps you should have,” she said. “You handle Anthony better than I do.”

“You know that’s not true. If’s always easier for a stranger in these circumstances,” I said in an offhand way, but the truth was I didn’t much want to think about what she had said. It was a conversation I’d had with myself often enough to know I didn’t like the conclusion I reached. Mercifully, the phone rang, and there was Alex.

“Make yourself comfortable, Lara. This will take a while, long-distance call or no. The good news is that Sarah has been assured by the executors of Martin Galea’s estate that, unless one of us is found to have murdered Galea, there will be no problem with payment of our account, I’m pleased to say. Dave Thomson has been told the same thing, by the way. Much relief all round. The wolf was nearing the door.

“Now let me get to your question, the possible link between Graham and the Knights of Malta. I’m going to cut to the chase, here. I think Ellis Graham was a treasure hunter, and I even have an idea of what he was looking for. On the surface, Graham was exactly what he said he was: a film producer. He was actually a documentary filmmaker, and he specialized in documentaries on lost treasure: Aztec gold, shipwrecks, that sort of thing. Most recently he did a piece for the BBC on, you guessed it, the Knights of Malta, and on a great treasure belonging to the Knights, which he believed had been missing for a very long time. I actually watched the documentary on television some months ago, but I didn’t know who the producer was until I researched this for you this morning.

“The point Graham made quite vividly, as I recall, was that the Knights were fabulously wealthy. To get into the Order, you had to come from only the best—by which was meant aristocratic—background, with an impeccable family history, which is to say, no hint of illegitimacy on either side of the family back for several generations. Technically, anyway. It seems some Popes were able to get offspring into the Order. One can only imagine the contortions they would have put their family history through for that.” He laughed. “It reminds me a bit of some exclusive schools and colleges: Parents had to register their sons at birth, and the admission fees were hefty to say the least. So the Knights began life as wealthy people, and they became even wealthier.

“Having been driven from Jerusalem, Acre, and Rhodes, the Knights settled on Malta, and after surviving the Great Siege by the Turks, stayed there for 268 years, growing ever richer. They might have stayed forever, I suppose, except that they had a date with destiny in the person of Napoleon, who took Malta in 1798 on his way to Alexandria and his confrontation with Nelson at the Battle of the Nile.

“Napoleon didn’t stay long, but he was there long enough to order the Knights to leave—which they did with barely a struggle, because by this time they had grown lazy and corrupt and were in no position or condition to fight—and he was also there long enough to loot and pillage. For example, it is believed he had the silver platters that the Knights used to serve their patients melted down to pay his soldiers for the Egyptian campaign. Various works of art were loaded onto ships and taken away from Malta, the British in hot pursuit. One ship, the Orient, was sunk with its treasure aboard.

“Anyway you get the idea. The point is because of the Knights‘, shall we say, ambulatory and event-filled history, there’s no way of being certain what they had nor what might be missing. Who’s to say what got left behind in Jerusalem, or Acre, or Rhodes, or what got hidden away on Malta before they left thinking perhaps they would return, or for that matter, melted down or carted away by the French? You can almost understand the rumors, considering the history.

“Nonetheless, Ellis focused most particularly, if I recall, on a specific religious relic, a special silver cross the Knights had carried with them all the way from Jerusalem, that he felt might still be in Malta. He left the impression, and I don’t have any idea whether or not this is correct, that a lot of the treasures are still on the island, hidden away in wealthy people’s homes.

“My recollection is that Graham thought the cross could be found hidden either in Valletta, or in another city, Mdina, I think it was, where wealthy families are rumored to have stored away many treasures of the Order: silver, paintings, (there are rumored to be Caravaggios hanging in back rooms of the old houses) porcelain, stunning jewels. With the chaos that would have taken place when the Knights were expelled, that might have been easy enough to do. I wonder if he thought the Knights would have left clues to the location of these treasures. I have a mind he was searching for clues when you kept running into him. Maybe he thought there was a secret code in the carvings in the crypt or something like that.

“There you have it. I’ll get a copy of the documentary as soon as I can and have another look at it, since I’m going on memory here. But it seems Ellis Graham must have been on the track of the treasure of the Knights, perhaps even this silver cross. More money in treasure than documentaries perhaps? That would explain the metal detector and perhaps even why he spoke to you the way he did in the crypt. He thought you were looking for it too—you were looking in all the same places—and so he tried to make a deal.”

“Let’s assume that’s true for a moment,” I said slowly.

“Then what did he mean when he said, ”Then it isn’t you!“ or something like that?”

“I don’t know, of course, but perhaps there actually was someone else looking for the treasure. He thought it was you, because he kept running into you, but he was wrong. Dead wrong, as the saying goes. Perhaps this other person killed him to get to the treasure first.

“Actually now that I say that, I don’t like it one bit. I want you to stick with that policeman fellow, the Mountie, like glue. This is getting nasty.”

“I will, Alex. Really,” I said. “And thanks for your usual brilliant research. What you say makes a lot of sense.”

I thought for a long time about what he had said and about all I had learned that day. I had the feeling there was something about Ellis Graham that I’d forgotten, but whatever it was, it continued to elude me. I hadn’t seen Rob since breakfast. He was off on business of his own, which he wasn’t discussing with me. I wasn’t sure whether I wanted to discuss this with him either. I felt I was at a crossroads and had to make some choices. I could look for the treasure—that had worked out well enough for me once, if you didn’t count almost getting myself killed in the process; or I could pursue Giovanni Galizia, Minister for External Relations and erstwhile friend of Martin Galea.

I thought about it all evening, as I admired the storage shed all shiny and fresh-looking, complimenting Anthony, who was basking in Sophia’s praise, as well as Victor and his cousin, a rather taciturn fellow by the name of Francesco Falzon. And again as I watched the rehearsal unfold. You couldn’t call it a dress rehearsal exactly, with several costumes out for cleaning and repair, but it went well enough. My mind, however, was elsewhere.

I decided in the end, I have no idea why, that Galizia was the way to go. Maybe, after all, I thought, the two paths will cross. There was treasure in Mdina, that of the Knights, and, according to Esther, Mdina was also the home of the Foreign Minister. Stranger things have happened.

TWELVE

I had high hopes for you, the Corsican. Little man with big ambitions. Liberte, egalite, fraternite. You sent them packing, those Knights, grown fat and rich, their vows forgotten. But you are as bad as any other, stealing from My people to finance your campaigns. Be gone. Your destiny awaits you. Trafalgar. Waterloo.

I suppose I should have known, when Tabone’s car pulled up shortly after I left the Honorable Giovanni Galizia’s office, that someone was keeping pretty close tabs on me. At the time, however, I took it to be a coincidence, and a reasonably pleasant one. “Hop in,” he said, smiling at me. “I’m glad I spotted you. Do you have time for a coffee?”

We went to the Caffe Cordina on Republic Square, the late morning haunt of businessmen who stand around the bar drinking espresso and eating pastries under painted ceilings that depict the various nations and empires that have over the centuries considered Malta part of their domain. I’d had other plans, but the truth was, this diversion had the advantage of sparing me any ruminations on the ethics of my activities in the Minister’s office.

I’d made it into the External Relations Ministry, the Palazzo Parisio, with surprisingly little difficulty. It was exactly where Esther had said it was—I passed the Prime Minister’s office to get there. Before I did, however, I paid a visit to the offices of the Times, Malta’s English language newspaper, to check out what they had on the Honorable Giovanni Galizia. I was treated to a large, bulging file which contained clippings dating back about seven or eight years: a triumphant Galizia on his first election victory, a photo of his swearing-in as Minister, and numerous recent photos of him meeting with various foreign dignitaries, several of them easily recognizable, and many of Galizia opening schools, kissing babies, the usual stuff for a politician. Someone on his staff was working very hard to see that there were many so-called photo ops for the media. He was shown on several occasions with his wife, who I gathered was British and had brought to the marriage at the very least a pedigree, and the impression of pots of money.

There was only one article of any real substance, a rather lengthy but not particularly revealing interview. There was a fair amount of name-dropping of the “as I was saying the other day to Tony Blair” variety, and the usual self-serving pap about championing the little man, the downtrodden, the poor, the abused. But then he was quoted as saying, “I bring to public life the lessons of my early life in Mellieha. I know what it is to be poor. My parents died when I was very young, and I have known betrayal at the hands of someone I looked up to, someone in a position of trust.”

The reporter appears to have pressed for details, but Galizia was not to be pinned down. “I’m reluctant to talk about it,” he said. “I tell you this only because it is fundamental to my aspirations for Malta. I am committed to building a better life for all Maltese, but particularly the children. Some of my closest childhood friends left Malta,” he went on, and I thought of Martin Galea, “as so many of us do. There are as many Maltese living abroad as there are currently living here. That is not as it should be. I think we should have a standard of living here that allows us to prosper here, and I will work very hard as a Cabinet Minister to see that the alliances we need to sustain such an economy are strengthened.” A clearly impressed reporter went on to say wonderful things about Galizia’s dedication and determination, and hinted he was destined for higher office, by which I understood to mean Prime Minister.

As positive as the article might be, there were tantalizing hints that all was not entirely rosy for Galizia, hints, once again, of a rift, not yet out in the open between him and the Prime Minister. There was nothing really overt about it, just elliptical references to something amiss: the fact, for example, that previous External Relations Ministers had also been Deputy Prime Ministers, an honor which had originally been bestowed upon Galizia, but then for some unspecified reason had been taken away. A demotion, I thought, and a setback for the poor boy from Mellieha. The reporter, obviously a fan of Galizia’s, hinted darkly at shortcomings of some sort on the part of the Prime Minister. There was much to chew on here. I decided to pay the great man himself a visit.

The Palazzo Parisio, home of the External Relations Ministry, abuts the Prime Minister’s residence on Merchant Street. The main entrance is an imposing one, a large door that opens on to a central courtyard. The door the public gets to enter, however, is on a side street, a plain little door that leads down a couple of steps into the lower level of the building. I expected to find a guard, but I was in luck. If there was one, he was off somewhere, and I made my way to the second floor where, according to the newspaper article I’d just read, the External Relations Minister’s office was located. I did not see anyone as I worked my way carefully to the Minister’s office.

Here my luck ran out. Galizia’s office was guarded by the most formidable secretary, an Englishwoman, left over perhaps from the British regime, who reminded me of the films of Joan Crawford and Bette Davis in their declining years, or perhaps Norma Desmond of Sunset Boulevard fame: makeup applied with a trowel, thinning and overdone hair, and a generally cranky disposition. Behind her on the wall were three photos: The center one was the de rigueur portrait of the titular head of state, the President; to his right was the Prime Minister, Charles Abela, whom I recognized from newspaper pictures; and to his left Minister Galizia. While protocol had been observed, I could not help but notice that Galizia’s picture dwarfed that of the Prime Minister. It was a better photo than those in the newspaper clippings, and a good sight better than the mere glimpse of him I’d had that day at the University, so I tried to memorize his features, should I have the pleasure of meeting him in person.

I summed up the secretary and decided that the imperious approach was my only chance. It was, I confess, singularly unsuccessful, but I’m not sure there was an approach that would have worked. A bribe was clearly out of the question, even had I been able to afford one.

“I would like to have a few minutes with the Minister, please,” I said.

“Do you have an appointment?” she asked sharply.

“No, but I would be happy to make one,” I replied, appearing to retreat slightly. “How about ten-thirty this morning?” I said, glancing at my watch. It was 10:27.

She was not amused. “What is the nature of your business?”

“I’m a journalist from Canada doing a story on Martin Galea, the famous Maltese-born architect. I am aware the Minister was a childhood friend, and I would like to interview him about it.”

“You may speak to public relations, second floor.”

“I’m sure the people in public relations have not met Mr. Galea, and their comments would not, therefore, be helpful,”‘ I said. “When is the Minister available?”

I thought she would say something like “For you, never,” but she didn’t. Instead she turned to the telephone, which was awkwardly placed on the credenza behind her, perhaps her way of treating visitors with contempt. She dialed an extension and with her back to me spoke rapidly in Maltese. I couldn’t tell from her tone whether this was a positive call or not, but I was not optimistic.

As she spoke, I glanced down at her desk and saw a pile of invitations, a luscious cream paper embossed in gold, very swank. It appeared the Minister requested the pleasure of someone’s company at a reception at Palazzo Galizia that very evening, if I were reading correctly upside down. I assumed they were surplus invitations: There was a guest list under them which I couldn’t read.

The dragon still had her back to me and was whispering conspiratorially into the telephone, when much to my own surprise and horror, I found myself reaching quickly across the desk and plucking the top invitation off the pile. By the time she’d hung up and turned around, I’d pressed it between my handbag and my hip to conceal it, and the rationalization process had already begun: something along the lines of desperate times requiring desperate measures.

She gave me a triumphant smile and said, “Security is on its way. I suggest you leave before they get here.”

“Sure,” I said. “I’ll send you a copy of my article. I hope you’ll be pleased with the way you’re portrayed. By the way,” I tossed back at her as I opened the door to the stairwell, “you have lipstick on your teeth.” I had the satisfaction of seeing her reach for her compact as I beat an ignominious retreat. Childish, I know. Some people just bring out the worst in me!

I was about a half a block from the building when Tabone caught up with me and issued his invitation for a coffee. There were crowds of people on Republic Street when we got there, and it was closed to vehicular traffic at that hour, but one thing about traveling with a policeman: Small details like parking and closed streets are not a problem. Tabone pulled the police car up onto the sidewalk right by the Caffe Cordina and we went in. I wasn’t sure why he’d invited me there. It apparently wasn’t to discuss his investigations, because he wasn’t very forthcoming on that subject, nor did he make any reference to my being in the Palazzo Parisio, if indeed he had seen me come out of the building. I did learn, however, that Joseph would be brought back in for questioning again today.

“I don’t want to do it, frankly,” Tabone said. “But with that autopsy report on the books, there’s not much I can do about it. And he’s being such a stubborn old fool. Won’t tell anybody what he was doing in Rome. He took the first flight out one morning and came back the next day on the same flight as the deceased, except that Galea was traveling baggage class, of course.”

“So when do you expect to get another autopsy report?”

“Today, if we’re lucky. Caruana went to Rome to talk to the forensic lab technicians, and he’ll be back late today. I still think it was Mrs… Marilyn Galea. Rob’s colleagues have looked into Galea. It seems he’s given her lots of reasons to kill him. Quite a bit younger than she is. Fifteen years, I think. Known to stray, shall we say. And he probably married her for her money, which maybe he didn’t need anymore.”

“Yes, but why now? He’s been like that for years. What would set her off now, particularly?”

“I don’t know. Maybe he was going to leave her for a twenty-year-old. Not unheard of, you know,” he said, smiling at me. Obviously he and I were going to have to agree to disagree on the subject of Marilyn Galea.

“And Ellis Graham?”

“We think that was a robbery, actually. All his money was gone, along with his ID.”

I’d assiduously avoided thinking much about Graham’s demise. It was so grotesque, a dead man held up by the sword on an empty suit of armor. But the unwanted picture now came into my mind as we talked: the body embracing the Knight, the bullet hole in the head, the sword straight through him, the rumpled clothes and hair.

In that instant I knew what I’d failed to notice at the time.

“Did you find Graham’s hat, by any chance?” I asked Tabone.

“Hat?” he said vaguely.

“His hat. Big brim, Australian outback style with one side turned up, tied under the chin. Leopard skin band too.”

Tabone didn’t say anything, but I could see the hat was news to him. I tried to get him to talk, but he clammed up and was being rather closemouthed about everything. Which was fair enough, since I’d had another thought that I couldn’t bring myself to share with him or anyone else. If I was so convinced that Graham’s and Galea’s deaths were linked in some way, who, other than myself, was related to both? The Farrugia family, Joseph, Marissa, and Anthony, that’s who. All of my Maltese friends had been in the marketplace when Graham was killed, but only the Farrugias had a relationship of any sort with Galea. It was a tenuous link, to be sure, and I was convinced of their innocence, but I was afraid that mentioning that I had seen them from the window of the museum while I was chasing Graham would not improve their chances with the police, and Tabone had said Joseph would be brought in again soon.

Tabone had brought a newspaper, the Times of Malta, and our conversation turned to the arrival of the foreign dignitaries in Malta to discuss the country’s entry into the European Union, among other things. The cover photo showed the British Foreign Minister being greeted at the airport by Galizia.

“Are you expecting any trouble?” I asked, gesturing toward the photo.

“Hope not. We have all kinds of security in place, of course. Almost as much as when President Bush and Gorbachev were meeting out in the Grand Harbour.”

“I was wondering about the school performance at Mnajdra,” I said. “Strange things happening at the site.”

“You mean that incident with the storage shed? Probably irate parents, you know.”

“But don’t you think it’s a bit strange that all these things are happening when world leaders are arriving here? I mean, two people murdered, nasty things going on at the site of a performance for these very important people?”

“Hard to see the connection. But we have someone in there.”

“In there? At Mnajdra? Do you mean undercover?”

He didn’t answer, so I assumed that was a yes. “Who is it?” I asked.

“If I told you that, and if we did have someone undercover there, which I’m not saying we do, then the person wouldn’t exactly be undercover, now would they?” It was clear he wasn’t going to say. We parted company, and I headed back to the house.

I wasn’t sure I’d actually go through with the plan to crash the party at Palazzo Galizia, which was indeed for that same evening at an address on Villegaignon Street in Mdina. This would take more nerve, to say nothing of lack of social graces, than I would normally be capable of. It was Rob Luczka who decided it for me in a rather backhanded way. I told him about my visit to Galizia’s office and showed him the invitation. I was thinking that if I could persuade Rob to go with me, I might just risk it. But when I showed him the invitation, his response was, I suppose, predictable.

“How’d you manage that?” he asked.

“I was at his office and told him I was a friend of Martin Galea’s and…” My voice trailed off. For some reason, although I’d lied my way through the hallowed halls of the External Relations Ministry, I couldn’t bring myself to lie to Rob. My face, as usual apparently, did me in.

“You’ve got to be kidding!” he exploded. “You nicked it, didn’t you?” I nodded.

“I’m a policeman. I don’t crash parties, and I don’t mix with people who steal things either!” He stomped off in a huff.

I, equally annoyed, developed a fallback position. When Marissa brought Sophia’s costume back, beautifully mended, washed, and wrapped in tissue, I asked her if she would do me an immense favor and allow her son to be my chauffeur for the evening. I told her I’d been invited to a party in Mdina but didn’t want to drive myself, and it would be too late for the bus. She agreed. We arranged for Anthony to meet me at the house and drive me to Mnajdra for the dress rehearsal— he’d planned to be there for the rehearsal anyway—and then to drive me on from there.

There was no indication on the invitation of how to dress. I expect that’s because old families, or those who aspire to look that way, know the code. I’d brought one good outfit, just in case Galea had wanted me to help him with his party, either to help host, or even just to pass the canapes. It consisted of long silk pants that flared out at the bottom—I believe they may be called palazzo pants, which seemed appropriate enough for a party at the Palazzo Galizia—and a black silk embroidered top I’d picked up in my travels. The invitation said nine p.m., but I did not plan to arrive before ten when with any luck the party would be in full swing. When one is crashing a party, it seemed to me, it would not be a good idea to be the first guest. That would also allow enough time to get through the dress rehearsal, and for Anthony to drive Sophia home before going on to Mdina.

Rob was nowhere to be seen when Anthony picked me up and we headed off for Mnajdra, which suited me just fine. My face, no doubt, would have given me away.

The rehearsal was a fiasco. The best one could say about it was that if the old adage about a poor rehearsal meaning a great performance was true, then the next night would be a stupendous success. The girls seemed nervous, perhaps because the phalanx of police and army had doubled since the previous evening, and it was all a bit overwhelming for them. They forgot their lines, I got the costumes jumbled up, the music didn’t sound quite right, some of the lights didn’t work, and Victor Deva clucked and fussed all evening in a rather irritating way. The girls were quite down by the end of it all.

Anna Stanhope called them all together just before they went home. She repeated the adage about poor rehearsals and good performances, which brought little smiles to the girls’ faces, and then she said, “You are all citizens of a very tiny republic with an immense and sweeping history, and you are heirs to this heritage. The story you will tell to these world leaders tomorrow night is one of which you can be very proud. It tells of people who, although they have been conquered many times, have never been truly defeated, and have never lost their distinctive character despite attempts by many nations to stamp that out.

“You and your ancestors have endured times as dark as any nation could, whether that was the Great Siege of Malta by the Turks, or the second Great Siege so recently, when your parents and grandparents held on against tremendous odds, bombed day and night, food supplies dwindling, while the world watched and despaired for you. Many thought you would not survive it, but survive it you did. Many thought you were too small for nationhood, but you have proven them wrong. These are the stories you will tell tomorrow, and you will make your parents and your country proud.”

A hush had fallen over the site. Even the police and soldiers were paying rapt attention. She put her hand up in what seemed to be a gesture of blessing. “May the power of the Great Goddess be with you tomorrow, the wisdom of Inanna of Sumer in whose temple writing was invented; the power of Isis, whose name means ‘the throne’ and who provided the foundation for kingship in Egypt; and the strength of Anath who wading through blood, confronted and defeated Mot, the God of Death. But most of all we ask the blessing of the Great Goddess of Malta, who inspired your ancestors to build these temples right here where we stand, as a reflection of her strength and power.”

She lowered her hand and said simply, “See you tomorrow.” The girls left, standing taller perhaps, than they ever had before.

“You are a wonderful teacher,” I told her, wanting to voice my admiration but not being sure how.

“It is something I love to do,” she said simply. “Now let’s get to work,” she said, resuming her normal tone.

Sophia and Anthony helped me sort out the costumes, Victor and his cousin Francesco packed up what equipment they could and covered the rest, Alonso as usual did the heavy work, lifting the boxes and stacking them in the storage shed. Mario and Esther saw to it that a guard was posted on the shed all night. I changed into my party duds in the shed, and then we headed for Mdina.

Technically I knew that Anthony was supposed to drive Sophia home first, but I said nothing. I expect they didn’t have much time alone together, what with Sophia’s father’s coolness toward Anthony. It was fine with me. I could be trusted to keep my mouth shut.

I showed them the invitation and they were clearly impressed. “Minister Galizia is a very important person,” Anthony said, quite unnecessarily. “And rich. I’ll take you to the Main Gate of Mdina,” he went on. “Only residents with permits are allowed to drive in the city. It’s not really designed for cars, as you’ll see. But you’ll have no trouble finding the house. Villegaignon Street is the main street. Lots of beautiful old houses. It’s where the oldest Maltese families live. It runs off the square inside the Main Gate, and it’s not too far to walk. Then I’ll drive Sophia home… slowly.” He grinned. “What time would you like me to pick you up?”

“What time would be good for you?” I smiled back. I was happy to see him cheerful again. He’d been a very subdued young man after Galea’s death, and was obviously very worried about his father, or the man he knew as his father, I should say. Being with his Sophia was obviously good for him. Sophia, I recalled, meant wisdom, and somehow she provided Anthony with the calm center he needed.

“I’ll be back here by eleven-thirty. I don’t think we’d get away with much more than that, do you, Soph? I’ll wait until you get here.”

“Eleven-thirty it is.” They pointed out Mdina in the distance. It was beautiful, high on a hilltop, the rooftops and domes lit up against the night. Soon we arrived at the Gate, a baroque archway, and Anthony dropped me off with very explicit instructions as to where he would be, and equally precise directions to the Palazzo Galizia.

I crossed through the Main Gate and found myself in the town. It was quite extraordinary really, a perfect little medieval city, glowing in yellow stone. While the rooftops were lit, at street level, once you moved away from the plaza, the light was dim. The ground floors of the houses were quite austere, except for very elaborate doorways, complete with coats of arms, beautifully carved. Some of the buildings had no doorways or windows on the main street. I could only assume the doors were on a tiny side street. It was also surprisingly quiet.

I could see why cars were restricted. All of the streets were narrow, some very much so. I could stand in the middle of some of them and almost touch both sides with my outstretched arms. There were few sidewalks. The streets were also angled quite sharply: no straight grid pattern here. The houses seemed to hang, or perhaps hover, over the streets, sometimes literally. Several had windows on second and third floors, ornately carved, that overhung the narrow street below, like Romeo and Juliet balconies.

I was left with an impression of hidden secrets, a certain brooding quality, a watchfulness almost. But perhaps it was just the normal reticence of those with money and power who wish to protect it.

The Palazzo Galizia was impressive, although the house did not yield up its secrets easily. The entrance was not particularly imposing certainly, dark green double doors which in my opinion could have used a lick of paint, topped by a semicircular transom window. There were two bronze door knockers shaped like dolphins, one on each door, but before I could knock the door was opened by a staff person in full regalia. I found myself in a rather austere foyer with what appeared to be a small chapel off to one side. The chapel, complete with burning votive candles, spoke to a piety that for some reason I’d assumed would be lacking in a politician, although this may say more about my opinion of politicians than of Galizia’s religious convictions.

I presented my invitation. The doorman looked mildly puzzled, for reasons that would soon be apparent to me, but he tried to hide it, well trained as he obviously was, and he excused himself to consult with another man stationed at the foot of a marble staircase directly opposite the door. I stood there attempting to look nonchalant as he did so, debating whether, should entry be refused, I would try righteous indignation or simply slink away quietly. I was leaning toward the latter when, apparently satisfied, he beckoned me toward the stairs.

It was not until I was on the landing of the staircase that I began to see the palazzo for the sumptuous abode that it was. The dominant feature of the staircase, which could be seen only if one were permitted to ascend, was an amazing three-tiered chandelier, clear glass shot with pink, Murano I assumed. Through a window on the landing, I could see that the house was built in a square around a central courtyard. We turned right at the top of the stairs, then right again, down a long hallway dominated by a series of portraits. The first of these looked very old, maybe late seventeenth or early eighteenth century, I thought, although paintings are not my area of specialty. The oldest, darkened with age, portrayed elaborately dressed men in aristocratic poses. Two of these men were posed in front of landscapes that did not look Maltese, which meant, if I remembered my fine arts courses of many years ago, that these men owned lands in foreign countries. Portraits of women and children, all looking very prosperous as well, rounded out the collection.

As we walked along the hallway, the portraits became progressively more modern, culminating in an oil painting of Galizia and another of a woman with the kind of horsey look I’ve come to associate with some branches of the English aristocracy. I assumed this was Mrs. Galizia, the British wife. I had the impression that Galizia, subconsciously or otherwise, was trying to imply a distinguished family history very much at odds with the upbringing I’d glimpsed in my visit to Mellieha, and his little speech in the newspaper article about knowing what it was to grow up poor.

The deeper one penetrated into the palazzo, the more elaborate it became. At the far end of the hallway we turned right again and entered the library, a real library, I might add. None of that awful wallpaper that is supposed to fool you into thinking there are rows of books for our friend Giovanni Galizia. Walls of books, most of them leather bound, dominated the room. And lest anyone think that Galizia had bought his books by the yard, never to crack a spine, in one corner was a charming little scene, a worn and comfortable-looking leather chair with a reading lamp, still on, behind it, and a book open on a side table, reading glasses resting on the open page, as if the owner had reluctantly torn himself away from his reading to greet his guests. It was all so studied that I began to wonder if Galizia had hired himself an image consultant.

Two large archways led out of the library. Through the first I could see, as we passed by, the dining room, the table elaborately set for a late supper. Here any notion of decorative restraint had been tossed aside. The ceiling was painted a dark blue with silver stars, the walls mustard-yellow, stenciled with feathered patterns in gold with streaks of blue. There seemed to be more gilt almost than St. John’s Co-Cathedral, and the wall opposite the archway featured a trompe l’oeil fresco that gave the impression of a view through a window to a garden that would have done Versailles proud.

There were high back chairs, the velvet fabric worn sufficiently to erase any traces of new money, lots of gleaming crystal and silver and decorative pieces, elaborate candlesticks and the like. I tried not to gawk; people invited to parties in a palazzo, after all, should be more sophisticated than that. But my acquisitive shopkeeper’s heart was aflutter at several things I saw. I caught myself eyeing these treasures wondering which, if any, had belonged to the Knights.

Martin Galea, the master of the clean line, an airiness of space, and the deceptively simple detail, would choke if he saw this decor, almost claustrophobic in its sumptuousness, I thought, and perhaps he had been there. I wondered if the master of Palazzo Galizia had seen Martin’s new house with its restrained Mediterranean elegance. Comparing their homes, it was hard to imagine the two of them as friends.

The second archway led to an antechamber off the dining room where my arrival was announced. It did not take me long to realize why the doorman had seemed perplexed. There wasn’t another woman in the room.

The air was filled with cigar smoke, and about twenty men were drinking either sherry, expensive no doubt, or champagne, a celebration of some kind. I got the impression, I have no idea why, that a deal of some kind had been concluded. I recognized Galizia and one other person, a member of the opposition party whose photo I had also seen in the newspaper. It was quite the group. Several of those talking to the minister were military types, high ranking, obviously, with so much braid and so many medals I was surprised they could stand. All turned to stare at me, and they did not appear glad to see me.

“Did I come on the wrong night?” I said brightly, with a bravado I did not feel. In fact, I think I would have made a run for it, had my feet not felt rooted to the floor and my exit not been blocked by the staff person who’d led me there.

Galizia came forward. He was not a large man, but he was built like a fighter, barrel-chested and light on his feet. He was not particularly good-looking, but he radiated assurance, a kind of oily smoothness that I could not help but feel masked other less attractive qualities, like cunning, and, if the Hedgehog’s story was true, ambition and opportunism. What I noticed most about him were his eyes, expressionless, almost opaque. If eyes are indeed the windows of the soul, then either Galizia didn’t have one, or he’d crafted for himself an extraordinarily effective mask. He did not extend his hand, nor did he offer me a drink.

“I believe you were at my office today. A journalist of some kind,” he said. His voice was virtually without inflection too, the counterpart of his eyes. It was difficult to tell from his tone his true feelings, although I assumed a contempt for journalists. “My secretary told me you wanted to interview me about someone called Martin Galea. I can assure you I don’t know this person.”

“How about Marcus Galea?” I asked. For some reason my terror, for terrified I was, was translating into a sort of stubborn aggressiveness that surprised even me. I was here now, I remember thinking, and before they throw me out I might as well find out whatever I can.

“Not him either,” he replied. “And now I believe you have overstayed your welcome.” The words were not said in a threatening tone, but the threat, I knew, was there. He pulled a tassled cord in the doorway, and two very large men appeared. I was hustled out of the room and into a back staircase, then down what seemed to be a couple of floors. For a moment or two I had the irrational feeling that they were going to lock me in a horrible dungeon in the basement—it was that kind of house—but instead I was pushed rather roughly out onto the street. Not out the front door either, but onto a narrow, ill-lit alleyway. I wanted to say something soign6 like “I’ve been thrown out of better places than this,”‘ but they were very large men, and the truth is, I was really quite frightened.

I was also completely turned around. I wasn’t sure which way would take me back to Villegaignon Street and thence to the Main Gate where I had determined I would stay in a well-lit area waiting for Anthony’s return. I knew he’d wait for me, and it really was a small town, so I decided it didn’t much matter which way I went. Eventually, I was reasonably sure, I’d get my bearings and find my way back.

I picked a direction and started to walk. I had a sense of being followed, and I picked up the pace. When I was a block or two from the Palazzo, I heard a car skid, and headlights flashed against a wall at the end of the street. I remember thinking, and this was the last rational thought I had for some time, that Maltese drivers really were the worst. Then I heard the car accelerate, turning down the street at top speed, and I realized that this was something much more sinister than bad driving. I froze, like an animal paralyzed by headlights, as the car came straight at me. Behind me I heard footsteps coming fast, but still I couldn’t move. Just as I was about to be hit, someone grabbed me from behind and hurled me against the wall. I heard a thump, someone said, “Run!” I heard someone gasp and fall, and I looked over my shoulder to see a man lying motionless on the street.

It was Rob. He just lay there, on his back, eyes closed. Unconscious, or even, I feared, dead. I was having a great deal of trouble thinking clearly. I kept trying to tell myself this wasn’t happening, that events like this only happened in bad dreams or worse movies. Finally, however, a sound penetrated the fog in my brain. It was the car, the same one, I could tell, and it was turning somewhere. It was coming back, and even though in these narrow streets it might take a while to turn, I had very little time to escape.

There were three doors on the street. I tried the first. It was locked. I tried a second across the little street, then ran a few yards to another, a strange little door that was down a couple of steps from the street. Miraculously it opened. But Rob was still lying unconscious on the street, and if they came back, he would almost certainly be killed.

As I watched a tiny pulse beat in his temple, I knew that I was not going to let anyone hurt him anymore. I put my arms under his armpits and dragged him the few yards to the door, pulled him down the steps and across the threshold, closed the door, and tried unsuccessfully to latch it. He was unbelievably heavy, and I’ve wondered since how I managed it, but I guess you do what you have to do. It was dark inside, and I had no idea where I was.

The dim streetlight shining through a grated window above the door was not too helpful, but eventually my eyes adjusted to the light, enough to see that I was in what I took to be a small chapel. I had heard the car sweep by, then stop near the end of the street and two doors slam. They were coming back to look for us. They began banging on the doors on the street and trying to open them. Ours, I knew, would open.

I dragged Rob again, this time for cover behind a large stone structure with a marble figure, arms across the chest in the position of death, laid out on top of it, and a skull and cross-bones carved elaborately on each side. This was not really a chapel, I realized, but a crypt, the stone structure the tomb of some important personage. But now was not the time to get squeamish, I knew, so I gave Rob once last heave and pulled him behind it. He had the longest legs, and I had real difficulty getting us both wedged in where we wouldn’t be seen.

I knew that even a cursory tour of the place would lead to our discovery—it was just one room—but it seemed to be the only chance we had. I sat on the floor with Rob leaning back against my chest, my arms around him to keep him from falling over. I could hear them approaching the door. Rob, still unconscious, started to murmur. I put my hand lightly over his mouth, and held my breath. The door began to open.

Just then I heard the most beautiful sound, the wail of a siren. Someone stopped crossing the threshold in mid step, and then turned and ran. I heard the car pull away quickly. Moments later, I could see a blue light flashing through the upper window.

Rob’s hand reached up and pulled mine away from his mouth.

“Where are we exactly?” he asked.

“In a crypt of some kind, behind a tomb,” I replied.

“Wonderful!” he said in a decidedly irritable tone. “What is it about you and crypts?”

“Would you accept an unfortunate coincidence?” I said, trying to keep my tone light. In truth I could have wept with relief. Not only were the men who were trying to kill us gone, but I felt anyone this grumpy was bound to recover.

“I’m not sure,” he replied. Then, “I’m starting to take this mess personally.”

“Me too,” I said fervently. “Me too.”

“I’m also thinking I’m getting too old for all this action.”

“I’d have to say the same for me,” I agreed.

“Call Tabone, okay?”

“Sure,” I said.

“There’s something I can’t figure out”

“What’s that?”

“Who was on the plane? Ask him that, will you?” And then he passed out again.

THIRTEEN

Why are YOU here? A new flag run up on the battlements. Another occupying power. Rule Britannia. The sun will never set, you believe? You bring your poets, your statesmen, your laws, and your ways. But you also bring your enemies to My shores.

“It’s a bothersome question, no doubt about it,” Tabone said in a whisper, gesturing in the general direction of Rob, dozing gently in the big bed at the house. Tabone and I had taken Rob to the hospital where they’d diagnosed multiple bruises and a mild concussion. He’d insisted on coming back to the house, even though the doctors hadn’t wanted him to, but he had to be wakened every couple of hours and his eyes peered at for symptoms of worse concussion. I’d insisted he have the bed, and promised Tabone I’d be diligent in my nursing duties. It was the least I could do, after all. He’d saved my life. Tabone offered to take the first shift, but I couldn’t sleep, so we sat chatting quietly at the end of the bed.

“You’ll have to explain the question to me,” I said.

“Then Rob hasn’t told you about the autopsy report,” Tabone said.

“Been busy. Haven’t had time,” a sleepy voice from the bed said. Rob kept drifting in and out of sleep and our conversation in a disconcerting way.

“Galea died approximately twelve hours before you found him, according to Dr. Caruana. I say approximately because of the time lapse between the first and second autopsies. There were indications of freezing in the extremities just as Rob predicted. So he was, we’re almost certain, killed in Canada. The good news is that this should let old Joseph Farrugia off the hook, although I’d still like to know why he went to Rome, just to reassure myself there’s absolutely no connection.

“The bad news… well, you know what it is. They also found two different blood samples on the chest. One, of course, is Galea’s. The second is B positive. Marilyn Galea’s blood is, or was, B positive. It’s not a particularly common blood type for white North Americans, either. We can’t compare it directly to hers, because we can’t find her. But I think we can safely assume it’s hers. Either she cut herself in the act of murdering her husband, or, she was herself injured, or perhaps,” he said carefully, “killed at the same time as he was. I’m not sure which way I’m leaning on that one. The blow that killed him was, according to Caruana, masterful. A quick slice up and between the ribs, puncturing the lung and left ventricle of the heart. Either the work of a professional, or a very lucky, if I may use that term in this regard, blow for an amateur.

“But the fact remains, someone used the ticket, got on the plane, and presumably used Galea’s travel documents to get into Italy. Who and why, I have no idea.

“However, to get back to the problem of the hour. Go back over, one more time, what happened tonight in the Silent City. That’s what they call Mdina, by the way, and it’s what saved you. They don’t call it that for nothing. The fancy residents of Mdina don’t like their peace disturbed. Called the police right away. You and your pursuer, or pursuers as the case may be, were making quite a ruckus, I gather, banging on doors and revving engines and all. We were told there were hooligans loose in the city.”

I went back over the evening’s events. Tabone’s eyebrows raised very slightly and there was the slightest hint of a smile when I told him about stealing the invitation, but other than that, his reaction was low-key, with none of the stomping about that Rob had done. He interrupted my narrative with questions from time to time.

“Did you see a license plate?” Answer: no.

“How many people were in the car?” Answer: two, or at least I thought I’d seen two.

“Are you absolutely certain they were deliberately trying to hit you? You know how we drive here. Perhaps they came back to make sure you were all right.”

“To apologize, you mean?” I asked incredulously.

“It’s possible,” Tabone said in a somewhat defensive tone.

“Noooo,” came a muffled reply from the bed.

“All right, then,” Tabone said. “I’ll check up on Galizia’s party, although there doesn’t seem to be anything unusual about it. Except for your arrival, of course.”

We sat quietly for a few minutes.

“Alex!” the voice from the bed said. “He called. I forgot to tell you. He wants you to call as soon as you get in. Sorry!”

It was still relatively early back home, and I knew Alex was a nighthawk, so I returned his call while Tabone watched over Rob. I apologized for calling him back so late, explaining only that I’d been to a party.

“ T got a copy of the Ellis Graham documentary and had a look. It’s a quite sensationalized account of the history of the Knights of St. John, but a rather good television show, I must say. He mentions a lot of objects that have gone missing, and talks about the old families of Malta who may be hoarding them, but the one object I think he’d be looking for now is the cross I told you about, a silver and gilt cross supposedly carried from Rhodes to Malta by Philippe Villiers de L’Isle-Adam, Grand Master at the time of the Knights’ defeat by Sulieman the Magnificent and their consequent wanderings about the Mediterranean looking for a home.”

“So you think producing the program gave him an idea of where the cross might be, and he came on a treasure hunt of sorts,” I said.

“That was certainly my assumption when I’d finished watching the documentary, and I’ve had my hunch confirmed. I talked to an old friend of mine in L.A. Turns out he worked out of the same studio as Graham, and he says that after doing the documentary, Graham became absolutely obsessed with the idea of finding that cross. He talked about it and the Knights incessantly, to the point where people thought he was a bit daft. He was convinced that the Knights would have left a secret message of some kind, telling where they’d hidden it before Napoleon threw them off the island. That would explain why you saw him peering at tombstones and the like. Anyway, I was convinced we were on the right track here, but then I learned something new. I don’t know whether this is good news or bad, but the cross has been located.”

“You’re kidding!”

“I’m not. I joined a little chat group on the Internet, a bunch of museologists who get together regularly. I thought I might get some information from them. Anyway, I was following along the conversation when one of them said that a museum in one of the former satellite states of the old USSR had just released a catalogue of their collection, and we should all have a look at it because so many of these things had been hidden from us during the Soviet era. I’m sure you’ve guessed the rest. A silver and gilt cross said to have belonged to the Knights of St. John and supposed to have been carried from Jerusalem to Rhodes to Malta, then passed from hand to hand, or should I say Grand Master to Grand Master, after the Knights left Malta, eventually worked its way into this museum. I can’t believe it, but I also can’t imagine there are two. The catalogue even mentions de L’isle-Adam.”

“But presumably Graham didn’t know that, if the news is as current as you say.”

“Exactly. He may have been looking for it, but he couldn’t have been killed for it, because it wasn’t there to find. He could have been looking for something else, of course, but it doesn’t sound like it from what my showbiz friend has told me.”

“This is getting rather bizarre,” was all I could think to say. I thanked Alex for his detective work, and then went back to watch over Rob. Tabone left shortly thereafter, and I sat watching Rob and doing a mental catalogue of my own of where this whole mess stood.

Galea was killed in Canada. Marilyn was either guilty of his murder, or was herself a victim. It looked as if he’d been killed in his own home, since there seemed to be no other opportunity to do it. But someone drove his car to the airport, parked it, used the airline ticket, and got into Italy using Galea’s travel documents.

A second murder victim, Ellis Graham, was looking for something, of that I was reasonably certain, what with the connection to his documentary and his metal detector, and all the places I’d spotted him. But the most likely object of his search wasn’t here; it was in a museum somewhere, something it was unlikely he could have known.

Joseph Farrugia had gone to Rome for some reason he would not reveal, had been in the vicinity at the time of Graham’s murder, and Tabone was still a little suspicious because of his reticence.

Rob and I had just had what he would describe as a close encounter of the automotive kind, right after I’d been thrown out of the Palazzo Galizia by the Minister himself, a man with sumptuous tastes and blank, soulless eyes. He was also, according to someone called the Hedgehog, a boyhood friend of Martin Galea, a fact he had denied to my face.

All sorts of important people were in town, foreign ministers of various European countries and lots of military types, and Galizia, in his role as External Relations Minister, was associated with them all. Several of these people were to attend a performance at Mnajdra the following evening, a place which had had its share of strange events and controversy.

It was an interesting catalogue, but it didn’t seem to be leading anywhere in particular, and soon I fell asleep curled up in a blanket across the end of die bed. It seemed the easiest thing to do. I just rolled over from time to time, woke Rob up, shone a flashlight in his eyes, then we both went back to sleep.

Marissa arrived the next morning, and made both of us breakfast. She and I then had a brief discussion about looking after Rob, which she agreed to, because I knew there were a couple of things I had to do before I went to the performance that evening. The first was that Marissa and I had to have a serious talk.

“Marissa,” I began, “I’m sure you’re very happy to have Joseph back home, but you need to know that Detective Ta-bone still has some reservations about him, primarily because of his refusal to say why he went to Rome.”

“I know,” she sighed. “He can be a very stubborn man. I’ll tell you why he went, but only if you promise me not to tell anyone else, and also to give me advice as to what I should do about it.” I agreed to her terms.

“Anthony, as you know, wants very badly to be an architect and we want the best for our son. But now with Galea dead, it will simply not be possible, I think. We cannot afford it,” she said sadly.

“But before all this happened, we were waiting for Anthony to hear from the University of Toronto and the school in Rome. Joseph and I—we shouldn’t have, we know that— opened the letters before Anthony got home from school. The first to come was an acceptance from Canada. You know how we felt about our son going to be with Marcus. We hid the letter, hoping for a similar reply from Rome. But when it came, it was a rejection letter. Anthony was not accepted. It was, in a way, our worst fear. Only one acceptance, and from so far away, where Marcus could continue to influence our boy.

“We didn’t say anything to Anthony—he continued to watch for the letters, but it kept gnawing away at Joseph. He couldn’t sleep, he fretted all the time. Finally he decided to go to Rome and plead, beg, the people at the school to let Anthony in. We had difficulty putting together the money for the ticket, and we couldn’t afford a hotel. Joseph spent the night sitting up in a cafe. He had trouble finding the place, and the right person to talk to, but finally he did.

“They were horrible to him, polite, of course, but horrible. He knew they were laughing at him behind his back, his workingman clothes, even though he wore his best, his only, suit. They sneered at his poor Italian and his working-class manners. He looked out of place, and he knew it, but they made it clear to him even if he hadn’t known.

“They refused to change their decision, of course. I knew it was hopeless, but Joseph wouldn’t admit it to himself. He thought if he just explained it to them, they would understand and change their minds. He is a proud man in his own way, and the whole experience was profoundly humiliating for him. He forbade me to speak of it; he could hardly tell even me when he got back that night. Not that I was particularly helpful, what with Martin’s body and everything.

“ I know he should have told the police, but I think he really felt, naively, that because he was innocent, everything would be all right, and he wouldn’t have to tell anyone about his humiliation in Rome.

“The thing is, we haven’t said anything to Anthony yet. Even though Marcus is gone, and he knows there is no chance he’ll be able to go now, he checks the mail every day, perhaps just for the satisfaction of being accepted somewhere, or else the closure of knowing he couldn’t get in to either place anyway, so the money doesn’t really matter anymore. I’m torn really. I don’t know what to do. What do you think?”

“I think Anthony will be able to go to the University of Toronto if he wishes to. You obviously haven’t heard yet, but Martin left Anthony a rather large sum of money. It will definitely see him through school. You’ll be hearing from the executors of Galea’s estate soon, I’m sure, and as long as you are all cleared of any wrongdoing in Galea’s death, Anthony will get the money. It’s $100,000.”

She looked stunned. “That is so much money,” she gasped.

“It is and it isn’t,” I replied. “I’d consider it a small payment in light of what he owes you. That’s my opinion, of course. But you will have to tell Anthony eventually, and you’ll probably have to tell him everything. For all we know, the wording in the will may even reference the fact that Anthony is Martin’s son.”

“I understand what you’re saying. But I’m afraid it will kill Joseph. He has a strong heart, the heart of a workingman, but not perhaps strong enough for this,” she said with tears in her eyes.

“You don’t have to do anything immediately, so give Joseph time to deal with it in his own mind, and in his own way,” I advised her. We talked a while longer, and she calmed down a little.

Then I headed out to answer my second question of the day. First I checked the refrigerator and was pleased to see a six-pack of beer there, chilled and ready. I packed it into the car and roared off across the island, heading once again for Mellieha and another conversation with the Hedgehog.

I found him in exactly the same chair and the same location, but he was looking, if anything, even scruffier than he had the first time we’d met, and there was a certain air of vagueness, or perhaps puzzlement, about him. He was pleased to see the beer, however, and told me to sit down.

“I was here a few days ago with a friend of mine,” I said. “From Canada.”

“Were you?” he said vaguely.

“I asked you about Marcus Galea,” I said, remembering to pronounce it the way the Hedgehog liked to.

“Did you?” he replied. I was getting a sinking feeling that this expedition was a hopeless one, but I soldiered on.

“I’ve been thinking that perhaps I asked the wrong questions,” I said.

“Perhaps you did,” he agreed.

“I think I should have asked you about Giovanni Galizia.”

“I expect so, yes,” he said.

“Do you remember Galizia?” I asked tentatively.

“Of course I do,” he said irritably. “It’s you, a few days ago, that I don’t remember. The past I remember vividly. It’s both a blessing and a curse.”

“And in the case of Galizia?”

“A curse. I would have to say a curse,”‘ he sighed. “Is that beer for me?” I handed him a bottle. “Have one!” he ordered. “I hate to drink alone.” He took a long swig from the bottle, then watched as I took a smaller swig from mine.

“You’re not one of those social worker types, are you?” he asked me. I shook my head, and he looked at me very carefully. Then, apparently satisfied with what he saw, he began. “Things happen to people around Giovanni Galizia. Bad things. I should know.” He paused. I waited. I knew, somehow, that this conversation would have to play its way out at the Hedgehog’s own pace.

“ T was a teacher at the local church school. High school. I was a good Catholic, I might add, although what good that has done me, I don’t know. Giovanni Galizia was one of my students. Not my best student. Marcus Galea was my best student. Giovanni was, if anything, one of the worst. But somehow, things always worked out for him. Not always the way you would expect, perhaps. But work out they did, just the same.

“I remember when he was trying to get on the football team—they call it soccer, I think, where you come from. The coaches were down to the last pick, and it was between two boys, Giovanni Galizia, and Pawla Bonnici. I think Pawla was the better player, actually, but then he had an accident. Fell off some scaffolding on the school. One of the walls was being repaired. The boys were drunk, of course; they seemed to be most of the time at that age. Pawla claimed he’d been pushed, but he couldn’t say who’d pushed him, and, of course, no one believed him. I didn’t at the time. Later, I would come to understand. Giovanni made the team.

“Another time there was an oratorical contest at the school. Giovanni and another boy were generally considered to be in a dead heat for first place. Giovanni might not have been a good student, but like the politician he was to become, he was a good talker. His speeches, while impassioned, were a little derivative—is that the word?—in my opinion, which is a polite way of saying that I suspected someone else had written them for him. Nonetheless he made it to the finals. Then the other finalist got sick, really deathly ill from food poisoning. The boys had all gone out the night before to celebrate the last day of classes, and, of course, the final of the oratorical contest. Only the one boy got sick, and Giovanni won the contest, but you probably figured that out already.

“Then there were the exams to get into a foreign University. They were a very big deal. You need to understand that it was very difficult to get into University in Malta in those days. You had to know the right people, and people like Giovanni and Marcus did not have those sorts of connections. The only hope they had was to get into University somewhere else, and in both cases, coming as they did from very poor circumstances, needed to win scholarships. Giovanni did very well, much better than I had expected, but then I found irrefutable evidence that he had cheated on his exam. I confronted him with it—it was a Friday, I remember, and I gave him the weekend to think about what he would do. I told him that if he did the right thing and told the principal what he had done, I would stand by him, and see there were no further repercussions, that is that he’d be allowed to write the exams again a few months later. If not, however, I told him I would report him myself. It was the biggest mistake I ever made, giving him time to think about it, that is.

“I went away for the weekend. I remember I took the ferry to Gozo and enjoyed the weekend there with friends. When I returned Monday morning, the story was all over the school. I was summoned to the principal’s office, and summarily dismissed right on the spot. After an impeccable career spanning twenty years! I was so shocked I could barely manage to ask why I had been sacked. The principal said I knew perfectly well, that I should have known that something so disgusting would have to come out, but I didn’t have any idea what he was talking about. I was utterly baffled. I left the principal’s office and went looking for some of my colleagues and friends, but they wouldn’t speak to me.

“Eventually, of course, I heard the rumors. One of the students, unnamed of course, had reported an incident of abuse involving me. You know what I mean by abuse, don’t you? I don’t have to spell it out for you, do I?”

I told him I knew what he meant.

“I was never given an opportunity to defend myself. I couldn’t charge anyone. They wouldn’t say who the student was. It was dreadful, and I was totally ruined.

“It got worse, partly of my own doing. I entered into a rather hasty marriage to a widow with a young daughter, to try to prove I was normal, that I wasn’t the kind of person they thought I was. Totally loveless marriage, I might add. I endured years of harangues from that sharp-tongued woman. In the end I had a nervous breakdown. I’m said to have never fully recovered, but I’m not as daft as they think. My wife is gone, thank God for that. Her daughter looks after me, not because she loves me—she’s like her mother in that—but because she likes to be seen as a martyr. And I sit here and follow the career of the Honorable Giovanni Galizia with a sort of all-consuming interest.”

Suddenly he leaned toward me and grabbed my wrist. “Have you seen his eyes?” he asked, his fingers, surprisingly strong, digging into my arm.

“I have,” I replied.

“And what did you see?”

“Nothing. Absolutely nothing.”

“Exactly. No heart, no soul.”

His stepdaughter must have been keeping a wary eye out for her father, because when he grabbed my arm, she came outside. “Is my father bothering you?” she asked. She was a brittle-looking woman who probably looked much older than her years.

“Not at all,” I replied. “Your father is telling me some of the really interesting history of Malta.” The Hedgehog looked away.

“None of your conspiracy theories now, Father,” she said. “None of that nonsense about Giovanni Galizia!” The Hedgehog made a face at her retreating back.

“They all think I’m cuckoo,” he said, tapping his forehead with his fingers when she had gone back inside, “but if you’ve seen him, you know.”

“So what happened after that?”

“His meteoric rise to fame continued. His family had been Labour, supporters of Dom Mintoff originally. Galizia was going to run for Labour, but then it became clear the Republic Party would win the next election, so Galizia switched sides. There was no clear candidate in this area for the Republic Party, and the only one who stood a chance of winning had to withdraw. No one would say why, but there were lots of rumors. Does this sound like a pattern to you?” he asked rhetorically.

“Where was Marcus Galea in all this?”

“Marcus and Giovanni were best friends in school, although Giovanni was a year or two older. Both had had a rough start in life, both were highly ambitious. But there I like to think the resemblance ends. Marcus was genuinely talented, genuinely charming. He did well to get into the University with a scholarship, and I saw no indication that he cheated to do it. I would think well of him were it not for what happened to the little Cassar girl—I could tell you about that, if you wish.”

“You already have. The last time I was here, a few days ago,”‘ I reminded him.

“Did I?” he replied. “Wasn’t long enough ago for me to remember, I guess.” He grinned ruefully. “The real difference between the two boys was, I think, that Marcus was not so much consumed by ambition as delighted in the pleasures that success brought. Giovanni could not enjoy it, because, whatever it was, it was never enough. This may not seem like much of a difference, but I believe it is a profound one.”

“I went to a party at Galizia’s house last night,” I confessed. “Actually I crashed a party at his house, the Palazzo Galizia. I stole an invitation. I got caught, though. I was the only woman there.” The Hedgehog rocked back and forth on his chair with silent laughter.

“There were a lot of high-ranking military people there. Very high up, I’d say, although I’m not an expert in these things. And I thought I recognized one other person, but he was a member of one of the other political parties. Would Galizia be thinking of changing sides again, do you think? Maybe he disagrees with the Prime Minister’s stand on the European Union?”

“You are making assumptions, dearie,” he said, wiping tears of laughter from his eyes. “You are assuming that Galizia changes political parties because he changes his mind about which political platform he supports. This is not about politics. It is not about beliefs, political or otherwise. It is not about values. He doesn’t have any. The only thing he believes in is himself. He will do whatever it takes to get ahead.”

“I did some reading about Galizia, you know. People seem to think highly of him, at least the journalist did. He sounds intelligent and charming when you read about him.”

“Oh, he’s smart enough, and he is not without charm. That is, perhaps, what makes him most dangerous.”

“But the kind of person you are describing, someone with no values or beliefs, and no compunction of any sort. That person is…”

“A psychopath?” the Hedgehog replied. “Is that the word you’re looking for? Call it whatever you will, the point is, whenever someone is in Galizia’s way, something bad happens to them. They get hurt, they get sick, they are disgraced. I should know.”

“Who do you think is in his way now?”

“I have no idea. But there will always be someone. Make sure that someone isn’t you, dearie.”

FOURTEEN

Oh, I am burning, the evil Axis ranged against Me. My people starve, My history is in ruins. Will help never reach Me? Endure, I will. Survive, I will. My time will come again.

Let the performance begin.

The champagne is chilling nicely, little pots of caviar and oysters on the half shell glistening in their bed of crushed ice, the linens crisp, the silver and crystal gleaming, flowers artfully arranged. Mario Camilleri, right in his element, is strutting his stuff, walkie-talkie at the ready. Esther, his shy assistant from protocol, nervously straightens rows of champagne flutes and lines up napkins with obsessive precision.

I survey the scene with a mixture of amusement and anxiety. Anna Stanhope is rather formally dressed, blue chiffon and pearls. She seems her usual well-in-control self, except for two round pink spots on her cheeks, and very bright eyes that betray her excitement. I am back in my palazzo pants ensemble, these being the only clothes I have with me that befit the occasion. I hang back in the shadow of the temple, sincerely hoping not to be recognized by the Honorable Giovanni Galizia.

The students’ emotions run the gamut, one or two feigning total indifference, Sophia her usual placid self, a couple of girls threatening to either throw up or faint dead away. They are all set in the costumes for their first appearances, their usual well-scrubbed faces now covered in powder, blusher, and eyeliner. Several of them keep peeking around the edge of the temple entrance to see what’s happening, reporting back eagerly to those too nervous to even look. My own hands shake just a little as I apply troglodyte makeup to Marija’s sweet little face, as I give a tug to Napoleon’s white vest bulging over Gemma’s pillowed stomach, and straighten the Roman centurion’s helmet on Natalie’s bobbing head. I think how much I want the performance to go well for them.

As I watch over the final preparations, I idly look at all the faces of the adult helpers, wondering which, if any of them, is Tabone’s undercover officer. Is it Alonso, the big, somewhat loutish older brother who’s been general dogsbody and muscle? The girls have complained he spies on them. Maybe that’s his job.

Perhaps it is Victor Deva, now putting the finishing touches on the lights and fussing over the final placement of the sound speakers. Presumably it isn’t his cousin Francesco, who is missing the performance due to what Victor describes as “tummy trouble.” As a result of Francesco’s ailment, I am now Victor’s designated assistant, and have followed him around the set making note of what I am to do. It is an easy enough task. Instead of being inside the temple helping the girls with their costumes, I am given responsibility for a spotlight high on a metal pole to one side of the temple. I am to switch it on and off—an electrical cord runs down the pole and the switch is within easy reach—at points marked on Victor’s copy of the script, which he gives to me saying he has his role memorized. He will be nearby, he assures me, on the other side of the temple entrance with the lights he has placed there. The girls will be on their own for costume changes, now that I have these additional responsibilities, and with Anna Stanhope out in front to give direction from there. But the girls seem comfortable enough with that and I know that Sophia will keep everyone calm and see that what needs to get done is well taken care of.

Mario Camilleri undercover? Unlikely, I think. He is, like most PR types, a good talker, but not one, I decide, for action. That leaves me, Anna Stanhope and Esther as the only other adults around, unless one counts the myriad soldiers and policemen who, all in uniform, could hardly be called undercover.

It is the latter part of dusk, just before dark, the time when our eyes make the transformation from day vision to night, when colors fade for a while to a crepuscular silver. It is a beautiful evening, we were fortunate in that, clear, no rain on the horizon, and as warm as it has been since I arrived.

Mnajdra sits right on the coast, protected by the sea on one side, and nestled into the side of an incline on the other, the temple of Hagar Qim on higher ground some distance away. Between the two temples, running parallel to the sea, there is a long stone wall. To protect the notables, the authorities have positioned soldiers along the length of the wall only a few yards apart, well within sight of each other, and with a clear line of sight in all directions. Others patrol an area on either side of Mnajdra’s temples, between the wall and the sea. It should be an easy enough job. In this part of Malta there are no trees to block their view. Anyone trying to get to the site will have to cross one of these lines, and to do it without detection would be a difficult, if not impossible, task.

In addition to the foreign dignitaries who have their own special seating arrangement and hospitality, thanks to Mario Camilleri and the Maltese government, the parents and families of the students have received invitations. These contain instructions on where to present themselves and when. In addition there is to be limited seating and some standing room for the general public. Not terribly comfortable, I think, but it is considered, I am told, a hot ticket.

Guests for the performance have to funnel through a single entranceway set up in a break in the wall. Here everyone, including the students and accompanying adults like me, are all carefully searched for weapons before they are allowed through. We watch from inside the temple entrance as the parents and families are escorted to chairs on either side of the VIP tent, and along the edge of the hill. I am happy to see Tabone and Rob, moving slowly I note, take their places not far from the tent. The general public get to sit on blankets and cushions further up the hill.

While we wait for the official party, I wander to the edge of the site overlooking the water. Way down below and offshore are two or three police boats ready lest some intrepid swimmer and climber decides to crash the party from that direction. From a security perspective, the only way to get at the VIP contingent, it seems, is from the air, and I am assured by Mario that the control tower at Luqa is ever watchful. Interceptor aircraft are standing by to respond at a moment’s notice.

While I’d thought the selection of Mnajdra as a backdrop for the performance an inspired choice, I worry now that the logistics at the site may be a nightmare. Between Hagar Qim at the high point of the site, and Mnajdra nestled in its hollow near the sea, lies a stone sidewalk of sorts, a causeway a little more than a quarter of a mile long by my reckoning. It is a place, I’d been told, where prior to the arrival of the security forces several days ago, locals liked to ride their motorcycles back and forth. It is by this causeway that the honored guests will arrive. Although it isn’t that far to walk, I cannot imagine world leaders and their spouses, decked out for a formal state dinner afterwards, walking that distance. The pathway is not wide enough for a car, nor for a karrozin, the Maltese horse-drawn carriage.

But I have underestimated Mario Camilleri’s ingenuity, and the Maltese love of a parade. “Show time!” he shouts suddenly, and I hear applause from the assembled guests further up the hill. The honor guard, members of the armed forces in dress uniforms, inky black in the darkness except for a red stripe on the trousers, a wide white belt, and lots of brass buttons, steps forward briskly to take their place flanking either side of the lower end of the pathway. I look up the pathway and first hear then see a brass band, followed by a row of little golf carts, spanking new and brightly painted, each decorated with colored lights, flying the flags of the country of the occupants. It looks very festive, and is, I have to admit, ingenious.

In the first cart, leading the group of dignitaries is the Prime Minister, Charles Abela, followed by the British Foreign Secretary, Sir Edmond Neville, followed in turn by the foreign ministers of Greece, Italy, and France. I am interested to see the Prime Minister. Until now he has been a bit of a cipher, a man I have never seen, someone I have come to know only as the man who does not like Giovanni Galizia. It is not good, I remember, to stand in Galizia’s way. Bringing up the rear is Galizia himself, who, when his cart reaches the assembled guests on the hill, urges his driver to stop and gets out to walk the rest of the way, shaking hands, pointing to people he knows, pausing briefly to have his photo taken with children, and generally pressing the flesh. His wife, the British-born aristocrat, whom I recognize from her portrait but have not had the pleasure of meeting at her lovely home due to the male-only restriction at the palazzo party, goes on ahead in the cart.

The guests help themselves to champagne, caviar, and oysters, then take their places. In the front row are Charles Abela and the foreign ministers, in the second their wives and Galizia. In the third row sit a few people that I can only assume are security staff and other hangers-on. It is galling, no doubt, for Galizia to be considered second tier, and I notice that rather than take his seat in the row, he stands a little to the side, in line with the first row and well in view of the crowd.

At a sign from Camilleri, the lights go down, and we find ourselves in darkness for a few seconds. Victor has arranged to bring the lights back up very gradually, so that for a moment or two, the temple ruins seem bathed in an eerie glow. A hush falls over the crowd. The setting is truly magnificent. Impressive as these ancient stones may be in daylight, in the dimly lit darkness, they have a primordial power that reaches deep into the psyche.

It is as if, for a short time, the ghosts of ages past inhabit the site, and for a few moments are almost visible. It is possible to imagine in those few seconds how those early people would have felt in the presence of their Great Goddess, omnipotent, omniscient, a Goddess to be loved, adored, and feared. I feel a frisson, a sense of impending disaster, and suddenly I very badly want the performance to be over, and everyone to be safe. But then die lights come up, I turn the spotlight on the sacred entranceway to the temple, and the performance begins.

Sophia stands there, in a long white dress, her voice strong and sweeping across the night air.

“I am at the beginning, as I am at the end. I am the sacred circle, spinner of the web of space and time. I am the Cosmic ‘And’: life and death, order and chaos, eternal and finite. I am Earth and all things of it.

“For periods of time you call millennia, we lived in harmony, you and I. I gave you the bounty of the lands and seas to nourish you, and taught you to use them. I gave you artistic expression so that through your sculpture, painting, and weaving, you might honor me, and through me, yourselves. And I taught you writing that you might remember me.”

The audience sits in rapt attention. Even the politicians, cynical and bored though they must usually be by many of the official activities planned for them, are drawn into the spell of the place. All except for Galizia it seems, because he steps away from the tent and lights a cigarette.

As Sophia speaks, I realize I am once again the apex of a perfect triangle. This time it is not the sun, but the rising moon that is low to my horizon. With my left hand I can point to Anna Stanhope, with my right to the man, Victor Deva, standing with his back to the sea.

As I look from one to the other, a breeze wafts up from the sea. It catches his hair and blows it forward across his face. For a second or two it sits there, hugging his skull, emanating from a tiny bald spot on the top of his head, perched like a polar ice cap on some small planet, like a bowl on top of his head.

“Neglected, devalued, insulted, and profaned I may be, but I remain,” Sophia says. “I wait in my sacred places. I live in your dreams. Nammu, Isis, Aphrodite. Inanna, Astarte, Anath. Call me whichever of my manifestations you will. I am the Great Goddess.”

Finally the mental match is made, and I know now what Ellis Graham was trying to tell me was wrong. I remember when I first saw Victor Deva. It was only in profile, but I recognize him nonetheless. He was a priest, on an airplane, the seatmate of Graham.

But now he is not dressed as a priest. My mind, slowly, as if mired in some sticky substance, works its way through the permutations and combinations. If he is a priest, he is toying with Anna Stanhope’s affections. And if he is not, then what, and why? There is danger, Ellis Graham had said. As I ponder this, I sense, rather than actually see, Galizia move further away from the tent. Somehow I know something terrible is about to happen.

And then I see the gun.

Victor Deva steps out of the shadow of the giant stones and takes aim at the VIP tent. I hear a collective gasp, but everyone is frozen, captives of space and time. Except Anna Stanhope, who sees, and in a single instant understands. Her emotions dance across her face, first disbelief, then comprehension, then a mask of pain I know even in that moment I will never be able to forget. She races forward and intersects the line of fire as the gun goes off.

She stumbles, her body jerks twice, then falls, collapsing like a large rag doll in a party dress of blue chiffon, blood all over her. Somewhere the Great Goddess weeps.

The gunman, undeterred, raises the gun again.

I am standing by the light standard. I push the tall pole as hard as I can. We stand, Victor Deva and I, mesmerized by the arc of light as it sweeps across the night sky. It catches him by the shoulder, he stumbles and drops the gun.

Now there is screaming everywhere. In the tent there is chaos, security personnel pushing their charges to the ground, chairs crashing, glass breaking. Over that there is the roar of an engine. A helicopter with police markings races toward the site, low to the ground. I think help is coming, but then, for reasons I cannot understand, Victor Deva runs in a direction that will have him intersect with its path, vaulting over a low stone wall that surrounds the temple to do so. I see Tabone and Rob, limping badly, and Esther, gun out, running behind him. To my amazement, Tabone fires, several times, at the helicopter, as does a soldier. It veers and weaves out of control across the temple site, and as it passes one of the lights, I see Francesco, his face contorted in terror, at the controls. The aircraft screams over the edge of the cliff and out to sea where it crashes in a huge orange ball of flame.

Victor Deva, his escape route gone, cornered, changes direction. Tabone and Esther race to intercept him, but I know I am now closest. Propelled by a fury so intense it absolutely consumes me, I run after him. Both of us stumble on the rocky ground, but both of us keep going. There is a roaring in my ears, I can hardly see, and I want to hurt him very, very badly. I am only a few yards behind him when he reaches the edge of the cliff. With nowhere to go, he turns, looks right at me, and then steps—or stumbles?—backwards off the cliff. I am howling with rage, and I believe I am prepared to follow him into the very jaws of Hell to exact my revenge, but strong arms pull me back and a voice says, “You can stop now, Lara. It’s over.” I lean on Rob’s shoulder and cry.

We leave Esther and Tabone looking over the edge of the cliff to the broken body I know must be on the rocks far below, and we go back to the place where Anna Stanhope lies. A doctor from the crowd attends to her, and I hear the comforting wail of a siren nearby. For a minute her eyes open and she sees me. She reaches for me, and with surprising strength pulls me down to her. Then she laughs a little, coughs, and grasping my hand very firmly whispers, “There is no fool like an old fool.”

FIFTEEN

My gorge rises. When will this end? My people have been enslaved, betrayed, converted, deserted, patronized, anglicized. They’ve fought other people’s battles, died for other people’s causes. Leave them be. Let them choose their own future. Those who worshipped Me best.

“So what have we got?” Rob asked. It was the day after the disastrous event, and we were sitting once again in Vincent Tabone’s office.

“We’ve got a real mess, that’s what we’ve got,” Tabone replied morosely. He sighed. “But perhaps you were hoping for more detail than that.”

“Indeed,” Rob said. “Like who, what, where, why, and how, for starters. Something a little more concrete than mess, or Lara’s contention that it was Galizia in a fit of ambition.”

“Well, we’ve got one of the who, at least,” Tabone replied. He slapped a photograph on the desk in front of us. It was fuzzy but recognizable. “Marek Sidjian, alias Victor Deva, along with a long list of other aliases. Not Italian, but a master of disguise, and someone who seems to have acquired many convincing accents along the way, to say nothing of passports. We believe he learned his craft with the Russians in Afghanistan. He is a suspect in other similar plots, some unfortunately more successful than this one. Do you recall the shooting of an Italian businessman, a banker, in broad daylight on a crowded street in Milano just a few months ago?”

We both nodded.

“He’s a suspect in that, and others like it I’ve been working with Interpol, and Rob with U.S. and Canadian authorities, all night, and we’ve learned a good deal about how Sidjian operated. He was not only the killer, but quite the businessman, the one who dealt with the clients, and who used his charm to insinuate himself into a position to carry out the deed. He actually studied acting, wouldn’t you know? Perhaps he should have stayed with it. On the face of it, at least, he would have been good at it. Usually he had an accomplice, an assistant, which brings us to cousin Francesco, whoever he is. I’ll have some photos coining in soon I’d like you to look at for me, Lara. Essentially Sidjian was a hired gun. I do not believe that he selected targets himself, nor do I think he had any particular political agenda. He was not burdened by any philosophical or religious convictions that I can see. He was just a thug. He did what he did solely for the money.

“We know, thanks to Lara, that Marek got into Malta from France, disguised as a priest…”

“I keep kicking myself that I didn’t remember him sooner,” I interjected. “If I’d realized he arrived in disguise, I’d have known there was something wrong, even if I didn’t know exactly what it was.”

“Don’t do this, Lara!” Rob said sharply. “You said yourself you only saw him in profile, and you saw him when you’d been up all night on the flight over. In fact you’d been up for almost twenty-four hours straight!”

But I couldn’t let it go. “My friend Alex said we should have known, in a way, about Victor, because of the name he chose for himself. In the ancient Roman and Persian cult of Mithra, a Deva is a creature of darkness, vice, and suffering. I wonder if Victor knew mat, or if it was just a coincidence.”

“He may well have known,” Tabone said. “He is apparently a well-educated man. Choosing a name like that would suit his style. In addition to being intelligent, well-educated, and gifted with a sense of irony, he was also supremely nasty. He prided himself on thinking up innovative ways to kill people.

“As to your other questions,” he said, turning to Rob, “we definitely have the where and how down. Where? The play at Mnajdra. How? We’re told that Sidjian was noted for planning his hits down to the last detail. He would be out scouting for possible locations. He meets Anna Stanhope at the site and he gets an idea. One of the students remembers Dr. Stanhope telling Victor or Marek about the play, about all the notables who would be attending, and even about Mifsud, the caretaker who was supposed to be helping with the production. Mifsud gets taken out of action—a neat fall down a flight of stairs— and miraculously, Victor Deva appears to save the day. Old Mifsud still can’t remember anything much about the accident, but he does recall seeing Sidjian around the school the day he fell—we showed him a photograph this morning. Mifsud’s a drinker, of course, but he seems pretty definite about this one, and if it was early enough in the day, he might still have had his wits about him.”

“The play and his role in it—those large boxes of sound and lighting equipment—gave Marek the opportunity to hide the weapon,” I said. “He couldn’t carry the gun in directly; all the boxes were searched. But he, and possibly Francesco too, simply come back at night before there’s the full contingent of soldiers and police on twenty-four-hour guard duty. They have to break into the storage shed, because they don’t have the key, but they don’t need to break into their own boxes. That’s why their boxes looked untouched, but it is undoubtedly where the weapon was stashed. Then, to cover their tracks, they make it look like vandalism, the work of angry parents.

“It also gives Marek a chance to show Francesco the site in daylight,” I added. “He brought him along to help paint the shed. So he could look around for somewhere to land the helicopter,” I added.

“Don’t remind me!” Tabone said sharply. “There’ll be hell to pay for that, I expect. They stole a police helicopter right from under our noses. If it hadn’t been for the fact they radioed me about the chopper right away, those two might have got away.”

“I’m surprised they would think they could get away with it, in such a public place,” Rob said.

“Sidjian prided himself on his rather spectacular killings. I mentioned that murder of the Italian banker. Do you recall it was carried out right in front of one of those huge and expensive shopping complexes in Milano, at the height of Christmas shopping season?” We nodded. “I think he banked on the fact that there is so much chaos after one of these shootings he had time to slip away.

“Another characteristic of this fellow is that he is truly ruthless about anyone who gets in his way. Which brings us, I think, to Ellis Graham.”

Tabone reached into the bottom drawer of his desk. He extracted a large plastic bag in which rested a hat. Not just any hat. A broad-brimmed safari-style hat, one side turned up, with a leopard skin band. “I remembered that conversation we had over coffee, and lo and behold, the missing hat, I think, is found. Look familiar to you, Lara?” I nodded. It was Ellis Graham’s hat. It seemed unlikely there would be two like it on this tiny island, and I said so.

“I helped search Francesco’s room last night,” Tabone went on. “Francesco was staying in a sleazy little place near the Gut, incidentally, and Sidjian got to stay in a nice hotel in Sliema. Proof that Sidjian was in charge. Both rooms were stripped bare, of course—they had no plans to return—except for this hat. Nasty touch, wouldn’t you say? Note the bullet hole in it. I wouldn’t want to be the person to place this hat on the head of the corpse, but we’ll get someone to do it, and I’m sure we’ll find the bullet holes in the hat and the head match up. I think we must assume either Sidjian or Francesco killed Graham and left the hat to taunt us. I guess the question remains why they killed him.”

“Ellis Graham was a snoop and a nuisance,” I said. “I’m convinced he was looking for the lost treasure of the Knights of Malta—we have a documentary he did that would certainly point in that direction—and he was also keeping an eye on me because, I think, he thought I was after the treasure too. Once he got that feeling, he was much more than a nuisance. He was scary. He tried to run me off the road! He would have seen me with Victor, and having been unfortunate enough to sit beside Sidjian, dressed as a priest, on the flight from Paris to Malta, he probably recognized him and realized something was wrong. He even went so far as to say there was danger, so he may have known even more than that. He could have said something to Marek as well. Maybe he thought for a time that Marek was looking for treasure too. He certainly leapt to that conclusion with me, and that was on the strength of a few chance encounters.

“Marek was definitely in the market the day Graham was killed, and could easily have seen, and possibly even heard, Graham try to warn me. I think that was what led to his death. From what you’ve told me, Sidjian does not strike me as someone who would leave anything to chance.”

“I suspect we’ll never be able to prove why, but with that hat as evidence, we can be almost certain either Sidjian or Francesco killed Graham. My money is on Francesco only because the hat was in his room, but it doesn’t really matter because they’re both dead,” Rob said. “What is more important is the question of who was Sidjian’s client and who was the intended victim. Frankly the intended victim could be anyone in the front row of the VIP tent, including the foreign ministers of three European countries, but Lara, I know, thinks it was Prime Minister Abela who was the target, and Giovanni Galizia the culprit, and it’s as good a place as any to start, I suppose. Did you check Abela’s schedule, Vince?”

“I did. We’re working with European authorities on the subject of the possible target, but if the Prime Minister was the intended victim, there were not too many opportunities to do it, because Abela’s been ill. He hasn’t been doing much in the way of public appearances since his surgery; just the play and state dinner were in his official schedule. What’s interesting, however, is that it seems Galizia was the one who prevailed upon Abela to come to the play. The Prime Minister’s secretary told me that because he was convalescing, he was only planning to attend the state dinner, but he was persuaded by Galizia to do both. The Prime Minister’s attendance was critical to the success of the negotiations, Galizia apparently said.”

“But what’s the motive here?” Rob asked.

“Abela was in his way, metaphorically speaking. Minister of External Relations wasn’t good enough,” I interjected. “Galizia wanted the top job. Pathologically ambitious, I’d say.”

“Hasn’t that man heard about nice democratic processes like elections?” Rob grumped. “Anyway, this is all speculation, isn’t it?”

“On the strength of a hunch, to say nothing of the persistence, of a Canadian shopkeeper whose main tourism experience in Malta would appear to be the finding of dead bodies,” Tabone said, “I have begun an investigation of the Honorable Giovanni Galizia. I sincerely hope this shopkeeper’s hunch is correct,” he added, looking at me, “because otherwise, this investigation will undoubtedly put my illustrious career in policing at risk.”

Rob raised his eyebrows. “So what have you got? I hope it’s more than getting the PM to come to the play.”

“Not much, so far. I have moved very quickly to get phone taps on Galizia and to get Galizia’s bank accounts—it’s amazing what police powers you acquire after something as messy as an assassination attempt—and I already have a forensic accountant following the money. He’s told me there are some interesting large bank transfers, done through rather convoluted means, but he is already convinced they will lead to a numbered Swiss bank account. We’ll see where that takes us. You don’t suppose the accounts would actually be in the name of Sidjian, do you?”

We both shook our heads.

“Too bad. We haven’t much,” he sighed. “With Sidjian and Francesco dead, it’s going to be hard to prove Galizia was involved. In fact, he’s already positioning himself as the hero of the events of last night, although what he did that would earn him that title eludes me for the moment. I don’t know how we’ll get him.”

“What about that nasty little incident in the backstreets of Mdina?” Rob asked. “Are you still insisting they were coming back to say they were sorry, Vince, or do you think there might be something there we could hang on Galizia?”

“Maybe. If Galizia is the guilty party, then I think our friend Lara would have been getting to him,” Tabone replied. “If he really was working with Sidjian, then he’d know who she was. He’d know that she’d found the body of Martin Galea, that she was staying at the house, that she was involved with the performance at Mnajdra. She turns up at his office with some story about being a journalist and asks about his friendship with Martin Galea, then is really foolhardy, stealing an invitation and crashing the party. Now, whether it was Sidjian and Francesco in the car or just a couple of goons who are employed by Galizia, I don’t know yet, but I fully intend to find out, I can assure you. We’re going door to door right now to see if anyone heard or saw anything that might help.”

“Still, pretty sketchy evidence,” Rob said.

We all sat for a while, brooding over that one.

“What bothers me about this is, Rob’s right. Short of a miracle, Galizia will get away with this,” Tabone said. “He’ll get to be PM someday, not as fast as he’d like, maybe, but he’ll get there. And then what? If that isn’t good enough for him, what will he aim for next? Head of the European Union?

Director General of the United Nations. Head of NATO? It boggles the mind!“

“It seems to me you’re doing everything you can,” Rob said soothingly. “And I’m happy to help as long as I’m here. But I was sent over here to help out with the investigation of the murder of a Canadian citizen, Martin Galea, and now that the autopsy has determined he was murdered in Canada, there won’t be much more I can do here. I don’t suppose anyone can think of any link between Galea’s death and these other incidents? I can’t believe I said that, actually. I sincerely hope Lara’s harebrained ideas aren’t contagious.”

I glared at him. “I think there is a link. Galea’s house. I know it’s a long shot, but I think we should at least talk about it. You said yourself, Vince, that there were very few opportunities to get the Prime Minister these days. What about the party at Galea’s house? What if Sidjian had a plan A and a plan B? You’ve said he planned every detail; surely a fallback would be included. Maybe plan A was the party at Galea’s. According to Marilyn Galea, her husband renewed acquaintances with an old boyhood friend. Galizia, perhaps? Do we know if either Galizia or the Prime Minister were included in the guest list? That should be easy enough to find out. It was supposed to be important people. Surely they would qualify.”

Tabone shrugged and with some reluctance, I could tell, picked up the phone. After waiting for a few moments, Tabone spoke to someone in Maltese, and then, with a look of some surprise, jotted something on his notepad.

“Well, well,” he said as he hung up. “That was Abela’s secretary. She told me she was holding an evening a few nights ago for a private party. It didn’t show up on the official schedule because the Prime Minister apparently considered it personal, and because it was just penciled in as tentative. It was a small get-together, just five or six guests, at the home of Martin Galea. It was to be confirmed by Galea when he arrived, and of course, when he turned up dead, it was simply deleted from the diary.

“And guess who issued the invitation on behalf of Galea? Our friend Giovanni Galizia, of course.”

“Forgive me, but so what?” Rob said. “We have nothing linking the house with Sidjian.”

“Oh, I think we may,” I said slowly. “The first night I was here, I thought I saw someone, a man wearing a hood over his head, at the back of the yard. I was pretty frightened at the time, and I never saw him there again. But there was something about him, his stance, perhaps, and although I can’t prove it, I think it was Sidjian. When he was standing for that second or two on the edge of the cliff last night, before he went over… I don’t know… something just clicked.

“And there was the incident with the dead cat and the car. Strange, these kinds of incidents only happened after I arrived. The Farrugias have told me they’d never known anything like this.”

“It does sound as if someone wanted you to leave the house,” Tabone agreed. “But you, being exceedingly stubborn, didn’t budge.”

“I didn’t. I think that right from the start, the idea of using the house as the site of the assassination just didn’t work out. They would need to have access to the house at some point, to move the weapon in and look the place over, but the workmen were there all day, and I was there at night. So they tried to scare me off, but that didn’t work. That’s when Sidjian started to develop plan B, the play at Mnajdra.”

“And Galea? Are you saying they killed him so they could use his house? Rather drastic, wouldn’t you say? And surely that wouldn’t work. The party wouldn’t go on if he didn’t show up.”

“You’re right,” I agreed. “Unless, of course, they were going to pretend he was there. When I first saw Sidjian, at Mnajdra that first day, I thought to myself that he looked a Utile like Galea. Do you think he might have been planning to impersonate him?”

“Could do, I suppose,” Tabone said. “It does sound a little far-fetched, though, you have to admit. In any event, Sidjian was already here. He arrived at the same time you did, so he couldn’t have been in Toronto killing Galea.”

I shrugged. “I know. But what about Francesco? Where was he and what was he doing all this time?”‘

“Good question,” Tabone said to me, as a young policeman came to the door with an envelope. As he took it, Tabone said, “No way to find out until we know who he is, either. Maybe this will help,” he said, taking two photographs out of the envelope. “Take at look at these for me, will you?”

The two photos were placed in front of me. I looked carefully at each. They were not very good quality, having been taken with a long lens from a considerable distance, I thought, but they were good enough. I pointed to one.

Tabone grimaced at me. “Afraid you’d pick that one. Franco Falcone, actually Franco Falzon. Maltese, regrettably. From Xemxija on St. Paul’s Bay. Left Malta as a very young man to go to Italy, where clearly he picked up some nasty habits.”

“Franco the troublemaker,” I said. “The boy who grew up to be a gangster. That’s it! That’s what we need!” I was up and dancing around the room.

“What is she talking about?” Tabone asked Rob in a puzzled tone. “Is it shock, do you think?”

“Franco the troublemaker. That rings a bell. Why does that ring a bell?” Rob asked me.

“Three pals at school. Marcus the young bull, Giovanni the rat, and Franco the troublemaker. Marcus grew up to be an architect, Giovanni became External Relations Minister, but Franco grew up to be a gangster. Ask the Hedgehog.”

“The Hedgehog?” Tabone groaned. Rob just grinned at me.

“Grizzled old guy who sits on a deck chair beside the grocery store at some steps that lead up the hill in Mellieha. If anyone would know about this, the Hedgehog would,” Rob said.

“Send Esther,” I added. “Tell her to take a six-pack of Cisk lager. He’ll like her. I’d tell her to mention my name, but he wouldn’t remember me.” Tabone threw up his hands. “Don’t worry,” I said. “He may not remember me, but he’ll remember Giovanni the rat and Franco the troublemaker just fine.”

Rob turned to Tabone, still smiling. “I’m calling this name in, Vince. See what we can find out about Falcone’s and his activities in the last while. Back soon,”‘ he said as he left the room. While we waited, Tabone got on the phone to Esther and gave her instructions on how to find the Hedgehog. “Get on this, Esther. It may be the break we need in this mess.”

About fifteen minutes later, Rob returned with a rather bemused expression on his face. “I’m a bit reluctant to tell you this, because I can already see what you’ll want to do with this bit of information,” Rob said slowly, “but I guess I have to. I’ve just been talking to a friend of mine in the CIA. I’d called him with Lara’s ID of Falcone and asked him what information he had on the man. I mean, we know how Sidjian got here, but where did Falcone come from? As it turns out, the Americans have been wondering where Franco went to. The CIA caught a glimpse of him in a random check of airport video footage a week or so ago—he’s a known criminal wanted all over the place—but he’d vanished without a trace. The photograph you saw, Lara, was taken off the videotape, which is why it was rather grainy. On a hunch, I asked them to check where he was videotaped and when—the tape will give them that—and then to check them against flight schedules and departure gates at that time. It seems our friend was just a few yards from a gate where a flight bound for guess where was about to take off.”

“Rome,” Tabone said.

“Malta,” I chipped in.

“Both wrong. Toronto!” the Mountie said. “About twenty-four hours before Galea died.”

“So are you saying Lara might be right about Galea being killed because of the assassination plans? Do you think it was Franco who killed Galea and then used his ticket and travel documents?” Tabone exclaimed.

“It’s a long shot, but I suppose it’s possible. On the strength of this bit of information, let’s throw caution to the winds here, and see if we can pull it all together.”

“Sidjian does the deal with Galizia and checks on the PM’s schedule,” Tabone hypothesized. “Not too many opportunities here, because as we know Abela’s been ill. But there is the soiree at Galea’s house and they decide to do it there. Sidjian makes his way from France, planning to set up operations in the house. Franco kills Galea in Toronto to get him out of the way, then travels to Rome using Galea’s documents. I suppose Sidjian could have planned to impersonate Galea. I mean, Galizia knew what Galea looked like, they grew up together, but the Prime Minister might not, nor might the others. Galea left here a long time ago, and he’s an architect, not a movie star, after all. Galea was not exactly a household name around here, at least not until he died. And if Galizia were the perpetrator of all this, then he wouldn’t say anything. Marissa and Joseph might be a problem, but, not, I would think, an insurmountable one. They could be avoided. I’m not sure he’d have to, however. With Galea out of the way, he could just wait in the house until the victim showed up.

“But the house, when he gets there, is now occupied,” Tabone said.

“Exactly!” I said. “I show up at the house and spoil that part of it. So they try to scare me away with the dead cat, and maybe even try to kill me with that business with the brakes, but neither works and the house would remain off limits to them.”

“If this is true, then where the plan to use Galea’s house really ran into a glitch,” Rob said, “is when Galea turned up here dead, a fact that must surely have put a crimp in their plans. It’s ironic when you think about it. Sidjian plans this down to the last detail. But Franco stuffs Galea into a large chest to buy himself some time, not knowing that the furniture is destined to arrive here the next day.”

“But what about the yellow sticker? It was the wrong piece of furniture,” I asked, then answered my own question. “It’s probably as simple as Galea changing his mind about which piece of furniture he wanted to send. He changed the sticker himself probably, or Marilyn did.”

“We’ll probably never know the answer to that one, with Martin dead and Marilyn nowhere to be found,” Rob replied. “But given that this is what happened, which I still really can’t buy, your explanation is as good as any.”

Tabone said excitedly, “Sidjian, who is already here and has seen Lara in the house, begins working on alternate plan B, the fallback position as Lara calls it. He isn’t in contact with Franco yet, and anyway, he has no way of knowing how long Lara will be here. She might well leave before Franco arrives, and they can go back to the original plan. But then Galea turns up in the furniture, and that means plan A is as dead as Galea is. What a terrible waste, if it’s true.”

We all sat and thought about it for a while. Finally Rob spoke up, “I don’t suppose that I have to point out that if the evidence linking Galizia to the assassination plot is rather thin, the evidence linking him to Galea is virtually non-existent. It wouldn’t even qualify as circumstantial, interesting though all this may be. We’ll have to continue the investigation into Galea’s death in Canada. I’m not the officer in charge of the investigation, but I’ll tell him about Falcone and our theories about the link. It’ll be up to him and our superiors as to whether they think this does it or not.

“One thing, though, Lara. You may have to come to terms with the idea that Marilyn Galea is dead. If our theory is true, then Marilyn was probably killed by Falcone too. He just did a better job of dealing with her body. Maybe he killed her, hid the body, and waited for Galea to come home. It was the maid’s day off, you’ll recall. In any event, her credit cards have not been used, no checks have been cashed, since the day Galea died. It doesn’t look good.”

“I know,” I said. “I’d already thought of that. As much as I don’t want her to be the killer, I don’t want her to be dead even more.”

“I think,” Rob said gently, “that we would be better off concentrating on how to prove that Galizia is guilty.”

Later that day, Rob and I went over to the Farragia house in Siggiewi. Marissa had called to tell me that she and Joseph had decided to tell Anthony everything-—about his acceptance at the University of Toronto, his inheritance, and about his father. She said they’d very much appreciate having me there, and Rob too, if he’d come, as neutral parties, and in case their courage failed them.

We joined them in their tiny living room for a cup of tea. All three Farrugias were there as was Sophia. There was lots of idle chitchat for some time, but eventually, Marissa got around to the subject at hand. Joseph sat quietly, almost numb with anxiety, in a chair in a dark corner of me room.

“Anthony,” Marissa said quietly, “we have some news for you. About University, and about other things. Your father and I have done something we aren’t proud of, and we owe you an apology. Our only excuse, I guess, is that we love you and we have been afraid of losing you, so afraid that our judgment has been clouded.”

Anthony looked surprised and slightly baffled by this turn in the conversation.

“You’ve been accepted at the University of Toronto,” his mother told him, “but not, regrettably, in Rome. We opened your letters and we shouldn’t have done mat. I’m sorry. We both are. The letters are here,” she said, handing them to him.

Anthony looked at them carefully, and then said, “I know there’s no way we can afford for me to go,” he said to his parents. “I’m just happy to know I was accepted.”

“But it is possible you will be able to study,” Marissa went on. “Mr. Galea has left you some money in his will. It may be a while before you get it, but Lara has talked to Mr. Galea’s lawyers, and we think you can get a student loan until Mr. Galea’s money comes to you.”

Anthony looked absolutely stunned, then jubilant. He got up and hugged his mother, then Sophia, and then went over to Joseph. Joseph, looking close to tears, patted his son on the shoulder, but said nothing.

“That’s nice of Mr. Galea, isn’t it, Mum?” Anthony said. “Why would he do that, I wonder?”

“He did it because… I knew him before, a long time ago. But he went away. I thought he’d come back, but he didn’t, until last year. He didn’t know, then, I mean, but when he came back, he knew. He did it because he knew, because he was…”

Anthony looked at her, trying in vain, I could tell, to comprehend what she was saying. Joseph slumped in his chair and covered his eyes. Marissa looked at me, and then Rob, pleading with her eyes. She tried to speak, but couldn’t. I opened my mouth to speak, but my throat felt dry, and I couldn’t get any words out either.

“What your mother is trying to tell you, Anthony,” Rob said gently, “is that Martin Galea was your dad.”

Anthony’s eyes searched all our faces, looking intently at each of us for a few seconds. Marissa had tears running down her face, I still couldn’t speak, Joseph slumped even lower in his chair and would not look at his son.

“No!” Anthony exclaimed suddenly. “Dads help you with your schoolwork. They go and speak to the school principal so he won’t expel you when you’ve done something bad. Dads teach you to play football and tell you everything about girls. And most of all,” he said, his face flushed, “dads are nice to your mum!

“Mr. Galea may have been my father, but this,” he said, pointing to Joseph, “this is my dad!”

We all cried. Marissa and I held on to each other and sort of sobbed quietly, and even Rob looked a little misty-eyed. Joseph was completely overcome. Only Sophia remained dry-eyed, and she looked at Anthony as if seeing him in an entirely new light. And perhaps we all did. Anthony had the easy charm and rather quixotic moods of his natural father, but he obviously had something Martin Galea had lacked: a generosity of spirit and a very solid grounding in what was important in life. I had the feeling I’d watched a little boy grow up in an instant, and he went on to prove that.

“I have something more I’d like to say,” he went on when we’d all recovered slightly. “I really want to be an architect,” he said. “I know it won’t be easy, but I think I can do it. So if there really is some money, I’m going to go to Canada to study. I’ll come back when my studies are done.”

He turned to Sophia and smiled at her. “I won’t forget you, Soph, I promise.”

“Of course you won’t,” she said firmly. “I’m coming with you.”

Perhaps, I thought, history does not always repeat itself. How pleased Anna Stanhope would be.

“Don’t worry, Marissa,” I promised, as we left a little later. “I’ll keep an eye on them for you.”

“Me too,” Rob said and hugged her.

Late in the afternoon the day before I went home, I returned to Mnajdra. The area was still cordoned off, but a policeman, one of Tabone’s men, recognized me and let me in.

The VIP tent, one of its tent poles broken, slumped sadly, canvas drooping like a ghostly sailing ship becalmed. The light standard lay where it had fallen, its lamp shattered, jagged pieces of glass fragments caught by the late afternoon sun. I could see where Anna Stanhope had fallen, and the memory of that night flooded back very painfully, the horror and senselessness of it almost choking me.

I thought about Anna as I had seen her that morning, lying in her hospital bed, pale, ill, and with her emotional pain perhaps worse than her injuries. A nurse let me into the room, whispering that Anna was to be flown back to England by air ambulance the next day, to complete her recovery there.

I had thought she was sleeping, she lay so still, her eyes closed, but she began to speak after a few moments, without looking at me.

“I should have known, shouldn’t I,” she said softly. It was a statement, not a question. “I should have known that a man like him would never be attracted to a woman like me. The signs were all there, of course, had I not been so busy behaving like a silly schoolgirl.”

“I don’t know how you could know,” I said, “I didn’t guess.”

“When I make a mistake, I make a big one,” she said and laughed a little. “Never been one to do anything by halves.” She paused for a moment.

“Do you know what the topper is, though?” she asked, opening her eyes and turning to look at me. “Biggest blunder of my life, and can you believe this? Look at this!” she demanded, waving a piece of paper in front of me. “They’re giving me a medal for it!” I looked at the paper. It was, indeed, a letter from Prime Minister Abela telling her he was recommending her for a medal of some kind.

“I suppose it will have a heart on it,” Anna went on. “Do you have to be dead to get a Purple Heart?”

“I don’t know,” I said.

“Oh well, either that or some other medal with a heart on it, I’ll wager. Appropriate enough.”

“Of course it’s appropriate,” I said, taking the conversational high road. “You saved those people’s lives, you know. They’d be dead if it weren’t for you.”

She was silent for a few minutes. “Time to retire,” she said. “Get myself a nice little cottage in the country. Devon, Cornwall, something like that. Nice long walks by the sea, a pint at the local pub, long evenings with a good book. I expect they’ll let me retire a little early, don’t you? Being a hero and all.” She smiled slightly.

“I don’t think you should make a decision like that right now,” I said. “Wait until you’re feeling better.” She nodded. The nurse came and signaled it was time for me to go.

As I reached the door, I heard her voice, very soft, behind me. “Dead, is he? They haven’t told me.”

“Yes,” I said. She closed her eyes and I left her there. I thought about how Sidjian had flattered and charmed his way into her heart, and despised him, not her, for all of it.

I came to Mnajdra just before I left, I think, to try to get my emotional bearings once again. I sat on the ground, leaning against one of the ancient stones of the Great Goddess’s temple, and thought of the friends, old and new, that I’d lost: Martin Galea, for all his faults, a remarkable man. He had always shunned the banal and striven for, and given us, the beautiful, a creative flame, intense and passionate, snuffed out too soon. Anna Stanhope, in whom, if she chose to retire as she said she would, the world had lost what it could ill afford: a wonderful, inspiring teacher. And Marilyn Galea, a woman who might well have died without ever having really lived. I wanted to avenge them all.

But revenge in whatever form, justice or retaliation, does not bring the victims back. Tabone had said, “Afin najgarrabx il-hazin ma jafx it-tajjeb—he who has had no experience of evil cannot know the worth of what is good,” and I tried to concentrate on that. As the sun went down and turned the walls of Mnajdra to gold, I thought about the builders of these ancient temple walls, now forgotten as individuals, but with a legacy that had extended through centuries and spoke for them still. I felt better thinking this, and I thought that perhaps Martin Galea’s buildings spoke for him, just as Anna Stanhope’s students, inspired by her teachings, would continue to speak for her.

I did not know what, or who, would speak for Marilyn Galea.