"Why am I not surprised?"
"Nor am I, madame, given the sudden flurry of interest in this man. My people are looking for him. As yet, we've had no success, which is why I should very much like you to keep me apprised of your findings, if any," he added on a polite note that suggested he didn't expect her to do any better at tracking down Mr. Moore than his people had.
"Certainly," Cleo returned. "And hopefully you'll notify me of whatever information you turn up. If any."
The inspector's mouth twitched, but he merely noted that she was staying at the Auberge St. Georges and gave her his card for future reference.
Cleo spent the rest of the afternoon familiarizing herself with Valletta. She had no idea how long she'd remain in the city, nor did she anticipate requiring an escape route out of it. Old habits died hard, though.
Map in hand, she roamed the streets. She soon discovered no map could capture either the character or the complexity of the capital city.
The layout was simple enough. Valletta was crowded onto a narrow spear of land that jutted into Malta's great natural harbor, dividing it into two deepwater basins. At the tip of the spear sat the medieval fortress built by the knights of St. John to protect the entrance to the two harbors. Behind the fortress were the auberges-or sectors- assigned to the various Catholic nations that had responded to the pope's plea to hold the island against the invaders.
Knights from each of these nations had constructed residences-some austere, some magnificent-in their assigned sectors. They'd also built hotels, armories, granaries and stables for the armies they'd brought with them. Many of those medieval structures now housed government offices. One contained Malta's House of Parliament and was guarded by men in colorful uniforms from a bygone era.
Cleo brushed past tourists snapping pictures of the rigid, unsmiling guards, fixed the location of the American consulate and wandered through an open-air market crammed with stalls offering everything from fresh squid to Beyonce CDs. Noting the bullet holes still scarring many of the facades from the fierce World War Two strafing, she worked her way down to the fortress at the tip of the spear.
She'd intended to walk back via the battlements and make a complete circuit of the old city, but jet lag caught up with her after the first couple of sally ports. Abandoning the wall, she cut through cobbled side streets on her way back to the hotel.
"Madame!"
The call was low and urgent and came at her from a narrow alley a few yards from the entrance to the Auberge St. Georges. Cleo peered into the alley, her breath catching when she spotted the waiter from the Cafe Corinthia.
He shot a glance in either direction before emerging from the shadows. "I have been waiting for you."
He started toward her, took two steps and stumbled. His head jerked back. His eyes went wide.
"Madame!"
The strangled cry was both a plea and a groan. Cursing, Cleo sprang forward just as the man's knees began to buckle. In one flying leap, she jerked him away from the alley and dove for cover, taking him with her.
She knew before they hit the cobblestones it was too late. Still, she flattened herself on top of him, squirming frantically to get at the ebu strapped to her ankle, straining to hear over the pulse jackhammering in her ears.
There were no shouts, no running footsteps, no soft pops from a silencer. Nothing but city noises and the clip-clop of a carriage coming up the hill.
Her heart slamming against her ribs, Cleo lowered the needle-sharp ebu and wiggled off the waiter. His eyes were already glazed.
Cursing again, she rolled him over. The bullet hole was small and neat and centered squarely between his shoulder blades.
15
A lucky shot, or the work of a true professional?" Cleo shrugged, recognizing that Inspector Aruzzo's question was purely rhetorical. The small, clean entry wound aligned between the shoulder blades with almost surgical precision spoke for itself.
Folding one arm across his chest, Aruzzo fingered his beard while his crime-scene unit measured and photographed the body. A good-size crowd had clustered just outside the taped-off area. Gawking tourists. Curious locals. Shop owners drawn by the commotion.
Was the shooter there, too? Taking clever, malicious pride in his work? Cleo swept the crowd again, searching faces, scrutinizing features. She didn't recognize any patrons from the Cafe Corinthia.
"Do you have anything to add to your statement, Madame North?"
The inspector's air of polite courtesy had worn a little thin. Cleo could tell he wasn't pleased that a murder had been committed in the heart of Valletta's historic area. Bad for the tourist industry.
"No, nothing to add."
"Very well. I will be in touch."
Summarily dismissed, she left him attending to his business and headed for her hotel. Adrenaline still spiked through her veins. Too antsy for her planned catnap, she dialed the hotel restaurant, canceled her dinner reservations and ordered a room service meal.
The waiter set the table on the balcony of her suite. Her mind churning, Cleo forked down garlicky risotto and squid while the sun sank into the now-purple sea and the cruise ships pulled away from the docks below.
She thought about going back to the Cafe Corinthia, but nixed the idea. Word had gotten around. They-whoever they were-knew where she was staying. She'd sit tight tonight and see if they came to her. If they did…
Her teeth ground a rubbery morsel of squid to a pulp. Having a man die in her arms tended to make Cleo just a tad annoyed. Anyone who showed up uninvited at her hotel room in the foreseeable future had better come prepared.
She might not have access to her full bag of tricks, but she hadn't gained a reputation in the security-consulting business for no reason. Although she'd only brought limited equipment with her, anyone trying to get into her room would meet with a surprise or two.
He'd kill her!
Jack stood at rigid attention before his boss's desk, plotting the imminent demise of one Cleopatra North while General Barnes peeled long strips from his hide.
Barnes had both fists planted on his blotter. His face was brick red. The pipe that rarely left his mouth lay abandoned. The general had tossed it aside so as not to interfere with the blistering speech he'd been delivering for almost fifteen minutes now. Jack had taken the blasts with little outward show of emotion. That seemed to set the Old Man off even more.
"Dammit, Donovan, I don't like having my chain yanked by the CIA."
"No, sir."
Barnes leaned forward, his bushy eyebrows bristling. "I like even less being informed that the intelligence community's most reliable source on the island of Malta just died in t
he arms of one of my former agents."
Jack suspected that "former" rankled more than anything else. Barnes still hadn't gotten past the fact that he'd given up on Cleo. But this wasn't the time to remind him that Lieutenant North's stubbornness had pissed him off as often as her persistence and thoroughness in working an investigation had won his grudging praise.
"I've had my exec call Base Ops," Barnes huffed. "They're diverting a C-17 in to pick you up. It'll be on the ground in an hour. I want you on that plane, I want you in Malta, and…"
He thrust himself forward so far Jack half expected he would wind up facedown on the blotter.
"I want you to get that woman on a leash”
He'd do better than get her on a leash, Jack vowed as he stalked out of OSI headquarters. He'd put her in a permanent strairjacket.
Whizzing across the Woodrow Wilson Bridge to his Alexandria apartment, he picked up his passport, a change of underwear and certain tools of the trade he couldn't have carried aboard a commercial flight. Forty minutes later, he boarded the C-17 Globemaster that had swooped into Andrews Air Force Base to pick him up.
The transport was loaded with cargo destined for Iraq. The C-17's four Pratt and Whitney engines revved to a thundering roar as Jack strapped himself in, his knees mere inches from the stacked cargo pallets. The transport began its takeoff roll, then lifted into the air. With the metal struts rattling against his backbone, Jack closed eyes that felt as gritty as sandpaper.
He hadn't slept more than a few hours in the past three days. In that time, he'd briefed the Ogden Air Logistics Center commander, delved into the guts of the Afloat Prepositioning Program, gone several rounds with his counterparts in the FBI and CIA, and had the shit scared out of him by what he'd been able to piece together so far.
This was bigger than he'd feared, much bigger. What had begun as a potential breach of a classified database was now starting to look like an intrigue of global proportions-one that pitted billions of dollars in stolen armaments against the fragile world order.
And Cleo had landed smack in the middle of it!
"Coffee, Major?"
The transport's loadmaster squeezed between the pallets, a cardboard cup in hand. Jack wrapped a fist around it gratefully.
"Thanks."
"Sorry we don't have room to let down another rack so you could unfold and grab some sleep," the staff sergeant apologized, pitching his voice to a near shout to be heard over the roar of the engines. "We're maxed out on this run."
"No problem."
The loadmaster had a seat up front, just behind the two pilots, but curiosity kept him lingering in the transport's cavernous belly. Jack guessed it wasn't often the air force diverted a plane crammed with supplies for the troops to pick up a plainclothes OSI agent.
"It'll take us six hours to make the Azores," the staff sergeant said. "If your legs get too cramped, you could climb atop one of the pallets and stretch out. That's usually what I do on these long hauls."
"I'll keep that in mind."
Six hours to the Azores. Another three or four from there to Malta aboard the navy P-3 he was told would be waiting for him. Wedging his shoulders between the C-17's metal ribs, Jack did the calculations. It was only a little after 7:00 p.m. by his watch, which made it the middle of the night in Malta. Given the time difference, he should arrive at Cleo's hotel by 11:00 a.m. or so.
And then he'd kill her, he swore.
Assuming the consortium of renegade arms dealers she was sniffing around hadn't gotten to her first.
16
The phone rang as Cleo stumbled toward the bathroom. Jet lag had caught up to her with a vengeance. Despite a solid night's sleep, she was fuzzy headed and desperate for her first injection of caffeine. She snatched up the receiver, praying it wasn't room service advising her of a delay in the order she'd just placed.
"Yes?"
"Ten o'clock. The Co-Cathedral of St. John."
The line went dead before she registered much more than the message and the fact it was delivered in a throaty female voice. Her brain belatedly clicking into gear, Cleo jabbed the button for the front desk.
"Yes, madame?"
"Someone just called my room. Can your switchboard trace the number?"
The Middle Sin 201 "Unfortunately, we are not so equipped. Er, is there a problem?"
The query contained more than a hint of nervousness. Evidently yesterday's shooting had made management wary of the guest presently camped out in their King's Suite.
"No, no problem."
Cleo shot a glance at her watch. She'd forgotten to reset it to local time yesterday and she wasn't up to the calculations required to make the switch.
"What's the time?"
"It is now twenty minutes to ten, madame."
Crap! Canceling her room service order, Cleo slammed down the phone and charged for the bathroom.
She hit the lobby ten minutes later and snatched a to-go cup from the service set out on a table supported by rampant stone lions.
Gulping down the bitter Mediterranean brew, Cleo threaded through streets crowded with tourists fresh off the three giant ships now docked in the harbor. The ship funnels showed different markings from the ones she'd spied from her balcony yesterday. They must have pulled in while she was still dead to the world. Busy place, Malta.
"'Scuse me. Pardon me."
The camera-snapping herds outside the cathedral parted enough to allow her up the steps. From the outside, the structure looked more like a fortress than a cathedral. That was probably the architect's intent, Cleo guessed, given Malta's turbulent past. Ignoring several nasty looks from the crowd lined up at the entrance, she wedged through the narrow front doors and plunged into a canyon of gloom.
Yesterday's incident was still fresh in her mind-so fresh that she planted her shoulder blades against the interior wall and gave a little flick of her wrist. The familiar smoothness of the ebu's wooden handle slid into her palm. She'd strapped it to her arm this time for faster access.
Just in case…
Gradually, her pupils made the transition from the dazzling outside light. The shadows inside the church lightened enough for Cleo to make out the ocean of marble tombstones under her feet. Laid out end to end, the embellished slabs stretched all the way to the massive Baroque altar at least two football fields away.
Some of the slabs were inlaid with gold heraldic devices. Others contained religious motifs in mosaics that glowed like gemstones. All, she heard a tour guide inform his group in precise English, memorialized the aristocratic knights belonging to the Order of St. John.
"In addition, each knight was required to give a gioja, or gift, upon admission to the order," the guide intoned. "The ma
sterpiece you see on the ceiling, painted on stone by Mattia Preti between 1662 and 1667, was the gift of two such knights.
The painting depicts the life of John the Baptist, patron saint of the order."
Cleo darted a quick peek at the ceiling some hundred or so feet above her head. The cathedral's barrel-vault design required no inside support pillars, so there was nothing to obstruct her view of the gilded panels.
And nothing for her mysterious caller to hide behind, either.
Pulling her gaze back to the milling crowds, Cleo watched for a glance aimed her way, a face turned in her direction, a shuttered look. Five minutes slipped by. Ten.
When no one approached or appeared to take any particular interest in her, she edged away from the wall and infiltrated the tour group now trailing their guide toward one of the side altars.
Three side chapels and several dozen masterpieces later, Cleo was beginning to wonder if her caller's intent had been merely to lure her out of her hotel room so someone could slip in and go through her things. If so, that someone was in for a surprise. She'd give the Co-Cathedral of St. John ten more minutes, she decided, then head back to the hotel.
Still mingling with the tourist group, she dutifully gawked at altars inset with gold and lapis lazuli, admired the Grand Master's throne, and touched a fingertip to one of the exquisite silver gates guarding a side chapel.
"These are the famous Napoleon Gates," the guide informed his group. "Weighing close to one ton each and made of solid silver, they are among the few movable treasures the emperor did not send back to France after capturing Malta in 1798. Does anyone know why he left them?"
THE MIDDLE SIN Page 16
