Galea smiled. “If you want to visit the actual fort, I’ll have to make some calls. It’s currently being restored to its former glory, so it’s not open to the general public. But I have some contacts at the Malta Tourism Authority who can probably get us in.”
“Sounds great,” Payne admitted, “but not at night. As much as he talks about ghosts, he’d probably shit himself if he actually saw one. Unless he ate cornbread first.”
Galea laughed as he opened the front door of the Mercedes. He grabbed a pamphlet from the seat and handed it to Payne. “Here. Take this. There’s a map of Malta inside that will help you get your bearings on the bridge.”
Payne was surprised. “Wait. You’re not joining us?”
“I can’t,” Galea said. “This is a loading zone, so I have to move the car. But take your time up top, and ring me whenever you’re ready.”
Payne nodded then hustled after Jones, who was practically running—a combination of his excitement about the haunted fort and the sugar rush from Cinnabon.
As promised, the concrete staircase opened onto a wooden pedestrian bridge that extended over the harbor’s edge and faced Manoel Island to the southwest. The fort itself could barely be seen from their angle, but that hardly mattered because the rest of the view was so spectacular.
Directly south of them was the capital city of Valletta. It loomed high above stone ramparts that appeared to line the length of the harbor. Nearly every building in sight was the color of sand, which contrasted sharply with the blue hue of the water that extended all the way to the eastern horizon. It was like a desert oasis in reverse, where the mirage that didn’t belong was the city itself. And yet there it was, somehow springing from the depths of the Mediterranean to the towering heights of the Basilica of Our Lady of Mount Carmel, its massive dome thrusting upward into the clouds above while looming behind St. Paul’s Pro-Cathedral.
Jones stood there silently, soaking it all in, his forearms resting on the metal guardrail at the end of the bridge. Payne approached from behind, his gaze never leaving the landscape. In all his years of travel, he had never seen anything quite like it. Neither of them said a word as they let the serenity of the sea wash over them, but both of them were thinking the same thing.
After years of mental turmoil, they were finally at peace.
CHAPTER TEN
Wednesday, June 13
St. Julian’s, Malta
Their peace would last less than a day, but neither Payne nor Jones knew that when they woke up for a late breakfast at the Corinthia Hotel St. George’s Bay.
The luxury hotel was located in St. Julian’s, a seaside town a few miles northwest of the shopping mall in Sliema. The view from their neighboring suites was nearly as spectacular as the panorama near the pedestrian bridge, but instead of the cityscape of Valetta, they were treated to the crystal blue water of the pool below and the turquoise water of the sea beyond.
Wearing a bathrobe and boxer shorts, Payne was sprawled on a lounge chair on his private balcony. He was soaking in the sun and relishing the gentle breeze when he heard the glass door behind him open. Much to his surprise, Jones stepped onto the deck. He was carrying several plates of food, each covered by a stackable silver dome.
“I brought breakfast,” Jones announced as he placed the tray on a nearby table. He was dressed in a T-shirt, shorts, and tennis shoes. “I took the liberty of ordering everything on the menu and charging it to your room. I hope you don’t mind.”
“Why should I mind? You made our reservations, so the charge will appear on your credit card, not mine.”
Jones laughed. “Yeah, like I used my credit card to book a luxury hotel. That’s funny.”
Payne rolled his eyes. “One of these days, we need to have a talk about boundaries…. Make that another talk about boundaries.”
“You mean like telling our driver that cornbread makes me constipated?”
“No, I mean like breaking into my hotel room even though the do-not-disturb sign was on the door and the chain lock was engaged.”
“In my defense, I thought you were challenging me. Not that it was much of a challenge. I got the chain off in less than ten seconds. It would’ve been less, but I was carrying food.”
“Actually, the sign was out and the chain was on to give me some privacy.”
“For what?” Jones asked. “I don’t see any tissues or Vaseline.”
Payne growled softly. He loved his best friend like a brother, but sometimes he was a handful. “Believe it or not, I occasionally like to be left alone—especially early in the day. You know how I am before breakfast.”
“Which is why I brought breakfast. Duh!”
Payne shook his head. This was a conversation he wasn’t going to win.
“Besides,” Jones said, “we’re a little pressed for time.”
Payne walked over to the table and picked up the first dome. Underneath was a plate of scrambled eggs, white toast, and a side order of bacon. “For what?”
“I know how you swabbies get a boner for boats, so I called around and found a place that will rent us one. Yachts, sailboats, jet skis, whatever. I figured a day on the water might do you some good.”
Payne didn’t even bother to sit down. He just grabbed some silverware and started eating. “That sounds like fun,” he said between bites. “I wonder how long it would take to circumnavigate Malta. Do you think we could do it in a day?”
“Beats the hell out of me, but I’m willing to give it a try. Or we can take our time and visit the other two islands. I hear Gozo and Comino are quite different than Malta.”
“How so?” he wondered as he continued to shovel in food.
Payne was blessed/cursed with a hyperactive metabolism that forced him to eat almost constantly. Back when he was in the military, doctors made sure he didn’t have hyperthyroidism or some other condition that would explain this phenomenon, but all of their tests came back clean. Not only was he as healthy as a horse, but he could undoubtedly eat one.
Jones was fully aware of Payne’s appetite and realized if he didn’t sit down and stake his claim to some food, his friend would empty every plate on the table. So he pulled up a chair, grabbed an order of waffles, and defended them with a knife and fork.
“According to the front desk,” Jones said, “Gozo is much more rural than Malta and has some beautiful rolling hills. Supposedly it’s the island home of the nymph Calypso from Homer’s Odyssey.”
“No shit,” Payne said as he used his toast to clean his first plate. “I was obsessed with that book back in high school. It was one of the reasons I joined the Navy—to find adventure on the open seas. If I remember correctly, Calypso fell in love with Odysseus and held him captive there for many years before allowing him to sail home.”
Payne pushed his empty plate aside and picked up the next silver dome. This one revealed an egg white omelet with ham and cheese and sliced tomatoes. “But unless I’m mistaken, the island in Homer’s epic poem was called Ogygia, not Gozo.”
Jones shrugged. “Maybe the Greeks called it a different name back then. Or maybe, just maybe, the guy at the front desk didn’t major in Ancient Literature.”
Payne laughed. “Either way, I’d like to visit it.”
“Me, too.”
“And what about Comino?”
“It’s the middle island,” Jones said as he quickly made a map of the archipelago with his waffles. “Gozo is the island to the north, and Malta is the big island to the south. And if you focus on my sea of syrup, Comino is this little island right here.”
“How big is it?”
Jones pointed at his plate. “My food is cut to scale.”
Payne jabbed his fork into the center island, then swallowed it whole.
“What the fuck. You just ate Comino.”
“It tasted good, too. We should definitely swing by.”
Undeterred by the kaiju attack on his waffle kingdom, Jones sliced off a tiny chunk of Malta and used it to replace the eat
en island. “As I was saying, Comino isn’t very big. It’s less than two square miles and has a population of three people.”
“Really?”
Jones nodded. “There used to be four, but one of them died.”
Payne frowned. “Is it worth visiting?”
“According to my source, it is.”
“Which source is that?”
“The guy at the front desk. Try to keep up.”
“Sorry. I was eating.”
“I see that, Jon. It’s kind of hard to miss.”
Payne shrugged but continued to chew.
“Anyway,” Jones said, “Comino has a scenic bay called the Blue Lagoon that I’m told we shouldn’t miss. It’s where they filmed the movie.”
“Which movie?”
“The Blue Lagoon. The one with Brooke Shields.”
“Will she be there?”
“I doubt it, but we can certainly check. There’s only three people.”
Payne took a large gulp of orange juice to wash everything down. “Wait. Are you being serious? The island only has three people?”
Jones nodded. “According to the front desk, Comino has three permanent residents. But the numbers swell during the day when a policeman and a priest commute from Gozo.”
Payne laughed at the absurdity of the statement. “Come on. That has to be a joke. The guy was obviously messing with you.”
“Not according to my second source.”
“And who is that?”
“The maid who unlocked your door for me before I removed the chain.”
Payne smiled. “Yeah, like she’s trustworthy.”
“That reminds me,” Jones said. “I told her I’d give her a big tip for helping me break into your room, so please remember to do that.”
“It’s at the top of my list.”
“I’m serious.”
“I’m not.”
“I can tell.”
“So,” Payne said as he made a breakfast sandwich by putting half of his omelet on a piece of toast and adding a slice of tomato, “when do we have to leave?”
“For what?”
“Our boat trip.”
“Oh, we can leave whenever we want.”
Payne growled at his friend. “Then why did you tell me we were pressed for time?”
“When did I do that?”
“When you first came in! Why else would I be standing here like a farm animal at a feeding trough?”
Jones shrugged. “Because you’re a giant pig who has to eat his bodyweight in swill or else you’ll magically disappear?”
“No, I’m standing here because you led me to believe we were in a hurry.”
“Well, if you think about it, technically we are in a hurry because the big boats are rented by the day, so the longer we take here, the less time we have on the water.”
Payne wiped his mouth. “Well, I can leave whenever.”
“Not me,” Jones said as he casually nibbled on Gozo. “I prefer to take my time when I eat.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
When Galea pulled up to the Corinthia Hotel in St. Julian’s, he couldn’t help but smile. Payne and Jones were standing outside one of the finest hotels in all of Malta, and they were carrying green garbage bags full of stuff. Instead of wealthy tourists, they looked like hobos. Galea parked the Mercedes sedan under the covered entryway and then hustled over to greet them.
“Let me see if I got this right,” Galea said with a laugh. “When I picked you up at the airport, you had nothing at all. Then when I picked you up at the mall, you mysteriously had luggage. And now, when I pick you up at a fancy hotel, you apparently have rubbish.”
“Yes,” Jones joked, “but it’s fancy rubbish.”
“Well, why didn’t you say so? Let me open my car at once. Feel free to dump it on my seats and smear it on my carpets.”
Payne laughed at the sarcasm. “In case you’re wondering—and I’m fairly certain you are—we don’t really have trash in these lovely bags. Due to an unfortunate oversight that we’re going to blame on jetlag, we neglected to buy backpacks or gym bags when we went shopping yesterday. That forced us to choose between hauling our luggage around for an entire day or going with the lighter economy model until we can purchase suitable replacements.”
Jones nodded. “And since we’re used to carrying all of our shit in green military bags, we thought these were somehow appropriate.”
“Believe it or not,” Galea teased, “I’ve dealt with trashy Americans before. But this is taking things to a whole new level.”
“Thanks, man. We appreciate it,” Jones said as he walked to the back of the car. “When Jon and I do anything, we always try to be the best.”
“Well, you’ve certainly succeeded with your new look.”
“Glad to hear it,” Jones joked. “Now if you’re done insulting your paying customers, why don’t you open your boot, or bonnet, or whatever the hell you call your trunk around here, so we can toss in our trash and get this party started?”
Galea laughed and unlocked the trunk. “Boot’s in the back. Bonnet’s in the front.”
“Potato. Tomato. Whatever.”
Payne smiled. “I don’t think that’s how the expression goes.”
“Personally, I prefer my version.”
“Come to think of it, so do I.”
Galea put their garbage bags into the trunk as they made their way to the backseat. Neither Payne nor Jones were the formal type, so they climbed into the sedan and closed their doors before Galea had a chance to assist them.
“So,” Galea asked once he got behind the wheel, “where are we headed?”
Jones glanced at the address on his phone. “A town called Birgu.”
“Let me guess,” Galea said. “You’re going there to rent a boat.”
Payne nodded. “Are we that predictable?”
“Not at all. Birgu is known for boats.”
◊ ◊ ◊
Located directly across the water from Valletta, Birgu is a historic city on the south side of the Grand Harbour. Although it is the site of many tourist destinations including the Inquisitor’s Palace and the Collegiate Church of Saint Lawrence, the waterfront itself is the main attraction.
Galea weaved his way through the twisty corridors that were built by ancient conquerors, slowly snaking his way toward the harbor. Over the centuries, the Phoenicians, Greeks, Romans, Byzantines, Arabs, and Normans had contributed to the construction of Birgu, but none had the lasting effect of the Order of Saint John.
Their influence could still be seen everywhere.
Payne and Jones marveled at the fortified walls that lined the seafront and imagined how difficult it must have been for the Ottomans to launch an assault from the water with ancient weapons. Some of the walls were taller than modern warships and nearly as wide. They could have withstood a bombardment of cannon fire for weeks on end. And if anyone tried to scale them, they were likely greeted with buckets of bubbling tar, dumped from above.
Galea noted his passengers’ interest in their surroundings. “From 1530 to 1571, Birgu served as the home of the Order of Saint John and was the de facto capital city of Malta. To honor the vital role that Birgu played in the Great Siege of Malta in 1565, it was awarded the title of Città Vittoriosa by Grand Master Jean Parisot de Valette. That means ‘victorious city’ in Italian. To this day, many people still call this city Vittoriosa instead of Birgu.”
As they continued toward the waterfront, the duo’s gaze shifted to the massive stone structure at the end of the road. It sat on a small peninsula that jutted into the harbor and still seemed formidable despite its obvious age. They stared at it through the front windshield as Galea maneuvered through traffic.
“What’s that large building up ahead?” Payne asked.
Galea didn’t need to look. “That is Fort Saint Angelo. It was originally built as a castle during the Middle Ages. Back then, it was known as Castrum Maris—or Castle by the Sea. But during the fifteen hundre
ds, it was rebuilt by the Order of Saint John as a bastioned fort and served as the Order’s headquarters for many years. Much later in the eighteen hundreds, it was garrisoned by the British and classified as a stone frigate known as the HMS Egmont. Then in 1933, it was renamed the HMS Saint Angelo.”
Jones grimaced. “I’m familiar with HMS. That stands for Her Majesty’s Ships. But what the hell is a stone frigate?”
“It’s a naval term,” Payne explained. “It simply means a naval establishment on land. Britain’s Royal Navy created the term when they hauled a cannon off one of their ships and used it to harass the French in the shipping lanes near Martinique. The cannon was manned by a crew of more than a hundred men and evaded capture until the Battle of Diamond Rock in 1805. Since the cannon was on land, not a ship, the Brits decided to call it a stone frigate.”
“Because that makes sense,” Jones said sarcastically.
Payne smiled. “Over time, the term expanded. Until the late nineteenth century, the Royal Navy housed its training facilities in hulks—old wooden ships that were moored in ports as floating barracks. They felt shore accommodations were too expensive and led to poor discipline in the ranks, so they kept their men in vessels. Those were called stone frigates as well.”
Galea chimed in. “If you look to your right, we are actually passing the Malta Maritime Museum. Once the home of the Naval bakery, the building houses more than twenty thousand artifacts that span over two thousand years of history.”
Payne turned his head as they drove past. “Do we have time to stop?”
“Of course, we do,” Galea said as he pulled to the side of the road that lined the seafront. “As luck should have it, we have reached your destination. The museum is just behind us, and the entrance to the Grand Harbour Marina is just ahead. What you do next is up to you.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
Payne and Jones grabbed their garbage bags from the trunk of the sedan while thanking Galea for the ride to Birgu. They weren’t sure what they were going to do next, but whatever it was, they were confident it could be done on foot.
The Malta Escape Page 6
