“So what did you do?” Payne wondered.
“Jarkko make deal. Instead of money, Jarkko take something else for services. Man is collector of—how you say—antiquities. Is this right term?”
Both Payne and Jones nodded.
Jarkko grinned. “That is tough one for Jarkko. When Jarkko speak English, Jarkko has mouthful of marbles. But Jarkko not dumb. Jarkko just have trouble with big words.”
“And first-person pronouns,” Jones added.
“What are those?”
“Never mind,” Payne muttered as he shook his head at Jones. “Your English is fantastic compared to our Finnish.”
“Jarkko also speak Russian, Swedish, Greek, and Italian. How about you?”
“That’s not important,” said Jones, who was clearly changing the subject. “Tell us more about the antiquities. How do they relate to the treasure?”
Jarkko apologized. “Sorry for interruption. Sometimes mind wonders when telling story. So, man with no money has large collection of antiquities from Russian Empire. They are said to be very valuable, so Jarkko take as payment. But I do not steal. This is good man. He have no money, so he give Jarkko collection as trade. Does this make sense?”
Both Payne and Jones nodded in understanding.
“Before Jarkko meet Jon and David, Jarkko no care about history. Jarkko only care about yacht, and vodka, and big-breasted women. But when Jarkko find treasure in Greece, Jarkko start to think about past—and every treasure lost at sea. As you know, Jarkko spend whole life on water, so who better to find lost treasures than Jarkko?”
“No one,” Payne said.
“Exactly! So Jarkko start looking. As luck should have it—or maybe fate, Jarkko not sure—Jarkko find clue about treasure that no one yet find. Then, when Jarkko look on internet, treasure not mentioned. No description at all. That means treasure is secret.”
“Or it never existed,” Jones suggested.
Jarkko shook his head vigorously. “This is not so. Description is real. Jarkko read letter in expensive collection. Jarkko no lie to friends!”
Payne put his hand on Jarkko’s shoulder and gave it a squeeze. “Relax, big guy. We’re on your side. We believe everything you said and hope you’re right. Unfortunately, as you know from your business, sometimes people aren’t as honest as you, so there’s a chance—just a chance—that DJ is right. Does that make sense?”
Jarkko nodded. “Yes. That make sense. Sometimes even David is right.”
“Wait,” Jones objected. “That’s not what he meant.”
“Jarkko sorry that he raise voice. Jarkko not mad at friends. Jarkko frustrated.”
“About what?” Payne asked.
“Jarkko serious about treasure, so Jarkko no drink last night. Jarkko wake up early, put on favorite puffy shirt, and go to Malta Maritime Museum to look for answers. People very nice in there and Jarkko see many wonderful things, but Jarkko find nothing about treasure.”
“That’s not necessarily a bad thing,” Jones suggested. “If this treasure actually exists, the less people who know about it, the better. Tell me, who wrote the letter that you’re referring to?”
“Paul,” Jarkko answered.
“Paul who?” Jones wondered. “Paul Revere? Paul McCartney? Paul Rudd?”
Jarkko shook his head. “Paul the First, Emperor of Russia.”
“Oh. That Paul.”
Payne leaned forward. “Wait. You’re telling me you have personal correspondence from Paul the First, former Emperor of Russia, describing the contents of a secret treasure that you can’t find on the Internet?”
“Yes,” Jarkko said. “You have summed it up perfectly.”
“And you’d like our help finding it?”
Jarkko nodded. “That is why Jarkko is soooo happy to see jobless friends on street. And that is why Jarkko start to believe in fate. Jarkko help you find treasure in Greece. Now you help Jarkko find treasure in Malta.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Küsendorf, Switzerland
(82 miles southeast of Bern)
Petr Ulster was a round, cheerful man with a twinkle in his eye and a thick brown beard that covered his multiple chins. In many ways, he resembled a young Santa Claus, which is why he recently had decided to stop wearing the color red. He loved food, and wine, and afternoon naps, but more than any of those, he loved history. There was something about the dead that made him come alive, an irony that made him giggle with delight anytime someone mentioned it.
Despite his jovial personality, Ulster was a serious academic. He loved to spend his days in the solitude of the books and artifacts that he and his employees so lovingly cared for. Whether helping colleagues with their research or solving mysteries of his own, Ulster often disappeared into the recesses of the Ulster Archives—a state-of-the-art compound that housed the finest private collection of documents and antiquities in the world—and transported himself to wherever he wanted to go, whether that be Ancient Rome, Medieval Europe, or Mesopotamia.
All he needed was his reading glasses and his imagination.
When Ulster went on these journeys, he preferred to go alone. That meant no phones or disturbances of any kind. His staff was well trained and fully capable of handling the day-to-day rigors of the world-class facility while he roamed from locked room to locked room, searching for ancient threads that could be spun into new revelations about the past. Few people on earth knew so much about so many things, which is why the world’s brightest minds often turned to him in their times of need.
Because of this demand, Ulster was forced to turn down most requests. It pained him to do so—it truly did, for he was an educator at heart—but he had reached a point in his career where he barely had enough time to do what he needed to do, let alone what everyone hoped he would do. He always tried to soften the blow by asking his staff to help however they could, but their time was limited, too, which forced them to redirect many queries to scholars with less ability.
Of course, there were some exceptions to Ulster’s rules.
People who had access to him at any time.
Whether he was working, or sleeping, or taking a bath.
On this particular day, Ulster was visiting Ancient China in one of his document vaults. While double-checking an inventory list from the recently discovered treasure of Marco Polo—a hoard that he had helped to find by authenticating a manuscript that proved to be a vital clue to an adventurer named Jack Cobb and his mysterious crew of hunters—he heard a single chime over the facility’s intercom system.
It was the staff’s way to get his attention.
Ulster stood from the elaborately carved desk that sat in the middle of the colorfully named Forbidden Room—which housed their vast Chinese collection and took its name from the Forbidden City—and waddled to the touchscreen mounted inside the bulletproof security door.
Like most rooms in the Archives, everything was done to protect the artifacts. The filtered air was kept at an ideal seventy degrees and charged with positive static energy, so that contaminants would be pushed out of the rooms rather than settle inside. The floors were made of fireproof wood (boards that had been coated with an aqueous-based resin) while the walls and ceilings had been treated with a fire-retardant spray. Meanwhile, the objects themselves were kept in massive fireproof vaults that could only be opened by a select few.
Having explicitly told his staff that he didn’t want to be disturbed, Ulster answered their signal with trepidation. Ever since the Archives had been attacked a decade earlier and nearly burnt to the ground, he had nightmares that their compound would be raided again despite his military-trained guards and beefed up security protocols.
Ulster touched the dark screen, and it instantly came to life.
A moment later, he saw the face of his meticulous butler, Winston, who was standing in Ulster’s private office on the main floor of the facility.
“Is everything all right?” Ulster asked, concerned.
“Yes, sir. My d
eepest apologies. I realize you asked not to be disturbed, but you have a video call on your private line that I thought you may want to take.”
“From whom?”
“Jonathon Payne.”
Ulster grinned. “Of course I want to speak to him. Why didn’t you say so?”
“I believe I did, sir.”
“I meant, sooner!” Ulster said as he pulled the touchscreen from its docking station and carried it to the desk where he had been working. “I always get so worried when I hear that ghastly chime. I assume it’s an emergency or something worse, if that’s even possible. Seriously, Winston. It’s downright Pavlovian. I hear the chime, and I instantly start to fret.”
“Sir?”
“Not to brag, because that is surely not in my nature, but I have successively cracked a code or two during my career—some of which had boggled the world’s most brilliant symbologists. So it stands to reason that we should be able to implement a new auditory code that will give me a clue about future disturbances, something that will foreshadow what is in store for me when I place my hand upon the grisly blank screen. It just sits there on the wall, forever taunting me, knowing what awaits my fate long before I.”
“Sir?”
“It doesn’t have to be overly complicated. I think it would be a waste of your time and mine if this system required an Enigma machine for decryption. Perhaps we can start with something simple. Maybe a buzzer instead of—”
“Sir!”
Ulster blinked and refocused on his butler. “Yes? What is it?”
“The call, sir. Should I put it through?”
Ulster laughed. “Yes, of course. How silly of me. Here I am, going on and on about a new system of communication, when—”
Winston hit a button, and the screen went black.
“And it appears, I am now talking to myself,” Ulster mumbled.
Nearly a minute passed before an image flickered on screen.
During that time, Ulster thought back to the first day he had met Payne and Jones. They had arrived at the Archives, unannounced, looking for information about a Roman general named Paccius, who they thought might have been connected to the mythical Catacombs of Orvieto. Unlike the dull academics who normally called upon him, Payne and Jones had brought a swashbuckling energy that was missing from Ulster’s life. Before he knew it, he had been swept up in a grand adventure that had forced him from the safety of the books and scrolls he loved into a treacherous world where bullet points had a far different meaning.
“Jonathon,” Ulster said when Payne’s face appeared on screen. “Can you hear me?”
“Petr!” Payne shouted into his camera phone while sitting on the deck of Jarkko’s yacht. It was parked at the Grand Harbour Marina in Birgu. “It’s great to see you!”
“And you!” Ulster replied as he noticed the blue water behind Payne. “Where are you calling from? It doesn’t appear to be your office.”
“What office?” Payne said with a laugh. “I signed my paperwork on Saturday. That means I am officially unemployed. I have to admit, it feels great.”
“I am so happy for you. I bet it was a huge relief to finally sign the documents.”
Payne nodded. “Such a relief that DJ and I decided to take a celebratory vacation.”
“How wonderful!”
“Here,” Payne said. He held up his phone so Ulster could see the waterfront. “Take a look at the harbor and try to guess where we are.”
Ulster smiled. He loved a good challenge. “Well, let’s start with the obvious. Based on the position of the sun, I can eliminate half of the world. That means you are most likely somewhere in Western Europe. However, when I look at the style of architecture of the adjacent buildings, I am noting a mix of several cultures, so we are talking about a city or country that has been conquered multiple times. I am also drawn to the color of stone that permeates your surroundings. It is a very distinct color of brown—dare I say, caramel. Speaking of which, have you ever tried caramel cheesecake? My personal chef found a recipe from Greece that is so delightful I will sometimes skip my entrée entirely in order to have an extra piece. Of course, I doubt you’re surprised that the recipe came from Greece since the Ancient Greeks were the ones to invent cheesecake on the isle of Samos, but—”
“Petr!” Payne shouted as he returned the phone to his face. “Stay focused. You were trying to figure out—”
“Malta,” Ulster countered. “You are somewhere in Malta. And if I was forced to pick an exact spot, I would say you are across the harbor from Valletta in the historic town of Birgu.”
“Holy crap,” Payne replied, stunned by Ulster’s accuracy. “You got all of that from my phone? That is, without a doubt, one of the most impressive things I have ever witnessed.”
Ulster grinned. “That was fun! We should do that more often!”
Payne smiled at Ulster’s childlike enthusiasm. He was unlike anyone that Payne had ever met, a pure soul who only put out good into the world. “That sounds like a plan.”
“I bet I know why you’re calling.” Ulster leaned back and tried to put his feet up on the desk, but his belly wouldn’t allow it. “You want to talk about our upcoming show at the Smithsonian.”
“Obviously,” Payne said, just to humor him. The truth was that Payne had signed off on the event but didn’t want to play an active role because the thought of being in the spotlight made his skin crawl. “But before we get to that, there is something more pressing to discuss. Do you remember my old buddy, Jarkko?”
“The fisherman from Finland?”
“That’s him.”
“Of course, I do,” said Ulster, who was brought in as a consultant to help determine the rightful owner of the Greek treasure found on Mount Athos. “If memory serves, he asked for his portion of the settlement to be paid in caviar and strippers. Why do you ask?”
Payne laughed. “As luck should have it, we bumped into him in Birgu. He recently came across a collection of old Russian documents that mentions a large Maltese treasure that doesn’t appear online. We did some basic searches and didn’t see anything matching its description, so we figured we’d give you a call to ask for your thoughts.”
Ulster ran his fingers through his beard. “Believe it or not, there are a number of significant connections between Malta and Russia, particularly in regards to the Order of Saint John. Tell me, my boy, how old are the documents?”
“One of them is a personal letter from Paul the First, written in 1798.”
Ulster leaned forward. “To whom?”
“A man named Hompesch. At least, I think that’s how it’s pronounced. I know it’s not a lot to go on, but we were kind of hoping you could give us some advice on what to do next.”
“My advice?” Ulster blurted as he rose from his chair and began pacing the room. “My advice is that you don’t tell anyone about this letter until I have a chance to read it. And I mean, no one. Do you hear me, Jonathon? Not a single soul!”
Payne sensed his concern. “Why’s that?”
Ulster hurried back to the desk and stared directly into the camera. “Because if it describes what I think it does, your friend Jarkko may have put your life in danger.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Payne didn’t scare easily. Neither did Jones nor Jarkko. So none of them had any intention of giving up their pursuit of the treasure.
If anything, Ulster’s warning had the opposite effect on them.
It raised their interest to a whole new level.
Prior to his conversation with Ulster, Payne didn’t put much stock in Jarkko’s collection of old documents. Although the personal letter from Paul the First had piqued his interest, Payne had assumed it wouldn’t amount to much unless it included a detailed map with a giant X.
Now he wasn’t so sure.
If the mere mention of personal correspondence between the emperor and Hompesch was enough for Ulster to soil his trousers from a thousand miles away, then Payne was all in.
And that meant taking precautions.
Thankfully, Jarkko was all about safety, which meant he had a hidden closet on his yacht that had enough firepower to take over Nakatomi Plaza. All three men armed themselves with handguns, just in case the criminal element that Ulster was worried about decided to make an appearance. Then they boxed up all of Jarkko’s research and manuscripts for safekeeping while waiting for a call back from Ulster, who was busy with a task of his own.
Payne’s phone rang less than an hour later. When he answered the audio call, he was greeted by a much different Ulster. Somehow the historian had pushed past his initial fear and was now focused on the exciting possibilities that lay ahead.
“Jonathon,” Ulster begged, “please let me apologize for my melodramatic outburst from earlier. When I took your call, I was already on edge from Winston’s despicable chime, and I allowed it to taint what should have been a positive conversation about a tantalizing historic discovery. I do hope you can find it in your heart to forgive me.”
Payne laughed. “I wish I could, Petr, but there’s nothing to forgive. As far as I can tell, you were simply concerned for my safety. Why in the world would I be mad at that?”
Ulster breathed a sigh of relief. “Truth be told, I’m still worried about your safety, but I’ve known you and David long enough to realize that you can take care of yourselves. With that in mind, I think you should forge ahead with your journey.”
Payne tried to keep a straight face. “Well, Petr, you’re the expert. And if you think that’s the right thing to do, then sure. Why the hell not?”
“Excellent!” Ulster said, totally convinced he had talked Payne into it. “In that case, let’s discuss the letter that you have in your possession. Based on the pictures you sent, I have no reason to believe that it is anything but genuine. I quickly compared the script in the letter to other known samples of Paul’s handwriting and signature, and they appear to be a match. Of course, it’s impossible for me to authenticate a document based on pictures alone, which is why I reached out to a colleague of mine. Not only is she qualified to verify the letter, but she is an expert on Maltese history and the Knights of Malta.”
The Malta Escape Page 8
