The Malta Escape

by Chris Kuzneski

Ulster was particularly intrigued by the possibility of Hompesch’s gambit with Napoleon. Like Marissa, he realized that there was little evidence to support such conjecture, but unlike his former student, he seemed to be much more optimistic about the likelihood of a treasure and escape attempt. When she asked him why, he merely gave her a smile and said he would share his theory at the appropriate time.

  “Are you ready for us?” Jones asked as he entered the glass-lined saloon through the rear sliding door. He walked up the center aisle past the galley on his left and the dining table on his right until he reached the main social area in the center of the yacht.

  “We certainly are,” Ulster said from his position on the love seat. It sat off to the right in front of a massive window that stretched from the ceiling to the floor. Marissa sat next to him, the two historians, side-by-side, ready to give a joint lecture.

  Although Volkov had slashed most of the furniture, Marissa had done her best the night before to stuff the padding back into the pillows. She had also found several clean sheets in a linen closet below deck and had used them as slipcovers to line the furniture. All things considered, she had done a remarkable job to make the room look undamaged.

  Jones stepped around the wooden coffee table to his left and plopped down on the enormous couch. It sat across the aisle from the love seat and was designed to seat eight people. The sectional was lined with three different colored sheets, making it look more like a trio of separate couches than a singular combined one. With the local islands on his mind, Jones announced that the purple sheet on the left was Gozo and claimed it for himself.

  Jarkko heard the pronouncement and hustled into the room before Payne. He dove headfirst over the coffee table onto the main portion of the couch and landed with a cushioned thud. The entire section was covered with a striped sheet made up of an assortment of colors. “Jarkko is captain, so Jarkko claims Malta. That means cabin boy is stuck with Comino.”

  “That’s fine,” Payne said as he sat on the small sectional to the right. It was draped with a patterned sheet that resembled green bamboo leaves. “I ate Comino for breakfast yesterday morning and found it delicious.”

  Jarkko turned and plopped his dirty bare feet on the coffee table. “Jarkko has seen Jon eat. Jarkko believes he could consume entire island.”

  Ulster and Marissa looked to Payne for an explanation.

  “Long story. I’ll tell you later,” Payne said.

  “If it involves food, I shall certainly listen,” Ulster said with a grin. “Speaking of which, I restocked the pantry with an assortment of delicacies from the Archives. Feel free to eat anything you’d like except the can of Beluga caviar. I brought that as a peace offering for Jarkko.”

  Jarkko sat up. “For Jarkko?”

  Ulster nodded. “I know how disappointed you were in your settlement from Mount Athos. Unfortunately, due to the monks’ deep religious ties, there was simply no way I could send you caviar and strippers as part of your payment. However, thanks to a Russian friend of mine, I was able to get my hands on a can of Beluga Gold, which is not even sold in stores. Please accept it as a token of my appreciation for your contribution to the team’s discovery.”

  Jarkko grinned. “Thank you, Petr. You are forgiven. You may keep strippers for self.”

  Ulster laughed. “Wonderful! I’ll teach them to read and put them to work.”

  Payne smiled at the thought. “As much as I’d like to discuss that, what do you say we get back to Valletta? If I remember correctly, we left off with the Treaty of 1797.”

  “That’s right,” Marissa said as she joined the conversation. “Hompesch ratified a deal with Paul the First in 1797 AD that made Russia the secular protector of Malta. Unfortunately, there was little that Paul could do from his throne in Russia to protect Malta from the invading French fleet. He simply didn’t have the time to react to their arrival or the resources necessary to stop Napoleon on his journey across the Mediterranean.”

  Payne furrowed his brow. “Then why did the Order hold him in such high regard?”

  “Because Paul gave them shelter after the storm.”

  Ulster explained further. “Keep something in mind: Napoleon didn’t kill the knights or take them prisoner. He had more important thing to worry about on his way to Egypt. Instead, the terms of Hompesch’s surrender detailed a multitude of things, including an annual pension for himself and the exile of the Order from Malta.”

  Marissa chimed in. “As I mentioned yesterday, the Order was made up of knights from all over Europe. Some of those men returned home to fight for their homelands in this particularly turbulent time. But a large percentage of the knights who remained loyal to the Order opted to go to Saint Petersburg instead, where Paul the First welcomed them with open arms. This infusion of refugee knights gave rise to the Russian tradition of the Knights Hospitaller and eventually led to Paul’s election as grand master of the Order.”

  Payne shook his head. “Hold up. I’m confused. I thought you said that Hompesch went to Trieste, Italy, where he established a temporary headquarters while looking for a new home.”

  Marissa smiled, glad that her lesson had sunk in. “You’re not confused at all. Both of these things occurred at the exact same time. Hompesch went to Italy, and most of his men went to Russia. And this separation led to a brief period where the Order had two grand masters.”

  “Sweet!” Jones said from Gozo. “Please tell me they dueled to the death.”

  Ulster laughed. “I’m afraid not, David, although that certainly would have been exciting. Instead, they resorted to something almost as scintillating as a clash of swords: politics!”

  Jones and Jarkko both booed from the couch.

  Payne smiled. “I’m with them. Boooo!”

  Ulster grimaced, confused. “Since when do we boo knowledge?”

  Marissa whispered. “Since last night.”

  “I’m not sure I like it.”

  She shrugged. “It’s much better when we do the booing.”

  “We get to boo, too? That does sound like fun. Please tell me when!”

  She smiled and took his arm in hers. Although she had remained in touch with Ulster via phone over the past few years, they had been apart for far too long in her opinion. She didn’t realize how much she had missed her mentor until she had seen him on shore.

  “If it’s okay with you,” Payne said to keep the briefing on course, “please summarize the politics and give us the shortened version. Or else there may be a revolt.”

  Ulster’s eyes lit up. “As a matter of fact, there was a revolt! After Napoleon’s arrival, the French rapidly dismantled the institutions of the Order, including the Roman Catholic Church. Property was looted and seized to pay for his expedition to Egypt, which generated considerable anger among the deeply religious population of Malta. Their rage erupted on the second day of September, long after Napoleon’s departure, during an auction of Church property. Within a week, thousands of Maltese citizens had driven the French garrison into Valletta. A year and a half later, the French were vanquished for good as the British took control of Malta.”

  Ulster finished his statement with a satisfied grin. “I must admit, I think that’s the shortest lecture I’ve ever given. I should try summarization more often.”

  Payne cleared his throat. “I hate to burst your bubble, but the lecture you just gave—as concise and compelling as it was—was actually on the wrong topic.”

  Ulster frowned. “Really? What was I supposed to be talking about?”

  “Politics.”

  “Yes, of course! Why didn’t you stop me earlier? Please, if I ever start to ramble about something that I shouldn’t be rambling about, I won’t be the least bit offended if you cut me off with a word or two before I—”

  “Petr!”

  Ulster blinked. “Yes! Just like that. Well done, Jonathon!”

  Marissa smiled. “Why don’t you let me take it from here?”

  “Please, my dear, I’m all ears
. Well, some belly, but mostly ears. Actually, who am I kidding? I’m a giant belly who can barely hear, but I’ll still do my best to listen.”

  “Politics,” Payne repeated from Comino.

  “On it,” she said with a nod of her head. “To understand the politics involved, we must assume that either Hompesch didn’t have a treasure or he accomplished the task of hiding the treasure with only a few trusted men. That would mean that ninety-nine point nine percent of the knights who were exiled from Malta thought that he was an incompetent coward, one who actually had the gall to negotiate a pension for himself from the French as part of his surrender.”

  “No bueno,” Jones said.

  “You’re right. Not good at all. So when the majority of the knights arrived in Saint Petersburg—where they were given a hero’s welcome by Paul the First, despite their loss to the French—who do you think the knights favored: Hompesch or the emperor?”

  Jarkko grinned. “Jarkko guess emperor!”

  She smiled. “Jarkko is right!”

  “Jarkko always right. What Jarkko win?”

  “Possibly a golden treasure filled with incredible riches,” Jones announced in the voice of a game-show host. “But only if you shut up long enough for us to find it.”

  Jarkko laughed. “Steve Harvey make good point. Jarkko shut up now.”

  “Steve Harvey? You racist motherf—”

  “Knock it off!” Payne shouted before Jones could finish. “Please continue.”

  “Thank you, Jon,” Jones said with a smile. “You racist motherf—”

  “Not you! I was talking to Marissa.”

  “Fine!” Jones mumbled. “Let the white girl talk.”

  Payne rolled his eyes. “Please, Marissa. Go on.”

  Marissa nodded. “With the majority of the knights in Russia, they felt it was within their right to elect a new grand master, and Paul willingly accepted the title. Meanwhile, Hompesch kept his title as well until 1799 AD, when he was forced to abdicate under pressure from the Austrian Court. Ironically, that left Paul as the de facto grand master of the Catholic order even though he was the leader of the Russian Orthodox Church at the time.”

  “How did the Vatican feel about that?” Payne wondered.

  “Actually,” she noted, “the reason I said ‘de facto’ and not ‘de jure’ is because Paul’s election was never ratified under Roman Catholic canon law. Of course, they had their own troubles to worry about. When Malta was captured, Pope Pius the Sixth was a prisoner of the French, who had defeated papal forces in Rome in 1796 AD. The pope eventually passed away in August of 1799, and it wasn’t until March of 1800 that Pope Pius the Seventh was crowned—although it wasn’t much of a crown. Since the French had seized the tiaras normally used by the Holy See, Pius the Seventh was anointed as pope while wearing a papier-mâché papal tiara.”

  “That’s awesome!” Jones said with a grin.

  Jarkko laughed as he pulled out his phone to search for an image. “Pope wearing paper hat! That make Jarkko laugh! Jarkko want to see picture!”

  “Jarkko,” Jones explained. “They didn’t have cameras back then.”

  “Jarkko now sad, but Jarkko still laughing.”

  Marissa couldn’t help but smile. “After his election, Pius the Seventh was a tad indecisive on the subject. At first he supported Paul as grand master, perhaps as a way to curry his favor while in exile himself, but he eventually ended up abstaining over the complex issue. Of course, none of this mattered after 1801 AD, when Paul was killed by a band of dismissed Russian officers, who strangled and trampled him to death in his own bedroom.”

  “Good Lord!” Jones exclaimed. “What in the name of David Carradine was going on at that orgy? How in the hell do you get trampled to death in your own bedroom?”

  Jarkko nodded. “Jarkko knows. But Jarkko not telling.”

  Ulster made a disgusted face. “It wasn’t a sex party. It was an assassination, most likely caused by his affiliation with the Knights. Paul was so enthralled by their code of chivalry that he tried to force it upon Russian nobility. His attempt to improve the lives of the lower classes actually alienated many of his trusted advisors, who helped orchestrate the regime change. His son, Alexander the First, took over the country but not the Order, and that led to a period of chaos that eventually contributed to the end of the Knights Hospitallers.”

  “The end?” Payne blurted. “I thought you said the Order still existed today.”

  Marissa nodded. “It does, just not in its original form. As I mentioned yesterday, the Order always seemed to adapt with the times, and their old model stopped working in the nineteenth century. As countries came and went quicker than you could draw a map, the Knights Hospitallers morphed into several smaller orders, including the Sovereign Military Order of Malta. The organization settled in Rome in 1834 AD and is widely considered the modern-day continuation of the Hospitallers. All told, the Order of Malta—as they are often called—has over thirteen thousand knights, dames, and auxiliary members, plus more than forty thousand employees, and over eighty thousand volunteers around the globe.”

  “That’s a lot of people,” Payne said.

  “And they do a lot of good,” she stressed. “They help the elderly, the homeless, children, victims of natural disasters, and so many more in their times of need.”

  “So,” Jones said, “they’re like a charity.”

  Ulster shook his head. “They’re actually much more than that. As a sovereign order, they maintain diplomatic relations with over one hundred states. They enter into treaties. They have permanent observer status at the United Nations. They even issue their own passports, coins, and stamps. Their main headquarters in Rome has extraterritorial status, meaning it is treated like an embassy and exempt from local laws. And even though I’m not privy to the latest numbers, their annual budget is reportedly close to two billion dollars.”

  Payne whistled. “That’s a lot of money. Given the amount of charity work that I do, I’m surprised I’ve never heard of them.”

  “I’m not,” Marissa said. “Despite their size, they don’t have diplomatic relations with the United States. Most of the work they do is in South America, Africa, and, of course, Europe—where the legend of the Knights of Malta still has meaning.”

  “Okay,” Payne said in summation. “Unless I’m mistaken, we’re caught up on the history of Knights Hospitallers, Paul the First, and Grand Master Hompesch. Now comes the tough part. We have to figure out if the Order had a treasure, and if they did, how did Hompesch get it out of Malta? Unfortunately, I’m kind of at a loss on where to begin.”

  “Then it’s a good thing I’m here,” Ulster said with a twinkle in his eye. “Because I have a pretty good idea how Hompesch got the treasure out of Valletta.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  Saint Petersburg, Russia

  Ivan Volkov knew next to nothing about world history. Not because he wasn’t intelligent, but because the ancient past bored him to tears.

  Even as a child in school, he had despised academics. He had done just enough to pass his classes in order to stay out of trouble, while spending most of his time after school causing it. Despite his small and wiry frame, he had been the most feared kid on the playground, using his ferocity and rage to scare boys who were twice his age and size.

  Where he grew up, everyone called him the wolf.

  Partially because of his surname.

  But mostly because he was an animal.

  He had used that reputation to work his way through the ranks of the Russian underworld until he had enough cash and contacts to launch his own empire, and he had announced his arrival in a sea of blood and carnage, killing multiple crime lords in a single night.

  Ever since then, he had been feared by everyone.

  His men, his rivals, even the Russian police.

  No one was willing to tangle with Ivan Volkov.

  That is, until the incident in Malta.

  Although word of the shootout had
n’t reached Russia and probably never would since all of those henchmen were dead—including his driver, who Volkov had killed upon their arrival in Moscow—he wasn’t willing to take any chances. He needed to take care of the Finn and his American friends before the news of their victory could possibly spread, while also claiming the treasure that he assumed they were searching for.

  Unfortunately, Volkov had no idea where to start.

  On his flight home, he had browsed through most of the documents that he had stolen from the Finn’s yacht, but he couldn’t make sense of them. He wasn’t familiar with the Knights of Malta or the history of Valletta. And even though he had heard of Catherine the Great, he knew nothing about her son Paul I or his dealings with the Order.

  Eventually Volkov had realized that he needed an expert, someone who could take the historical collection in his possession and turn it into actual gold, but since neither King Midas nor Rumpelstiltskin was available, he decided to journey north to Saint Petersburg in order to visit the State Hermitage Museum.

  According to his phone, it was the second-largest museum in the world (behind only the Louvre in Paris) and was founded by Catherine the Great after she had acquired an impressive cache of paintings from a Prussian merchant named Johann Ernst Gotzkowsky. Volkov didn’t care about the Prussian or his stupid paintings, but he figured a museum that was built by the empress was bound to have an expert or two on the lives of her family.

  Unwilling to risk boredom by going inside an actual museum, Volkov sent in a few new henchmen to find someone who had knowledge of the subject matter. Thirty minutes later, they brought out a curator named Boris Artamonov, who looked almost as old as the museum itself.

  Dressed in a rumpled sport coat with patches on the elbows and brown tweed pants, he showed no fear as he slowly shuffled along between the goons toward the idling limousine, as if this type of thing happened every day. Of course, growing up in the Soviet Union, he had lived through many things far worse than a stroll along the Neva River. When a tour boat near the quay passed him by, he waved to the people in the late-afternoon sun.