Jarkko nodded his head. “Jarkko likes to dig.”
Ulster glanced at Marissa. “What about you, my dear?”
She smiled. “You had me at Cassar.”
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
After giving it some thought, Payne and Jones realized that they didn’t have the necessary equipment to journey through the subterranean world underneath Valletta. They had no idea what they were going to find down there, and since they felt responsible for the safety of the rest of the group, they didn’t think it was wise to go without the proper tools.
Thankfully, Payne had a private plane at his disposal and a manufacturing facility in Italy less than an hour flight away. With a quick call to Samuel McCormick, the new CEO of Payne Industries, Payne was put in touch with the right people in Rome, and they were willing to assemble everything that Payne needed for a successful mission.
Unwilling to leave his friends in case of an enemy attack, Payne sent an empty plane to Italy, where the necessary equipment was loaded on board before the jet returned to Malta. It was met at the airport by Mark Galea, who traded in his chauffeur’s hat and Mercedes sedan for work gloves and a panel van. He loaded all of the crates into the back of the truck while fantasizing about the size of his gratuity.
He had a feeling that it was going to be a personal best.
While that was going on, Jones, Ulster, and Marissa went through the rest of Cassar’s portfolio in order to figure out the best way to access the tunnel system. Marissa pointed out that Cassar had designed and built the majority of the original auberges in Valletta, which gave further credence to the hidden tunnel system underneath the inns.
Unfortunately, Cassar’s tunnel system would have been in place for more than two hundred years prior to the French invasion in 1798 AD, so the three of them felt that it was unlikely that Hompesch would have solely used the original tunnels. Not only would the tunnels have been known by too many men over the centuries—including disloyal French knights—but they realized a secret treasure would need to be stored completely out of view.
The question was, where?
Marissa’s initial thought was underneath the Grandmaster’s Palace, which was built by Cassar in 1574 AD. And upon closer inspection of the file labeled VALLETTA 2 – 1575 AD, they realized that it was part of the same tunnel system as the auberges.
Which, of course, made perfect sense.
If the grand master had wanted to hold a secret meeting with some of his knights, they could have used the underground network of tunnels to reach the palace without being seen. Stories had spread over the years that the Knights used to ride underneath the city on horses while hauling supplies on carriages, yet a massive system like that had never been found.
Perhaps, this was where the rumors had started.
But Marissa also realized that the Grandmaster’s Palace had gone through many renovations over the centuries, including a major one in the mid-1700s. Later on, after the French arrived, they renamed it the Palais National, which was then changed to the Governor’s Palace when the British seized control of Malta in 1800 AD. Nowadays, the building is officially known as The Palace, and it currently houses the Office of the President of Malta.
Jones laughed at the thought of the call that Payne would have to make to Nick Dial if they were caught by Maltese police in a tunnel underneath the Office of the President, but Marissa didn’t find it quite so funny since she actually lived in Malta. Since they all agreed that Hompesch would have been foolish to keep the treasure in the same location as his French predecessor, they highly doubted they would find anything other than an abandoned tunnel under the former Grandmaster’s Palace.
With that in mind, they kept searching elsewhere.
Always on the lookout for a good conspiracy, Jones remembered something he had pointed out to Marissa the night before. He had found it strange that Auberge d'Allemagne (the inn for the German knights) was the only auberge to be intentionally demolished. He reasoned, if Hompesch—the only German grand master in the history of the Knights of Malta—needed men he could trust, he would have found them at Auberge d'Allemagne.
Expecting an argument, Jones was pleasantly surprised when Ulster and Marissa agreed with his reasoning. Although none of them (including Jones) believed there was a conspiracy to demolish the inn—since it was the British, not the Order, that had razed the auberge in 1839 AD to make way for St. Paul’s Pro-Cathedral—they felt it made perfect sense that Hompesch would have used the German auberge as his base of operation. They were even more enthused when they looked through modern municipal plans and realized that the substructure of the Anglican church did not appear to encroach upon the original tunnel system built by Cassar.
It came close, but it did not connect.
Of course, they had no way of knowing if the construction of the cathedral or other buildings in the area had accidentally collapsed the German leg of the tunnel system. The only way they would know for sure was by going under Valletta to see for themselves.
◊ ◊ ◊
While Payne handled the arrangements for their subterranean mission and Jones helped Ulster and Marissa determine the precise location of their upcoming search, Jarkko was tasked with keeping an eye out for trouble. He highly doubted that they would be attacked on the open sea, but just to be safe, Jarkko moved the position of the yacht every fifteen minutes or so.
In his line of work, he had done business with all types of criminals, but Jarkko and his smuggling associates around the globe particularly despised Russian thugs. There was just something about the way that they carried themselves that pissed Jarkko off, as if they were ethnically better than criminals from other parts of the world.
Worse still, he found they often let their egos get in their way.
Which was the main problem with Volkov.
For one reason or another, he had interpreted Jarkko’s dealing with Bobrinsky—one of the few Russian criminals that Jarkko actually liked—as a slap in his face. In response, Volkov had thrown a temper tantrum on Jarkko’s yacht to let him know that he was gunning for him.
Initially, Jarkko hadn’t been scared by the damage to his yacht. He had dealt with Russian scum for years and knew how to take care of himself, but everything changed when he had found out the name of the man throwing the tantrum. Though he had never met Volkov, he had known a few people who had, and none of them had lived to talk about it.
Jarkko had put on a happy face for the others and was thrilled to temporarily have the distraction of the treasure, but he knew enough about Volkov to realize that a war was coming—one that Jarkko doubted he could win. Not only did Volkov have hundreds of goons at his disposal, but he apparently had a team of hackers on his payroll, who were capable of disabling traffic cameras and erasing surveillance footage with a few keystrokes.
With that type of support, the Russian had little to fear.
To survive, Jarkko knew he needed to strike first.
As he stared at the turquoise sea, a plan started to form, one that would require the help of his friends. Even before Malta, he had admired Payne and Jones for the way they had treated him on their Greek adventure. He knew in his heart that he didn’t truly deserve a piece of their finder’s fee. After all, he was merely a boat for hire, and they had paid him well above his normal rate. But they went out of their way to make sure that he was given a slice of their pie.
In his world, people like that were hard to find.
And he wanted to do whatever he could to protect them.
Unfortunately, Jarkko realized that his friends were involved whether he asked for their help or not. He knew Volkov wasn’t the type of man who would forgive Payne and Jones for killing his henchmen. If anything, he would go after them twice as hard just to prove a point. Then he would go after Marissa, and Ulster, and anyone else who had helped Jarkko.
That was simply the way Volkov did business.
He would keep coming and coming until he was stopped.
Wi
th that in mind, Jarkko decided to pull Payne aside to have a man-to-man talk, one to be held out of earshot from the people that he hoped to protect. He waited until Payne was off the phone with his contacts in Rome, then called him to the padded bench in front of the helm. It was the same bench that Payne had sat on with Marissa the night before and with Ulster earlier that day. And every time, Payne was stunned by its softness.
“Did I do something wrong?” Payne asked as he leaned back and smiled. “I can’t remember the last time I was pulled aside by a ship’s captain. Probably back at the Academy.”
Jarkko shook his head. “Not time for laughs. Jarkko in trouble.”
Payne could tell he was serious. “What kind of trouble?”
Jarkko took a deep breath before he let his emotions out in one rambling burst. “Jarkko pretends everything is okay, but everything is not okay. Ivan Volkov is bad man. He knows Jarkko’s name, and he knows about you. No way Russian hackers wipe files without looking. You are famous man. David is famous man. Volkov will search internet until he finds names, then he will come after you. Then Marissa. Then Petr. Then everyone you know. Then everyone they know. Jarkko has lost many friends to men like him, but Volkov is worst of bunch. In Russia, they call him ‘wolf’, because he enjoys hunt. That is why he went to Tallinn to kill Sergei Bobrinsky. That is why he came to Malta to kill Jarkko. You saw what he did to his own man. He is animal. He will not stop until he tastes blood—or we taste his.”
Payne said nothing as he absorbed the impact of Jarkko’s warning. Instead, he just sat on the bench staring at the sea, while running scenarios through his mind.
From the moment Jarkko had told him about the slaughter of Bobrinsky and his family, Payne had realized that Volkov would need to be dealt with. He knew Nick Dial would prefer something legal, but from Payne’s personal experience dealing with some of the worst terrorists in the world, he knew that megalomaniacs like Volkov wouldn’t play by society’s rules.
His sole goal was to get revenge in the loudest way possible.
And for someone like Payne, that was a scary thought.
Not because he and Jones couldn’t take care of themselves—because they certainly could. But because they couldn’t protect their entire circle of friends and associates from someone who didn’t follow the rules. What if Volkov’s next move was an attack on Payne Industries? Or their upcoming exhibit at the Smithsonian? Or the Ulster Archives? Or about a hundred other places he could think of?
How could they protect everyone at once?
It simply wasn’t possible, even for men like Payne and Jones.
Unless they dealt with the problem head on.
“Believe it or not,” Payne said to break the silence, “I knew we would eventually have this conversation. I wasn’t sure when, but I knew it was coming. And I happen to agree with you. I think we need to be the aggressor in this situation, or else we’ll be looking over our shoulders for the rest of our very short lives.”
Jarkko nodded. “What about David?”
Payne smiled. “If DJ had his way, we’d already be in Moscow.”
“Bad idea. Must not hunt wolf in Russia. Must make wolf come to you.”
“I agree,” Payne said. “But we can’t bring him here. He’s already caused enough problems in Malta. We need to lure him somewhere else.”
“Jarkko agrees. And Jarkko knows where. But Jarkko needs help.”
Payne looked at him. “Help with what?”
Jarkko grinned. “Setting trap.”
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
The Pentagon
Arlington, VA
Despite its name and shape, the Pentagon is jokingly referred to as the “squarest” building in the world by Washington insiders, since it was filled with letter-of-the-law soldiers in perfectly pressed uniforms doing so many monotonous tasks that the entire place was incredibly boring and mechanical. Of course, that type of regimented precision was needed to run something as massively complex as the United States Department of Defense.
And yet, not everyone who worked at the Pentagon was expected to show up in starched white shirts and recently polished shoes. Deep in the subbasement of the Pentagon lurked a computer researcher named Randy Raskin, who was able to track down just about anything in cyberspace. Thanks to next-generation computer technology and his high security clearance, Raskin was privy to many of the government’s biggest secrets, a mountain of classified data that was there for the taking if someone knew how to access it. His job was to make sure the latest information got into the right hands, whether that be CENTCOM, Capitol Hill, the White House, or two former MANIACs with a penchant for mischief.
Over the years, Payne and Jones had used his services on several occasions, and that had eventually led to a friendship. Raskin often pretended he didn’t have time for them, or their frequent favors, but the truth was he admired them greatly and would do just about anything to help. In fact, one of his biggest joys in life was living vicariously through them—whether that be their missions in the special forces or their recent travels around the globe.
Someday he hoped to join them on one of their grand adventures, but for the time being, he was perfectly content monitoring their escapades from the warmth of his fuzzy blue bathrobe, which he often wore over his wrinkled clothes inside his chilly office. In order to prevent his computers from overheating, the room temperature was set to a nippy fifty-eight degrees.
“Research,” said Raskin as he answered the phone on his headset while continuing to type. If he had taken the time to see who it was, he would have been a tad less formal.
Payne smiled at the sound of his voice. “Mister Raskin.”
Raskin stopped typing. “Asshole!”
“Wow,” Payne said with a laugh. “What did I do to deserve that?”
“How soon one forgets.”
Payne grimaced. “Seriously, I’m at a total loss here. Did I forget your birthday or something? Because if I did, you’re shit out of luck. I can barely remember my birthday, let alone yours.”
Raskin shook his head. “Which is why I send you hourly reminders whenever we’re getting close. I mean, what good is having a billionaire as a friend if he doesn’t buy you fancy gifts?”
“Beats me. I’m not friends with any billionaires.”
“Touché.”
“So, why am I an asshole?”
“I am soooo tempted to place a conference call to DJ right now, just so he can answer that question for me. I’m sure he has a substantial list.”
“It gets longer every day.”
“That’s what she said.”
Payne rolled his eyes. “Seriously, what’s the deal?”
“Hold on,” Raskin said as he clicked away on his omnipresent keyboard while staring at one of the six computer screens that filled almost his entire field of vision. “So you don’t remember sending me a long-ass message from a yacht in Malta with a bunch of next-to-impossible tasks for me to complete once, and I quote, ‘you’ve had enough caffeine that you’re pissing pure Mountain Dew’?”
Payne grinned. “Oh, you’re talking about my email. Of course, I remember that! Truth be told, I thought that part was rather poetic.”
“And accurate,” Raskin said with a laugh. “You know me well enough by now to know the magical moment when urine turns to Dew occurs shortly after lunch.”
“Which is why I sent you an email instead of calling you at dawn.”
“Well, thank you for being so courteous with your list of demands.”
Payne shrugged. “I do what I can.”
“Where do you want to start?”
“Dealer’s choice.”
“Fine,” Raskin said. “Let’s go in order. Number one, you wanted to see if I could recover any surveillance footage from the murder that took place in Tallinn. I’m guessing to get evidence against the Russian prick who attacked you at the library. Correct?”
“That’s affirmative.”
“Unfortunately, Jon, the answe
r is ‘no.’ I can’t recover any footage because the security cameras were remotely turned off before the murder occurred. Despite my considerable talents, I’m not a time-traveling wizard who can turn back the clocks to turn on surveillance cameras in order to get you secret footage. Trust me, if I could do that, I wouldn’t be sitting in a windowless office in my bathrobe. I’d be running the porn empire that I’ve always dreamt about in a penthouse office in my bathrobe.”
“Let’s talk about your wet dreams later. Or hopefully, not at all.”
“Works for me. Moving to number two. Can I get any surveillance footage of Volkov in Malta? The answer is once again ‘no.’ And the reason is the same reason as number one, but with a caveat. Do you know what that is, or do I need to explain it?”
“Caveat is fancy fish eggs, right?”
Raskin laughed. “I’m going to assume you’re joking. Otherwise, a Naval Academy education is not nearly as good as my admiral pals claim it to be.”
“Look at you—friends with billionaires and admirals. You’re such a fame whore, I don’t even know you anymore.”
“Yep,” Raskin said as he adjusted his bathrobe, “I’m living the good life. No doubt about that. Want to poke me again with a stick, or can I get back to your list of demands?”
“Proceed.”
“Here’s the caveat I was referring to,” Raskin explained. “I’ve never seen a surgical, rolling blackout like this before. It was as if Volkov had a device in his pocket that wiped out cameras as he approached them. It started when his plane landed in Malta, and it followed him around the city like a black cloud. Airport surveillance, traffic cameras, library cameras, and so on—one camera after another went out until he got back on the plane and left for Moscow. But he didn’t fry them with some kind of electromagnetic pulse. They turned back on after he passed.”
“But you don’t think it was a device.”
“No,” Raskin said with a laugh. “If that technology existed in pocket form, I would have asked you to build one for me. Instead, I think Volkov was carrying a very precise GPS unit that sent his whereabouts back to Russia, where a team of hackers worked their magic from afar. Truth be told, it’s pretty impressive stuff.”
The Malta Escape Page 28
