The Maltese Goddess

by Lyn Hamilton

  Anthony looked slightly dubious.

  “You could take the car. That is, if your mother thinks it’s okay,” I added. Anthony capitulated totally. Soon he was off, engine revving, to help out at Mnajdra.

  “Thank you,” Marissa said, taking Sophia’s costume out of my hands and smoothing it carefully. “I’ll take very good care of this dress,” she said. Then, as she turned to leave, she asked, “Do you have children?”

  “No,” I replied.

  “Perhaps you should have,” she said. “You handle Anthony better than I do.”

  “You know that’s not true. It’s always easier for a stranger in these circumstances,” I said in an offhand way, but the truth was I didn’t much want to think about what she had said. It was a conversation I’d had with myself often enough to know I didn’t like the conclusion I reached. Mercifully, the phone rang, and there was Alex.

  “Make yourself comfortable, Lara. This will take a while, long-distance call or no. The good news is that Sarah has been assured by the executors of Martin Galea’s estate that, unless one of us is found to have murdered Galea, there will be no problem with payment of our account, I’m pleased to say. Dave Thomson has been told the same thing, by the way. Much relief all round. The wolf was nearing the door.

  “Now let me get to your question, the possible link between Graham and the Knights of Malta. I’m going to cut to the chase, here. I think Ellis Graham was a treasure hunter, and I even have an idea of what he was looking for. On the surface, Graham was exactly what he said he was: a film producer. He was actually a documentary filmmaker, and he specialized in documentaries on lost treasure: Aztec gold, shipwrecks, that sort of thing. Most recently he did a piece for the BBC on, you guessed it, the Knights of Malta and on a great treasure belonging to the Knights, which he believed had been missing for a very long time. I actually watched the documentary on television some months ago, but I didn’t know who the producer was until I researched this for you this morning.

  “The point Graham made quite vividly, as I recall, was that the Knights were fabulously wealthy. To get into the Order, you had to come from only the best—by which was meant aristocratic—background, with an impeccable family history, which is to say, no hint of illegitimacy on either side of the family back for several generations. Technically, anyway. It seems some Popes were able to get offspring into the Order. One can only imagine the contortions they would have put their family history through for that.” He laughed. “It reminds me a bit of some exclusive schools and colleges: Parents had to register their sons at birth, and the admission fees were hefty to say the least. So the Knights began life as wealthy people, and they became even wealthier.

  “Having been driven from Jerusalem, Acre, and Rhodes, the Knights settled on Malta, and after surviving the Great Siege by the Turks, stayed there for 268 years, growing ever richer. They might have stayed forever, I suppose, except that they had a date with destiny in the person of Napoleon, who took Malta in 1798 on his way to Alexandria and his confrontation with Nelson at the Battle of the Nile.

  “Napoleon didn’t stay long, but he was there long enough to order the Knights to leave—which they did with barely a struggle, because by this time they had grown lazy and corrupt—and were in no position or condition to fight—and he was also there long enough to loot and pillage. For example, it is believed he had the silver platters that the Knights used to serve their patients melted down to pay his soldiers for the Egyptian campaign. Various works of art were loaded onto ships and taken away from Malta, the British in hot pursuit. One ship, the Orient, was sunk with its treasure aboard.

  “Anyway you get the idea. The point is because of the Knights, shall we say, ambulatory and event-filled history, there’s no way of being certain what they had nor what might be missing. Who’s to say what got left behind in Jerusalem, or Acre, or Rhodes, or what got hidden away on Malta before they left thinking perhaps they would return, or for that matter, melted down or carted away by the French? You can almost understand the rumors, considering the history.

  “Nonetheless, Ellis focused most particularly, if I recall, on a specific religious relic, a special silver cross the Knights had carried with them all the way from Jerusalem, that he felt might still be in Malta. He left the impression, and I don’t have any idea whether or not this is correct, that a lot of the treasures are still on the island, hidden away in wealthy people’s homes.

  “My recollection is that Graham thought the cross could be found hidden either in Valletta, or in another city, Mdina, I think it was, where wealthy families are rumored to have stored away many treasures of the Order: silver, paintings, (there are rumored to be Caravaggios hanging in back rooms of the old houses) porcelain, stunning jewels. With the chaos that would have taken place when the Knights were expelled, that might have been easy enough to do. I wonder if he thought the Knights would have left clues to the location of these treasures. I have a mind he was searching for clues when you kept running into him. Maybe he thought there was a secret code in the carvings in the crypt or something like that.

  “There you have it. I’ll get a copy of the documentary as soon as I can and have another look at it, since I’m going on memory here. But it seems Ellis Graham must have been on the track of the treasure of the Knights, perhaps even this silver cross. More money in treasure than documentaries perhaps? That would explain the metal detector and perhaps even why he spoke to you the way he did in the crypt. He thought you were looking for it too—you were looking in all the same places—and so he tried to make a deal.”

  “Let’s assume that’s true for a moment,” I said slowly. “Then what did he mean when he said, ‘Then it isn’t you!’ or something like that?”

  “I don’t know, of course, but perhaps there actually was someone else looking for the treasure. He thought it was you, because he kept running into you, but he was wrong. Dead wrong, as the saying goes. Perhaps this other person killed him to get to the treasure first.

  “Actually now that I say that, I don’t like it one bit. I want you to stick with that policeman fellow, the Mountie, like glue. This is getting nasty.”

  “I will, Alex. Really,” I said. “And thanks for your usual brilliant research. What you say makes a lot of sense.”

  I thought for a long time about what he had said and about all I had learned that day I had the feeling there was something about Ellis Graham that I’d forgotten, but whatever it was, it continued to elude me. I hadn’t seen Rob since breakfast. He was off on business of his own, which he wasn’t discussing with me. I wasn’t sure whether I wanted to discuss this with him either. I felt I was at a crossroads and had to make some choices. I could look for the treasure—that had worked out well enough for me once, if you didn’t count almost getting myself killed in the process—or I could pursue Giovanni Galizia, Minister for External Relations and erstwhile friend of Martin Galea.

  I thought about it all evening, as I admired the storage shed all shiny and fresh-looking, complimenting Anthony, who was basking in Sophia’s praise, as well as Victor and his cousin, a rather taciturn fellow by the name of Francesco Falzon. And again as I watched the rehearsal unfold. You couldn’t call it a dress rehearsal exactly, with several costumes out for cleaning and repair, but it went well enough. My mind, however, was elsewhere.

  I decided in the end, I have no idea why, that Galizia was the way to go. Maybe, after all, I thought, the two paths will cross. There was treasure in Mdina, that of the Knights, and, according to Esther, Mdina was also the home of the Foreign Minister. Stranger things have happened.

  TWELVE

  I had high hopes for you, the Corsican. Little man with big ambitions. Liberté, egalité, fraternité. You sent them packing, those Knights, grown fat and rich, their vows forgotten. But you are as bad as any other, stealing from My people to finance your campaigns. Be gone. Your destiny awaits you. Trafalgar. Waterloo.

  *

  I suppose I should have known, when Tabone’s
car pulled up shortly after I left the Honorable Giovanni Galizia’s office, that someone was keeping pretty close tabs on me. At the time, however, I took it to be a coincidence, and a reasonably pleasant one. “Hop in,” he said, smiling at me. “I’m glad I spotted you. Do you have time for a coffee?”

  We went to the Caffe Cordina on Republic Square, the late morning haunt of businessmen who stand around the bar drinking espresso and eating pastries under painted ceilings that depict the various nations and empires that have over the centuries considered Malta part of their domain. I’d had other plans, but the truth was, this diversion had the advantage of sparing me any ruminations on the ethics of my activities in the Minister’s office.

  I’d made it into the External Relations Ministry, the Palazzo Parisio, with surprisingly little difficulty. It was exactly where Esther had said it was—I passed the Prime Minister’s office to get there. Before I did, however, I paid a visit to the offices of the Times, Malta’s English language newspaper, to check out what they had on the Honorable Giovanni Galizia. I was treated to a large, bulging file which contained clippings dating back about seven or eight years: a triumphant Galizia on his first election victory, a photo of his swearing-in as Minister, and numerous recent photos of him meeting with various foreign dignitaries, several of them easily recognizable, and many of Galizia opening schools, kissing babies, the usual stuff for a politician. Someone on his staff was working very hard to see that there were many so-called photo ops for the media. He was shown on several occasions with his wife, who I gathered was British and had brought to the marriage at the very least a pedigree, and the impression of pots of money.

  There was only one article of any real substance, a rather lengthy but not particularly revealing interview. There was a fair amount of name-dropping of the “as I was saying the other day to Tony Blair” variety, and the usual self-serving pap about championing the little man, the downtrodden, the poor, the abused. But then he was quoted as saying, “I bring to public life the lessons of my early life in Mellieha. I know what it is to be poor. My parents died when I was very young, and I have known betrayal at the hands of someone I looked up to, someone in a position of trust.”

  The reporter appears to have pressed for details, but Galizia was not to be pinned down. “I’m reluctant to talk about it,” he said. “I tell you this only because it is fundamental to my aspirations for Malta. I am committed to building a better life for all Maltese, but particularly the children. Some of my closest childhood friends left Malta,” he went on, and I thought of Martin Galea, “as so many of us do. There are as many Maltese living abroad as there are currently living here. That is not as it should be. I think we should have a standard of living that allows us to prosper here, and I will work very hard as a Cabinet Minister to see that the alliances we need to sustain such an economy are strengthened.” A clearly impressed reporter went on to say wonderful things about Galizia’s dedication and determination, and hinted he was destined for higher office, by which I understood to mean Prime Minister.

  As positive as the article might be, there were tantalizing hints that all was not entirely rosy for Galizia, hints, once again, of a rift, not yet out in the open between him and the Prime Minister. There was nothing really overt about it, just elliptical references to something amiss: the fact, for example, that previous External Relations Ministers had also been Deputy Prime Ministers, an honor which had originally been bestowed upon Galizia, but then for some unspecified reason had been taken away. A demotion, I thought, and a setback for the poor boy from Mellieha. The reporter, obviously a fan of Galizia’s, hinted darkly at shortcomings of some sort on the part of the Prime Minister. There was much to chew on here. I decided to pay the great man himself a visit.

  The Palazzo Parisio, home of the External Relations Ministry, abuts the Prime Minister’s residence on Merchant Street. The main entrance is an imposing one, a large door that opens on to a central courtyard. The door the public gets to enter, however, is on a side street, a plain little door that leads down a couple of steps into the lower level of the building. I expected to find a guard, but I was in luck. If there was one, he was off somewhere, and I made my way to the second floor where, according to the newspaper article I’d just read, the External Relations Minister’s office was located. I did not see anyone as I worked my way carefully to the Minister’s office.

  Here my luck ran out. Galizia’s office was guarded by the most formidable secretary, an Englishwoman, left over perhaps from the British regime, who reminded me of the films of Joan Crawford and Bette Davis in their declining years, or perhaps Norma Desmond of Sunset Boulevard fame: makeup applied with a trowel, thinning and overdone hair, and a generally cranky disposition. Behind her on the wall were three photos: The center one was the de rigueur portrait of the titular head of state, the President; to his right was the Prime Minister, Charles Abela, whom I recognized from newspaper pictures; and to his left Minister Galizia. While protocol had been observed, I could not help but notice that Galizia’s picture dwarfed that of the Prime Minister. It was a better photo than those in the newspaper clippings, and a good sight better than the mere glimpse of him I’d had that day at the University, so I tried to memorize his features, should I have the pleasure of meeting him in person.

  I summed up the secretary and decided that the imperious approach was my only chance. It was, I confess, singularly unsuccessful, but I’m not sure there was an approach that would have worked. A bribe was clearly out of the question, even had I been able to afford one.

  “I would like to have a few minutes with the Minister, please,” I said. .

  “Do you have an appointment?” she asked sharply.

  “No, but I would be happy to make one,” I replied, appearing to retreat slightly. “How about ten-thirty this morning?” I said, glancing at my watch. It was 10:27. .

  She was not amused. “What is the nature of your business?”

  “I’m a journalist from Canada doing a story on Martin Galea, the famous Maltese-born architect. I am aware the Minister was a childhood friend, and I would like to interview him about it.”

  “You may speak to public relations, second floor.”

  “I’m sure the people in public relations have not met Mr. Galea, and their comments would not, therefore, be helpful,” I said. “When is the Minister available?”

  I thought she would say something like “For you, never,” but she didn’t. Instead she turned to the telephone, which was awkwardly placed on the credenza behind her, perhaps her way of treating visitors with contempt. She dialed an extension and with her back to me spoke rapidly in Maltese. I couldn’t tell from her tone whether this was a positive call or not, but I was not optimistic.

  As she spoke, I glanced down at her desk and saw a pile of invitations, a luscious cream-paper embossed in gold, very swank. It appeared the Minister requested the pleasure of someone’s company at a reception at Palazzo Galizia that very evening, if I were reading correctly upside down. I assumed they were surplus invitations: There was a guest list under them which I couldn’t read.

  The dragon still had her back to me and was whispering conspiratorially into the telephone, when much to my own surprise and horror, I found myself reaching quickly across the desk and plucking the top invitation off the pile. By the time she’d hung up and turned around, I’d pressed it between my handbag and my hip to conceal it, and the rationalization process had already begun: something along the lines of desperate times requiring desperate measures.

  She gave me a triumphant smile and said, “Security is on its way. I suggest you leave before they get here.”

  “Sure,” I said, “I’ll send you a copy of my article. I hope you’ll be pleased with the way you’re portrayed. By the way,” I tossed back at her as I opened the door to the stairwell, “you have lipstick on your teeth.” I had the satisfaction of seeing her reach for her compact as I beat an ignominious retreat. Childish, I know. Some people just bring out the worst i
n me!

  I was about a half a block from the building when Tabone caught up with me and issued his invitation for a coffee. There were crowds of people on Republic Street when we got there, and it was closed to vehicular traffic at that hour, but one thing about traveling with a policeman: Small details like parking and closed streets are not a problem. Tabone pulled the police car up onto the sidewalk right by the Caffe Cordina and we went in. I wasn’t sure why he’d invited me there. It apparently wasn’t to discuss his investigations, because he wasn’t very forthcoming on that subject, nor did he make any reference to my being in the Palazzo Parisio, if indeed he had seen me come out of the building. I did learn, however, that Joseph would be brought back in for questioning again today.

  “I don’t want to do it, frankly,” Tabone said. “But with that autopsy report on the books, there’s not much I can do about it. And he’s being such a stubborn old fool. Won’t tell anybody what he was doing in Rome. He took the first flight out one morning and came back the next day on the same flight as the deceased, except that Galea was traveling baggage class, of course.”

  “So when do you expect to get another autopsy report?”

  “Today, if we’re lucky. Caruana went to Rome to talk to the forensic lab technicians, and he’ll be back late today. I still think it was Mrs… Marilyn Galea. Rob’s colleagues have looked into Galea. It seems he’s given her lots of reasons to kill him. Quite a bit younger than she is. Fifteen years, I think. Known to stray, shall we say. And he probably married her for her money, which maybe he didn’t need anymore.”