CHAPTER EIGHT

 

 

 

Officially known as the Republic of Malta, the scenic European nation is spread across a rocky archipelago in the Mediterranean Sea. Located south of Italy and north of Libya, Malta consists of three main islands (Malta, Gozo, and Comino) and several uninhabited ones. It is one of the smallest and most densely populated countries in the world.

It is also one of the most picturesque.

Payne was thrilled when he found out where they were headed. He and Jones had discussed Malta several times over the years, yet neither of them had vacationed there. Not because they didn’t want to, but because they hadn’t found the time to make the journey. Now, thanks to their recent unemployment, they had all the time in the world.

But what they didn’t have was luggage.

Jones tried to talk Payne into shopping at the Malta International Airport. He claimed airport stores had the finest clothes at the fairest prices, but Payne told him he was full of shit and insisted on going elsewhere. They ultimately agreed on the Point Shopping Mall, which was the largest retail mall in Malta. After converting a few hundred dollars into euros, they skipped the line for white taxis and found a guided-tour car service that offered daily rates.

Their driver was a middle-aged man named Mark Galea. He had dark hair, tan skin, and a stocky build. He opened the rear door of the black Mercedes sedan, which was polished to a sparkling sheen. He waited for Payne and Jones to slip into the spacious backseat before he closed the door behind them. Then he opened the right front door and slid behind the wheel.

“Is this your first time on Malta?” Galea asked as he pulled into traffic on the left side of the road, a remnant of the island’s days as a British colony.

“Sorry,” Jones joked. “That’s classified.”

“Ahhhh, military men. I should’ve known. We have a way of attracting soldiers.”

“How so?” Payne wondered.

Galea smiled. “My country is located in the middle of the Mediterranean, halfway between Europe and Africa. This makes us very popular. Over the centuries, we have been invaded by nearly everyone—the Phoenicians, the Greeks, the Romans, the Byzantines, the Arabs, the Normans, the Ottoman, the Spanish, the French, the British, and many others. I think the only country not to invade us is America. Or is that why you’re here?”

“We’re the advance team,” Jones said with a grin. “We’re still deciding.”

“Then please allow me to show you the worst of Malta. Perhaps I can stop your invasion before it even begins.”

Payne laughed, glad they had lucked into a driver with a sense of humor. “That is an admirable tactic. What did you have in mind?”

“Our first stop will be my mother-in-law’s house. One look at her, and you’ll be begging me to return you to the airport. She makes Medusa look like a supermodel.”

Although Galea spoke in fluent English, his words were tinged with a unique accent that neither Payne nor Jones had heard before, a strange mix of Sicilian, Arabic, and the Queen’s English. Which, of course, made sense given Malta’s location and history. The United States is often referred to as a melting pot—a place where diverse cultures have mixed together to form a new one—but it has been bubbling for thousands of years less than Malta, a country that can trace its history back to the Neolithic temple builders of 3,800 BC.

“As tempting as that sounds,” Payne said, “we have to get some supplies before we do anything else. What are your thoughts on the Point Shopping Mall?”

“My thoughts? I think Malta is in trouble because you will like that area very much. Everything is brand new, and the mall is very large. It has three levels and many nice stores.”

“Great. We’ll start our invasion there.”

The mall was located on Tigné Point, a peninsula in Sliema in the Northern Harbour District. The area used to be occupied by the Tigné Barracks, a British military complex that had sat derelict for many years before it was demolished in the early 21st century. To honor the neighborhood’s past, parts of the mall contained architectural elements of the barracks, including a series of stone arches that ran along the upper plaza.

Payne got out of the car in front of the mall and took a moment to soak in his surroundings. The sky was a brilliant shade of blue, and the temperature was a comfortable seventy-eight degrees. A gentle breeze was coming off the nearby harbor, bringing with it the scent of the sea. In the distance, he could see a ferry filled with people as it chugged its way toward the point.

“Here’s my business card,” Galea said as he handed it to Jones. “Take your time inside, and ring me whenever you’re ready.”

 

◊                      ◊                      ◊

 

Although they were in the middle of the Mediterranean and less than two hundred miles from Tunisia, the mall had an American feel.

Stores on both sides of the structure lined a central atrium, giving shoppers a view of all three levels as they traveled between floors on the escalators that sliced diagonally across the open middle. Global brands—Adidas, Calvin Klein, Nike, and many more—dominated the landscape but were mixed in with European shops that Payne and Jones were unfamiliar with. But the one thing they instantly recognized was the sweet aroma of Cinnabon, which tempted them from the moment they entered and seemed to follow them wherever they went.

Just like every mall back home.

Payne and Jones weren’t extravagant shoppers. They had simple needs and simple tastes, honed by years of military service. They bought T-shirts and shorts, undergarments and socks, a wide variety of toiletries, and a couple of cheap suitcases. Since they were unfamiliar with Maltese dress codes, they bought some dress shirts, dress shoes, and khakis in case they stumbled across some nice restaurants, but they refused to buy anything fancier. Payne was still fantasizing about burning his business suits when he returned home.

He wasn’t about to add to the bonfire.

The two of them were getting ready to leave when they noticed a commotion on Level One. A line of people had gathered outside an Agenda Bookshop, where an event of some kind was being held. There was a large sign welcoming three international bestselling authors from America. As luck should have it, the event was directly across from the Cinnabon, so they decided to check it out since their stomachs were growling.

Payne got excited when someone in the crowd mentioned Clive Cussler, but it turned out it was just two of his co-authors and a tall Polack who tried to write like he did. They were sitting at a long table that was covered in a red tablecloth. Copies of their books were stacked high. Two beautiful women fussed over the authors while an acclaimed member of the Maltese press chronicled the event. The authors obviously enjoyed the attention, probably because it was the only time that females spoke to them.

“Who are the babes?” Jones wondered.

“Don’t know,” Payne said.

“Who are the writers?”

“No clue.”

“Want a cinnamon roll?”

“Sure do.”

“Cool. Me, too.”

Then they turned their backs to the crowd and went about their day.