CHAPTER ELEVEN

 

 

 

When Galea pulled up to the Corinthia Hotel in St. Julian’s, he couldn’t help but smile. Payne and Jones were standing outside one of the finest hotels in all of Malta, and they were carrying green garbage bags full of stuff. Instead of wealthy tourists, they looked like hobos. Galea parked the Mercedes sedan under the covered entryway and then hustled over to greet them.

“Let me see if I got this right,” Galea said with a laugh. “When I picked you up at the airport, you had nothing at all. Then when I picked you up at the mall, you mysteriously had luggage. And now, when I pick you up at a fancy hotel, you apparently have rubbish.”

“Yes,” Jones joked, “but it’s fancy rubbish.”

“Well, why didn’t you say so? Let me open my car at once. Feel free to dump it on my seats and smear it on my carpets.”

Payne laughed at the sarcasm. “In case you’re wondering—and I’m fairly certain you are—we don’t really have trash in these lovely bags. Due to an unfortunate oversight that we’re going to blame on jetlag, we neglected to buy backpacks or gym bags when we went shopping yesterday. That forced us to choose between hauling our luggage around for an entire day or going with the lighter economy model until we can purchase suitable replacements.”

Jones nodded. “And since we’re used to carrying all of our shit in green military bags, we thought these were somehow appropriate.”

“Believe it or not,” Galea teased, “I’ve dealt with trashy Americans before. But this is taking things to a whole new level.”

“Thanks, man. We appreciate it,” Jones said as he walked to the back of the car. “When Jon and I do anything, we always try to be the best.”

“Well, you’ve certainly succeeded with your new look.”

“Glad to hear it,” Jones joked. “Now if you’re done insulting your paying customers, why don’t you open your boot, or bonnet, or whatever the hell you call your trunk around here, so we can toss in our trash and get this party started?”

Galea laughed and unlocked the trunk. “Boot’s in the back. Bonnet’s in the front.”

“Potato. Tomato. Whatever.”

Payne smiled. “I don’t think that’s how the expression goes.”

“Personally, I prefer my version.”

“Come to think of it, so do I.”

Galea put their garbage bags into the trunk as they made their way to the backseat. Neither Payne nor Jones were the formal type, so they climbed into the sedan and closed their doors before Galea had a chance to assist them.

“So,” Galea asked once he got behind the wheel, “where are we headed?”

Jones glanced at the address on his phone. “A town called Birgu.”

“Let me guess,” Galea said. “You’re going there to rent a boat.”

Payne nodded. “Are we that predictable?”

“Not at all. Birgu is known for boats.”

 

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Located directly across the water from Valletta, Birgu is a historic city on the south side of the Grand Harbour. Although it is the site of many tourist destinations including the Inquisitor’s Palace and the Collegiate Church of Saint Lawrence, the waterfront itself is the main attraction.

Galea weaved his way through the twisty corridors that were built by ancient conquerors, slowly snaking his way toward the harbor. Over the centuries, the Phoenicians, Greeks, Romans, Byzantines, Arabs, and Normans had contributed to the construction of Birgu, but none had the lasting effect of the Order of Saint John.

Their influence could still be seen everywhere.

Payne and Jones marveled at the fortified walls that lined the seafront and imagined how difficult it must have been for the Ottomans to launch an assault from the water with ancient weapons. Some of the walls were taller than modern warships and nearly as wide. They could have withstood a bombardment of cannon fire for weeks on end. And if anyone tried to scale them, they were likely greeted with buckets of bubbling tar, dumped from above.

Galea noted his passengers’ interest in their surroundings. “From 1530 to 1571, Birgu served as the home of the Order of Saint John and was the de facto capital city of Malta. To honor the vital role that Birgu played in the Great Siege of Malta in 1565, it was awarded the title of Città Vittoriosa by Grand Master Jean Parisot de Valette. That means ‘victorious city’ in Italian. To this day, many people still call this city Vittoriosa instead of Birgu.”

As they continued toward the waterfront, the duo’s gaze shifted to the massive stone structure at the end of the road. It sat on a small peninsula that jutted into the harbor and still seemed formidable despite its obvious age. They stared at it through the front windshield as Galea maneuvered through traffic.

“What’s that large building up ahead?” Payne asked.

Galea didn’t need to look. “That is Fort Saint Angelo. It was originally built as a castle during the Middle Ages. Back then, it was known as Castrum Maris—or Castle by the Sea. But during the fifteen hundreds, it was rebuilt by the Order of Saint John as a bastioned fort and served as the Order’s headquarters for many years. Much later in the eighteen hundreds, it was garrisoned by the British and classified as a stone frigate known as the HMS Egmont. Then in 1933, it was renamed the HMS Saint Angelo.”

Jones grimaced. “I’m familiar with HMS. That stands for Her Majesty’s Ships. But what the hell is a stone frigate?”

“It’s a naval term,” Payne explained. “It simply means a naval establishment on land. Britain’s Royal Navy created the term when they hauled a cannon off one of their ships and used it to harass the French in the shipping lanes near Martinique. The cannon was manned by a crew of more than a hundred men and evaded capture until the Battle of Diamond Rock in 1805. Since the cannon was on land, not a ship, the Brits decided to call it a stone frigate.”

“Because that makes sense,” Jones said sarcastically.

Payne smiled. “Over time, the term expanded. Until the late nineteenth century, the Royal Navy housed its training facilities in hulks—old wooden ships that were moored in ports as floating barracks. They felt shore accommodations were too expensive and led to poor discipline in the ranks, so they kept their men in vessels. Those were called stone frigates as well.”

Galea chimed in. “If you look to your right, we are actually passing the Malta Maritime Museum. Once the home of the Naval bakery, the building houses more than twenty thousand artifacts that span over two thousand years of history.”

Payne turned his head as they drove past. “Do we have time to stop?”

“Of course, we do,” Galea said as he pulled to the side of the road that lined the seafront. “As luck should have it, we have reached your destination. The museum is just behind us, and the entrance to the Grand Harbour Marina is just ahead. What you do next is up to you.”