CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

 

 

 

Because of the time difference between Malta and America, Payne was reluctant to call Raskin so early in his morning. Although the computer whiz worked ridiculous hours and had a cot in his subbasement office at the Pentagon for the occasional sleepover, Payne knew from experience that Raskin was a lot more receptive to favors later in the day, once he was fueled by several cans of Mountain Dew and bored with his actual work.

While continuing to eat his brunch, Payne slowly but surely typed out a summary of his conversation with Dial in a lengthy email and added a list of other things that he hoped Raskin could accomplish once the hacker’s caffeine meter had reached a peak level. Payne was great at a lot of things, but typing wasn’t one of them. His hands were too big for most keyboards and mobile devices, so he was forced to peck at keys with his index fingers.

Not that he was complaining.

If he had been given the choice at birth between the small, nimble hands of a surgeon or the strong, meaty hands of a blacksmith, he would always pick the latter. In his line of work, he preferred to pack as much punch as possible.

Payne finished his meal and his email at roughly the same time. He clicked the send button on his phone, then gathered the takeout cartons from his feast before opening the sliding glass door at the back of the saloon. The others were cleaning up their cartons as well, having eaten approximately the same amount of food combined as Payne had eaten by himself.

“How’s Nick?” Jones asked, already knowing the answer.

“Stressed,” Payne said as he closed the door behind him.

“One of these years, I’m going to ask that question, and you’re going to blow my mind and say something different.”

“Don’t exaggerate. You know damn well sometimes I say ‘angry’.”

Jones laughed. “Good point.”

“Seriously, though, I think he’s long overdue for a therapy session. I was kind of hoping you could fit him into your busy schedule.”

“Sure thing. I’ll pencil him in between ‘kill Russians’ and ‘find treasure’.”

Payne dumped his cartons into a trash bag that looked identical to their luggage from the day before. “Speaking of which, we still need to finish our history lesson.”

Marissa glanced at him as she washed silverware in the sink. “I thought that was the plan for brunch. Then you ran outside to make your call.”

“Sorry,” he said as he walked into the galley to explain. “I promised Nick I would call him the instant I found out about the gunmen, and I always do my best to keep my word.”

She smiled at him. “I wasn’t complaining, and I admire the trait. I was merely pointing out to the group that the delay was completely your fault.”

Jones chimed in. “Just so you know, it always is. With Jon, it isn’t ‘three o’clock’. It’s ‘me o’clock’. For some reason, he thinks the world revolves around him.”

Marissa and Jarkko laughed at the comment, much to Payne’s chagrin.

“Wow,” Payne said as reached over his shoulder and pretended to remove a dagger. “You’re gonna stab your best friend in the back to make a mediocre joke.”

Jones grinned. “Truth be told, I thought it was pretty funny.”

Marissa smiled. “And accurate.”

Jarkko nodded. “Jarkko laughed because it’s true.”

“Ouch,” Payne said as he tried not to smile. “So, that’s how you’re gonna play it. I step outside for one minute, and you guys start a mutiny.”

“Not mutiny,” Jarkko said with a shake of his head. “This is Jarkko’s ship, so Jarkko is captain. You are merely cabin boy. That is why you sleep in smallest bedroom.”

“Wait.” Payne glanced at the others. “Did I really?”

Jones laughed. “That’s what you get for taking first watch.”

“Fine!” Payne snarled with mock outrage. “If that’s how little you respect me, I’ll let someone else run today’s briefing.”

Marissa grabbed a towel to dry her hands. “Let’s be honest, Jon. I’m the one with all the expertise on the subject matter, so I can take over from here.”

Jarkko grinned. “That works for Jarkko. Jon is good cabin boy, but not Jarkko’s type. Jarkko would much rather stare at Marissa.”

“Me, too,” Jones said as he grabbed a seat at the table. “Besides, do we really want a has-been like Jon running the meeting? The guy doesn’t even have a job.”

“Neither do you!” Payne snapped as he sat down next to Jones.

“Which is why I’m not running the meeting. Duh.”

Jarkko nodded. “Also because you are homeless.”

“Knock it off!” Marissa growled, trying to imitate Payne’s voice from the night before. “Enough with the jokes. It’s time to get serious!”

The three men stopped talking and stared at her.

“How was that?” she asked with a smile.

Jones burst out laughing. “That was awesome. Much better than Jon. You sounded like a studio wrestler.”

Jarkko shook his head. “More like dominatrix. Dungeon name could be Mean Marissa.”

Jones stared at Jarkko. “Dude! Enough with the jokes.”

Jarkko stared back. “Who’s joking?”

Payne glanced at Marissa. “See what I have to deal with?”

“Boys,” she said as she took her seat at the table. “And I do mean boys, because men wouldn’t be acting like that in front of a lady.”

Jarkko lowered his head in shame. “Sorry.”

Jones put his hand on Jarkko’s shoulder. “He’s done. I promise.”

“Glad to hear it,” she said as she tried to remember where she had left off the previous night. “Unless I’m mistaken, the last thing I mentioned before I stormed out of here like a spoiled brat was Napoleon’s invasion of Malta and Grand Master Hompesch’s surrender.”

Payne stared at her, impressed. Not only had she managed to settle down Jones and Jarkko, but she had also taken responsibility for her less-than-ideal behavior. That was the sign of a great leader, someone who realized that he or she wasn’t above culpability. “That sounds right. You said a week after Hompesch surrendered that he was on a ship to Italy, where he established a temporary new headquarters for the Order.”

She nodded. “Hompesch went to Trieste, which is an affluent city in northeastern Italy, roughly twenty miles from modern-day Croatia. At the time of his arrival in 1798 AD, Trieste was part of the Habsburg Monarchy and a very prosperous seaport. But Hompesch never viewed it as a permanent home for the Order. Instead, he used it as a base to negotiate.”

“Negotiate what?” Jones wondered.

“That’s a very good question—one I’m afraid I can’t answer with much certainty. Until our discussion last night, I would have said that he was trying to find a new home for the Order, just like other grand masters had done over the centuries. Keep in mind, this organization had moved from Jerusalem to Cyprus and then to Rhodes before they had even arrived in Malta, so this type of thing wasn’t new to the Order. However, unlike all of those other moves, the organization was lacking the one thing that they had always possessed in the past: money.”

Payne nodded in understanding. “Unless they had a treasure.”

“Exactly!” she said with excitement. “If Hompesch possessed the treasure that we’re looking for, then he would have had some serious bargaining power. He could have bought an island, or bribed a monarch, or done something to keep the Order flourishing, but none of those things happened. Instead, most of the remaining Knights viewed him with shame because of his actions in Malta, and he was forced to resign his position a year later.”

Jarkko grimaced with confusion. “Why shame?”

Payne explained his theory. “If Hompesch accomplished what we hope he did—meaning he smuggled the Order’s fortune off the island with the help of a few trusted men—then the majority of the knights wouldn’t have known what had really happened in Valletta. Instead, they would have viewed him as an incompetent coward, someone who didn’t prepare for Napoleon’s attack and, even worse, surrendered to him after a single day of minor fighting. As a former soldier, I can speak from experience that word spreads awfully quick amongst the troops if a leader is viewed as a coward. To soldiers, the only thing worse is a traitor.”

Jones picked it up from there. “But if Hompesch was forced to resign a year later, then that means one of three things most likely happened. One, there was never any treasure, and all of this is a wild-goose chase. Two, the French spotted Hompesch’s escape attempt and grabbed the treasure for themselves. Or three, Hompesch was a weaselly crook who kept the treasure all to himself. The question is, what does history say?”

All three men glanced at Marissa, looking for answers.

She greeted them with a confident smile.

“If it’s okay with you,” she said, “I’d like to address your points in reverse order. Let’s start with number three. Hompesch resigned under pressure in 1799 AD. Soon after his dismissal, he settled in the city of Ljubljana, which is the modern-day capital city of Slovenia. But back then, it was known as Laybach and was under Habsburg rule. He stayed there until 1804 AD, when he moved to Montpellier in France, where he lived in poverty. Less than a year later, he died of asthma and was buried in the Church of Saint Eulalie in a simple tomb.”

“In other words,” Jones said, “he didn’t keep the treasure for himself.”

She nodded. “That seems highly unlikely.”

“Okay. Moving on. What about scenario number two? Could the French have spotted his men and kept the treasure for themselves?”

She shook her head. “Also highly unlikely, and here’s why: Napoleon loved to brag. At that point of his military career, he was trying to accomplish as much as humanly possible in order to win over his countrymen in order to fulfill his ultimate goal of becoming emperor of France. If he or his men—who he ruled with an iron fist—had seized a major treasure from the famous Knights of Malta, he would have trumpeted its capture for maximum effect. Additionally, if he had come up with such a significant source of wealth before his march through Egypt, he would have undoubtedly used the treasure for food and supplies.”

She looked at Jones. “Sorry. I’m not sure why I’m telling you that. Last night you were the one filling us in on Napoleon’s objectives in Egypt. Do you remember anything about a huge surplus of gold or jewels coming from Malta?”

Jones shook his head. “Nope. Nothing like that, so I guess we can rule that out, too.”

Marissa nodded. “Which leaves us with number one—the dreaded scenario that none of us want to talk about. What if there was no treasure and all of this was a wild-goose chase?”

She took a moment to look them in the eye. “I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but this is, by far, the most likely scenario. During all of my years studying Maltese history, I have never heard a thing about a secret treasure hoarded by the Knights until you showed up in Valletta. And as far as I can tell, the only evidence we have—make that had—about a treasure was a letter from Emperor Paul the First of Russia to Grand Master Hompesch. Unfortunately, it was stolen by Ivan Volkov before I had a chance to verify the authenticity of the letter.”

Payne chimed in. “Just so you know, I sent a picture of the letter to Petr before he even texted you about meeting us, and he verified the authenticity of the handwriting. He said it matched other surviving documents that were written by Paul the First.”

“Good to know,” she said as she considered the new information. “That increases the possibility of a treasure by roughly one percent in my mind. However, as a historian—and that’s my role on this team—I still have to express my doubt. Serious, soul-crushing doubt. I know that’s hard to hear, but if you want to know my opinion as an expert on Maltese history, I have to tell you the truth. I honestly don’t think there was a treasure.”