“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. Liberte, egalite, fraternite. 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 here 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.