“Did I come on the wrong night?” I said brightly, with a bravado I did not feel. In fact, I think I would have made a run for it, had my feet not felt rooted to the floor and my exit not been blocked by the staff person who’d led me there.
Galizia came forward. He was not a large man, but he was built like a fighter, barrel-chested and light on his feet. He was not particularly good-looking, but he radiated assurance, a kind of oily smoothness that I could not help but feel masked other less attractive qualities, like cunning, and, if the Hedgehog’s story was true, ambition and opportunism. What I noticed most about him were his eyes, expressionless, almost opaque. If eyes are indeed the windows of the soul, then either Galizia didn’t have one, or he’d crafted for himself an extraordinarily effective mask. He did not extend his hand, nor did he offer me a drink.
“I believe you were at my office today. A journalist of some kind,” he said. His voice was virtually without inflection too, the counterpart of his eyes. It was difficult to tell from his tone his true feelings, although I assumed a contempt for journalists. “My secretary told me you wanted to interview me about someone called Martin Galea. I can assure you I don’t know this person.”
“How about Marcus Galea?” I asked. For some reason my terror, for terrified I was, was translating into a sort of stubborn aggressiveness that surprised even me. I was here now, I remember thinking, and before they throw me out I might as well find out whatever I can.
“Not him either,” he replied. “And now I believe you have overstayed your welcome.” The words were not said in a threatening tone, but the threat, I knew, was there. He pulled a tassled cord in the doorway, and two very large men appeared. I was hustled out of the room and into a back staircase, then down what seemed to be a couple of floors. For a moment or two I had the irrational feeling that they were going to lock me in a horrible dungeon in the basement—it was that kind of house—but instead I was pushed rather roughly out onto the street. Not out the front door either, but onto a narrow, ill-lit alleyway. I wanted to say something soign6 like “I’ve been thrown out of better places than this,”‘ but they were very large men, and the truth is, I was really quite frightened.
I was also completely turned around. I wasn’t sure which way would take me back to Villegaignon Street and thence to the Main Gate where I had determined I would stay in a well-lit area waiting for Anthony’s return. I knew he’d wait for me, and it really was a small town, so I decided it didn’t much matter which way I went. Eventually, I was reasonably sure, I’d get my bearings and find my way back.
I picked a direction and started to walk. I had a sense of being followed, and I picked up the pace. When I was a block or two from the Palazzo, I heard a car skid, and headlights flashed against a wall at the end of the street. I remember thinking, and this was the last rational thought I had for some time, that Maltese drivers really were the worst. Then I heard the car accelerate, turning down the street at top speed, and I realized that this was something much more sinister than bad driving. I froze, like an animal paralyzed by headlights, as the car came straight at me. Behind me I heard footsteps coming fast, but still I couldn’t move. Just as I was about to be hit, someone grabbed me from behind and hurled me against the wall. I heard a thump, someone said, “Run!” I heard someone gasp and fall, and I looked over my shoulder to see a man lying motionless on the street.
It was Rob. He just lay there, on his back, eyes closed. Unconscious, or even, I feared, dead. I was having a great deal of trouble thinking clearly. I kept trying to tell myself this wasn’t happening, that events like this only happened in bad dreams or worse movies. Finally, however, a sound penetrated the fog in my brain. It was the car, the same one, I could tell, and it was turning somewhere. It was coming back, and even though in these narrow streets it might take a while to turn, I had very little time to escape.
There were three doors on the street. I tried the first. It was locked. I tried a second across the little street, then ran a few yards to another, a strange little door that was down a couple of steps from the street. Miraculously it opened. But Rob was still lying unconscious on the street, and if they came back, he would almost certainly be killed.
As I watched a tiny pulse beat in his temple, I knew that I was not going to let anyone hurt him anymore. I put my arms under his armpits and dragged him the few yards to the door, pulled him down the steps and across the threshold, closed the door, and tried unsuccessfully to latch it. He was unbelievably heavy, and I’ve wondered since how I managed it, but I guess you do what you have to do. It was dark inside, and I had no idea where I was.
The dim streetlight shining through a grated window above the door was not too helpful, but eventually my eyes adjusted to the light, enough to see that I was in what I took to be a small chapel. I had heard the car sweep by, then stop near the end of the street and two doors slam. They were coming back to look for us. They began banging on the doors on the street and trying to open them. Ours, I knew, would open.
I dragged Rob again, this time for cover behind a large stone structure with a marble figure, arms across the chest in the position of death, laid out on top of it, and a skull and cross-bones carved elaborately on each side. This was not really a chapel, I realized, but a crypt, the stone structure the tomb of some important personage. But now was not the time to get squeamish, I knew, so I gave Rob once last heave and pulled him behind it. He had the longest legs, and I had real difficulty getting us both wedged in where we wouldn’t be seen.
I knew that even a cursory tour of the place would lead to our discovery—it was just one room—but it seemed to be the only chance we had. I sat on the floor with Rob leaning back against my chest, my arms around him to keep him from falling over. I could hear them approaching the door. Rob, still unconscious, started to murmur. I put my hand lightly over his mouth, and held my breath. The door began to open.
Just then I heard the most beautiful sound, the wail of a siren. Someone stopped crossing the threshold in mid step, and then turned and ran. I heard the car pull away quickly. Moments later, I could see a blue light flashing through the upper window.
Rob’s hand reached up and pulled mine away from his mouth.
“Where are we exactly?” he asked.
“In a crypt of some kind, behind a tomb,” I replied.
“Wonderful!” he said in a decidedly irritable tone. “What is it about you and crypts?”
“Would you accept an unfortunate coincidence?” I said, trying to keep my tone light. In truth I could have wept with relief. Not only were the men who were trying to kill us gone, but I felt anyone this grumpy was bound to recover.
“I’m not sure,” he replied. Then, “I’m starting to take this mess personally.”
“Me too,” I said fervently. “Me too.”
“I’m also thinking I’m getting too old for all this action.”
“I’d have to say the same for me,” I agreed.
“Call Tabone, okay?”
“Sure,” I said.
“There’s something I can’t figure out”
“What’s that?”
“Who was on the plane? Ask him that, will you?” And then he passed out again.
THIRTEEN
Why are YOU here? A new flag run up on the battlements. Another occupying power. Rule Britannia. The sun will never set, you believe? You bring your poets, your statesmen, your laws, and your ways. But you also bring your enemies to My shores.
“It’s a bothersome question, no doubt about it,” Tabone said in a whisper, gesturing in the general direction of Rob, dozing gently in the big bed at the house. Tabone and I had taken Rob to the hospital where they’d diagnosed multiple bruises and a mild concussion. He’d insisted on coming back to the house, even though the doctors hadn’t wanted him to, but he had to be wakened every couple of hours and his eyes peered at for symptoms of worse concussion. I’d insisted he have the bed, and promised Tabone I’d be diligent in my nursing duties. It was the least I could do, after all. He’d saved my life. Tabone offered to take the first shift, but I couldn’t sleep, so we sat chatting quietly at the end of the bed.