“I did some reading about Galizia, you know. People seem to think highly of him, at least the journalist did. He sounds intelligent and charming when you read about him.”
“Oh, he’s smart enough, and he is not without charm. That is, perhaps, what makes him most dangerous.”
“But the kind of person you are describing, someone with no values or beliefs, and no compunction of any sort. That person is…”
“A psychopath?” the Hedgehog replied. “Is that the word you’re looking for? Call it whatever you will, the point is, whenever someone is in Galizia’s way, something bad happens to them. They get hurt, they get sick, they are disgraced. I should know.”
“Who do you think is in his way now?”
“I have no idea. But there will always be someone. Make sure that someone isn’t you, dearie.”
FOURTEEN
Oh, I am burning, the evil Axis ranged against Me. My people starve, My history is in ruins. Will help never reach Me? Endure, I will. Survive, I will. My time will come again.
Let the performance begin.
The champagne is chilling nicely, little pots of caviar and oysters on the half shell glistening in their bed of crushed ice, the linens crisp, the silver and crystal gleaming, flowers artfully arranged. Mario Camilleri, right in his element, is strutting his stuff, walkie-talkie at the ready. Esther, his shy assistant from protocol, nervously straightens rows of champagne flutes and lines up napkins with obsessive precision.
I survey the scene with a mixture of amusement and anxiety. Anna Stanhope is rather formally dressed, blue chiffon and pearls. She seems her usual well-in-control self, except for two round pink spots on her cheeks, and very bright eyes that betray her excitement. I am back in my palazzo pants ensemble, these being the only clothes I have with me that befit the occasion. I hang back in the shadow of the temple, sincerely hoping not to be recognized by the Honorable Giovanni Galizia.
The students’ emotions run the gamut, one or two feigning total indifference, Sophia her usual placid self, a couple of girls threatening to either throw up or faint dead away. They are all set in the costumes for their first appearances, their usual well-scrubbed faces now covered in powder, blusher, and eyeliner. Several of them keep peeking around the edge of the temple entrance to see what’s happening, reporting back eagerly to those too nervous to even look. My own hands shake just a little as I apply troglodyte makeup to Marija’s sweet little face, as I give a tug to Napoleon’s white vest bulging over Gemma’s pillowed stomach, and straighten the Roman centurion’s helmet on Natalie’s bobbing head. I think how much I want the performance to go well for them.
As I watch over the final preparations, I idly look at all the faces of the adult helpers, wondering which, if any of them, is Tabone’s undercover officer. Is it Alonso, the big, somewhat loutish older brother who’s been general dogsbody and muscle? The girls have complained he spies on them. Maybe that’s his job.
Perhaps it is Victor Deva, now putting the finishing touches on the lights and fussing over the final placement of the sound speakers. Presumably it isn’t his cousin Francesco, who is missing the performance due to what Victor describes as “tummy trouble.” As a result of Francesco’s ailment, I am now Victor’s designated assistant, and have followed him around the set making note of what I am to do. It is an easy enough task. Instead of being inside the temple helping the girls with their costumes, I am given responsibility for a spotlight high on a metal pole to one side of the temple. I am to switch it on and off—an electrical cord runs down the pole and the switch is within easy reach—at points marked on Victor’s copy of the script, which he gives to me saying he has his role memorized. He will be nearby, he assures me, on the other side of the temple entrance with the lights he has placed there. The girls will be on their own for costume changes, now that I have these additional responsibilities, and with Anna Stanhope out in front to give direction from there. But the girls seem comfortable enough with that and I know that Sophia will keep everyone calm and see that what needs to get done is well taken care of.
Mario Camilleri undercover? Unlikely, I think. He is, like most PR types, a good talker, but not one, I decide, for action. That leaves me, Anna Stanhope and Esther as the only other adults around, unless one counts the myriad soldiers and policemen who, all in uniform, could hardly be called undercover.
It is the latter part of dusk, just before dark, the time when our eyes make the transformation from day vision to night, when colors fade for a while to a crepuscular silver. It is a beautiful evening, we were fortunate in that, clear, no rain on the horizon, and as warm as it has been since I arrived.
Mnajdra sits right on the coast, protected by the sea on one side, and nestled into the side of an incline on the other, the temple of Hagar Qim on higher ground some distance away. Between the two temples, running parallel to the sea, there is a long stone wall. To protect the notables, the authorities have positioned soldiers along the length of the wall only a few yards apart, well within sight of each other, and with a clear line of sight in all directions. Others patrol an area on either side of Mnajdra’s temples, between the wall and the sea. It should be an easy enough job. In this part of Malta there are no trees to block their view. Anyone trying to get to the site will have to cross one of these lines, and to do it without detection would be a difficult, if not impossible, task.
In addition to the foreign dignitaries who have their own special seating arrangement and hospitality, thanks to Mario Camilleri and the Maltese government, the parents and families of the students have received invitations. These contain instructions on where to present themselves and when. In addition there is to be limited seating and some standing room for the general public. Not terribly comfortable, I think, but it is considered, I am told, a hot ticket.
Guests for the performance have to funnel through a single entranceway set up in a break in the wall. Here everyone, including the students and accompanying adults like me, are all carefully searched for weapons before they are allowed through. We watch from inside the temple entrance as the parents and families are escorted to chairs on either side of the VIP tent, and along the edge of the hill. I am happy to see Tabone and Rob, moving slowly I note, take their places not far from the tent. The general public get to sit on blankets and cushions further up the hill.
While we wait for the official party, I wander to the edge of the site overlooking the water. Way down below and offshore are two or three police boats ready lest some intrepid swimmer and climber decides to crash the party from that direction. From a security perspective, the only way to get at the VIP contingent, it seems, is from the air, and I am assured by Mario that the control tower at Luqa is ever watchful. Interceptor aircraft are standing by to respond at a moment’s notice.
While I’d thought the selection of Mnajdra as a backdrop for the performance an inspired choice, I worry now that the logistics at the site may be a nightmare. Between Hagar Qim at the high point of the site, and Mnajdra nestled in its hollow near the sea, lies a stone sidewalk of sorts, a causeway a little more than a quarter of a mile long by my reckoning. It is a place, I’d been told, where prior to the arrival of the security forces several days ago, locals liked to ride their motorcycles back and forth. It is by this causeway that the honored guests will arrive. Although it isn’t that far to walk, I cannot imagine world leaders and their spouses, decked out for a formal state dinner afterwards, walking that distance. The pathway is not wide enough for a car, nor for a karrozin, the Maltese horse-drawn carriage.