been a guest of the local governor, a man named Publius. After curing the governor’s father of fever and flux, Paul converted Publius to Christianity. He then designated the governor’s house as Malta’s first church and the Roman its bishop. Ever since, a church had occupied the same spot within Mdina’s fortified walls, eventually becoming a cathedral in the 12th century and still serving as the seat for the Archdiocese of Malta.
Mdina sat nearly in the center of the island, surrounded by thick bastions, one of the world’s few remaining walled cities. It served as the island’s capital until the 16th century, when the knights arrived and built Valletta. Chatterjee had returned him to the Madliena Tower, where he’d found his rental car then driven alone to Mdina. The fact that Danjel Spagna was here, watching his every move, bothered him. As did the fact that the Americans were also watching.
Chatterjee had assured him they were dealing with the parasailer. He’d noticed there’d been no mention of the woman in the boat, but he assumed that problem was being handled, too. If it was anyone else besides the Entity he’d be concerned, but Spagna was renowned for his ability to get things done. The man had served five popes, surviving each successive purge when the old was swept away and the new welcomed. While that was thought somewhat therapeutic for the curia, it could be a bad idea for the intelligence business. Continuity was the name of that game. The Entity worked thanks to Spagna’s institutional memory and his steady hand. The fact that the spymaster wanted to make him pope was both gratifying and frightening.
He needed all the help he could get.
He carried with him the thin plastic binder Spagna had offered. He’d resisted the urge to read the pages quickly, intent on finding a quiet place for a thorough review, practicing some of that patience Spagna had so unceremoniously advised.
He avoided the cathedral’s rectory and kept walking through the walled town, savoring the waft of Mdina’s sun-warmed stone. He could hear the voices of history, all the way back to antiquity, demanding to be remembered. Occasionally he caught sight of the soft-footed cats, most tawny orange and sullen black, that still prowled every nook and cranny, as they had during his childhood.
Malta’s oldest families still lived among Mdina’s aristocratic aloofness. For centuries the locals called it the Silent City, since the only sounds within the walls were footsteps. But it was here that the revolt against the French invaders began in 1800. Napoleon had looted every church, defiled every sanctuary, cleaned out every auberge. The little general then sailed off to Egypt, leaving a garrison of a thousand regulars to maintain order. The Maltese, though at first glad the knights were gone, quickly grew to hate the French even more. The final insult came here, when the invaders held an auction to sell off the contents of Mdina’s Carmelite church. A riot erupted and the French commander was murdered. Church bells rang coast-to-coast, calling the people to arms. Within ninety days the entire garrison fled the island.
The lesson?
Never underestimate the Maltese.
He followed the labyrinth of angled streets, so narrow that you could reach out from the upper floors of one house and touch the one opposite. Wrought-iron grilles protected many of the windows, remnants from a time when those dwellings had to fend for themselves. He passed a flock of tourists, enjoying the sites, taking refuge from the sun within the cool cavern of passageways. He also caught the cross-currents of voices.
The Maltese were a proud lot. Always had been. They worked hard, longing mainly to get married, have children, and enjoy life. The church had once dominated everything, but not so much anymore. Malta had gone international, joining the EU, breaking further from Great Britain and its older generations. Divorce had even been legalized by a national referendum. Four hundred and fifty thousand people now lived on the island. And true, the locals could be petty toward one another, prone to jealousy, even quick to pick a fight—what was the saying? A crossed Maltese stays cross—but even with all its faults, Malta, and its people, were his home.
He found his favorite restaurant, tucked away in a quiet corner against the bastion walls. Two vaulted stone chambers from the 17th century served as the dining room, but his chosen spot was outside in an enclosed courtyard adorned with greenery and a tinkling fountain. It had been a few