Sahara Crosswind Page 10

  “Might as well come to me,” Towers drawled. “Seeing as how I aim on collecting as much as possible for services rendered.”

  “You mean you’ll help us?” Jake asked, then added, “More than you already have, I mean?”

  “I’ve gotten you this far, might as well see where we end up.”

  “That’s great,” Jake said with feeling. “Is there any chance I could send another message to the U.S. Embassy in Paris?”

  The old gentleman spoke for the first time, in English starched by an accent Jake had never heard before. “Is unlikely they have direct line,” he replied. “Leave message and I will send it myself.”

  “You can trust ol’ Carlos,” Towers assured them. “I oughta know. I’m planning on making an honest woman of his daughter.”

  “Right.” Jake seated himself and swiftly composed a message to Consul Walters. He passed over the sheet and asked, “What now?”

  “From the sounds of things, your best bet would be to lay low for a spell,” Towers replied, looking a question at the old man.

  Carlos thought a minute, then replied simply, “Mdina.”

  “Perfect,” Towers said.

  “What is that?”

  “Old capital. Also known as Notabile. Place is pretty as a picture and about as far off the beaten track as you can get on an island this size. I’ve got a buddy up there. C’mon, let’s go see if he can stash you in some hole for a coupla days.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  The air was freshened by the steady sea breeze, warmed by the brilliant sun, and filled with birdsong and the fragrance of flowers. To their immense relief, Towers secured them transport with a driver willing to drive slower in return for a sizable tip. He kept his speed down, but punctuated his driving with scornful snorts for all fainthearted foreigners. Jake did not mind in the least. Pierre did not seem to hear him at all.

  Their more comfortable pace granted Jake the chance to rubberneck. As they drove back through the gradually awakening city, he studied the faces out walking, talking, sweeping, working, filling the cafes, preparing for the day. The streets between the great squares were winding and odoriferous and lined with small shops and tall apartment buildings. The apartments’ iron balustrades were often so close overhead that housewives could hand things from one side of the street to the other. The populace was a vivid mixture of races, every face testifying to a melange of Arab and Mediterranean bloodlines. Jake observed, “These people don’t look like any I’ve ever seen before.”

  Towers nodded his agreement. “Down the centuries, ships from Europe, Africa, and the Orient have dropped anchor here. Countless cultures have left their mark on the land and the people. Yet somehow through it all, the Maltese have remained their own folk.” Towers appeared to be enjoying the ride as much as Jake. “The Maltese are strange folks. Never seen much freedom, but they’re the most freedom-loving people I’ve ever known. Can’t be more than half a million of them, but they’re proud as citizens of the greatest empire on earth. Got to admire people with that kinda spunk.”

  “There seem to be a lot of churches,” Pierre observed.

  “Yeah, there’s a church for every day of the year, and they’re all pretty well used,” Towers replied. “Wherever the Maltese go, their God goes with ’em. Their religion is right there in the middle of everything they do. That’s another part of the life here that agrees with me.”

  “I can understand that sentiment perfectly,” Pierre murmured, “having seen how they drive.”

  Towers pointed out his open window at a church they were passing. “This here’s the Mosta Church. Three years ago, three bombs landed on the roof during a service. The hall was packed to the gills. Two of the bombs actually bounced off and landed in the courtyard. The other fell through the roof and came to rest in the middle of the congregation. None of the three exploded. Folks call it the Miracle of the Bombs. When you talk to the islanders about the war, this is the first thing they will tell you about. Not about all the bad things that happened, but about their miracle. How can you help but love people like that?”

  The hour was proclaimed from churches on almost every street corner they passed. Several were bomb-damaged, and one Jake saw had no roof. But everywhere the people were busy with repairs. A few homes and businesses were decked out with scaffolding, but every church harbored masses of swarming workers. Every church. It touched Jake deeply to see that even their own homes took second place to rebuilding the churches.

  When he mentioned it, Towers replied, “Here the churches are not just houses of God. In the local tongue they’re called Homes to the Community. Their front veranda and stairs are called the Parish Sitting Room. People come and meet and speak and drink and laugh and court and weave their lives together with each other and with God. When the war ended, the rebuilding started on the churches first, almost without discussion. It was just what had to be done.”

  They left the city behind and began a series of steep climbs through vineyards and orchards and groves of pine and olive trees. The church and its symbols dominated both town and country. Around almost every curve was a roadside shrine.

  High on a hillside beyond Valletta rose an ancient fortress town. “The city of Mdina, former capital of Malta,” Towers said proudly. “The town’s over two thousand, six hundred years old. Reputed to be one of the finest walled cities in the world.”

  They crested the final rise, emerged from a carefully tended orchard of fragrant pear trees, and passed under great arched portals. The city’s outer walls were more than twenty feet thick.

  In the morning light, the ancient limestone buildings shone with the color of champagne, giving the entire city a texture all its own. The taxi entered into ways so narrow there was scarcely room for it to pass without climbing the cobblestone curb.

  “Streets in these old towns were built winding and narrow so that invaders had no place to mass their forces and could easily get lost,” Towers told them. “Folks like it nowadays because most of the town stays shady even at high noon, and the streets funnel the breeze into almost every house, no matter which direction it blows.”

  They entered a square dominated by a great rose-tinted church. When the taxi halted, Towers unwound his lanky frame and said, “Might as well get out and stretch your legs. I won’t be long.”

  Jake climbed out, eased his back, and took deep drafts of the fragrant air. The loudest noises were the gentle clip-clop of hoofs and the bells on horse-drawn carriages passing across the square.

  At the sound of footsteps treading down the church stairs, Jake turned to find Frank Towers leading a gray-haired priest toward them. “Like you gents to meet Father Ian. He’s a Brit, or was, but he’s been here long enough to call Malta home. Father, let me introduce Colonel Jake Burnes and Major Pierre Servais, late of Germany and Morocco and goodness knows where else.”

  “Welcome to the Silent City,” Father Ian said, walking forward with outstretched hand. “That is the name this town has carried for over two millennia.”

  “It sure is quiet,” Jake agreed. The priest’s grip was firm and cool.

  “My friend tells me you are in need of sanctuary.”

  “If it’s no trouble,” Jake replied. Sanctuary. He liked the sound of that word.

  “No trouble at all. The Cathedral of Saint Paul has been home to wayfaring believers for longer than any of us would care to count.” Kindly gray eyes held Jake with a keen gaze. “The place where you stand was reputedly where a man by the name of Publius once had his home. Does that name mean anything to you, Colonel?”

  “Please call me Jake.” He searched his mind and came up with, “Wasn’t he the Roman governor of Malta when Paul was shipwrecked here?”

  Father Ian turned and cast a nod back toward Frank Towers. “Very good, very good indeed,” he said approvingly. “Frank mentioned that you were a believer. I hope this will add a special flavor to the time you spend here with us.”

  Towers stepped forward. “I’ll be sayi
ng my goodbyes here. Got a whole mess of work to do and another shipment due out of here tomorrow morning.”

  “We can’t thank you enough,” Pierre said.

  “Don’t mention it. I’ll try to make it back here tonight, just to look in on you boys and make sure you’re behaving yourselves.” He gave the priest a friendly nod and walked back to the waiting taxi.

  “Come.” Father Ian gestured toward the church. “Let me show you to your new quarters.”

  As he led them up the stairs and through the great portico, Father Ian told them, “The apostle Paul was shipwrecked here in A.D. 60 while on his way to Rome. After healing Publius’s sick father, Paul declined the governor’s hospitality and decided to live with the locals. Many dwelled in the natural caves such as the catacomb under this church. It is said that Paul made his home for a time in the very caves where you will now reside.”

  The cathedral’s interior was vast and domed and ornately decorated, yet the surroundings held no sense of dominating the people. Smiling, chattering crowds filled the aisles and overflowed into the alcoves, joyously occupied with a variety of tasks. “We have a local festival this evening,” Father Ian told them. “You will be most welcome to join us, if you like.”

  He led them to the front of the nave, through a side portal, and down a flight of steep stone stairs. “Malta is a tiny speck of land, set out in the middle of nowhere, really. The island is only seventeen miles by eight. Blink in a bad storm and you’d miss it entirely. Which makes it even the more miraculous, of course, that Paul managed to beach here. Literally one wave pushing them farther to one direction or the other, and they would have missed landfall entirely and starved or drowned before ever reaching Africa.”

  The catacombs were enormous, extending out in every direction, a vast series of interconnected caves the size of great halls. Many of the walls were decorated with ancient holy pictures. The electric lighting overhead was one of the few signs of modernity Jake saw.

  “Paul had been arrested for spreading a strange new religion in the eastern provinces and had been placed on a ship bound for Rome,” Father Ian went on. “In Cyprus he tried to convince the captain to hold over for the spring, as the autumn storm season was already well underway. But the captain decided to go on. The ship was hit by a violent storm and blown hundreds and hundreds of miles off course.”

  The second chamber they passed through held a great rectory table and perhaps forty or fifty high-backed chairs. Cooking smells wafted in from a side alcove, reminding Jake that it had been a while since he had eaten.

  “When Paul and Luke left after their enforced stay, Luke wrote about the regret they felt upon departure, the friendliness of the people, and the many gifts granted them by these simple folk. As a result of this one man, the entire island nation came to believe. And this faith of theirs was not an easy course, let me tell you. After the Roman Empire dissolved about A.D. 500, there was a dark time here. Very dark indeed. The Arabs came and ruled for over eight hundred years. Some of the princes and sultans were good men, others cruel beyond our wildest imaginations. The churches fled underground and hid themselves in caves like the ones here. Finally the Knights of Saint John arrived and the modern era of Maltese history began.”

  Father Ian stopped before an ancient wooden door. “One of you may take this cell, another the next one along. They are simple quarters, but I hope you will be comfortable. Many of your neighbors observe the rule of silence, so we ask that you reserve your conversations for the dining hall.” He smiled warmly. “From the looks of you, I would imagine you both could use some food and rest. We will be serving our midday meal in about half an hour. Please don’t hesitate to come find me if there is anything further you require.”

  * * *

  Jake spent the day eating and catching up on what felt like weeks without enough rest. The hours passed uncounted, as the caves had neither clocks nor natural lighting. His cell was utterly bare save for a bed, a washstand, and a simple crucifix hung upon the wall. When the light was extinguished the cell was quiet and dark as a tomb, yet filled with a sense of comfort and peace. Jake felt as though he were surrounded by centuries of prayer.

  Then, to his utter astonishment, the peace was shattered by a series of booming explosions. He bolted from his bed, rushed out into the hallway, and confronted a rumpled Pierre, who demanded sleepily, “Are we under attack?”

  “I thought somebody told me the war was over,” Jake replied.

  They raced up the catacomb stairs and entered pandemonium. The church was filled with incense and song and revelry. Above their heads the church bells had begun a bonging chorus.

  They pushed their way outside into the night, only to find the entire square filled with shouting, dancing, laughing people. Fireworks flashed and banged high overhead, the obvious source of the explosions. A smiling Father Ian appeared at their side and explained, “Almost every weekend throughout the summer, one of the local parishes celebrates a saint’s feast day.”

  There were bands and bunting and singing and feasting and many expressions of great good cheer among the celebrants. Statues were paraded about. Flowers woven into intricate garlands crowned the brows of some of the most beautiful young girls Jake had ever seen.

  “If there’s one thing these islanders know how to do, it is enjoy their faith,” the priest shouted above the din. “I miss this whenever I return to England. People seem so somber there whenever faith is mentioned. It is almost as though they have been told that you cannot be joyful and religious at the same time. What rubbish! We are commanded to be joyful. Look at these people. See their smiles, their dancing, their laughter? They endured as much as any people during the war. I scarcely know any family who did not suffer the loss of at least one loved one. And yet look at them! They are joyful.

  “That is why I have decided to make Malta my home. Not just to serve them, but to learn from them. Twenty years I have been here on this island, and still I am learning from them the lesson of joyful worship.”

  Bells sounded continually, and incense wafted upward in great, white, fragrant clouds. There were fireworks and choirs and processions of lay people praying and singing and throwing scented water over the throngs.

  “This is not just a carnival,” Father Ian told them. “This is a time of religious thanksgiving. They give thanks for what has happened in the past year. They spend almost two hours praying for the coming year—for health and happiness and prosperity and growth, never forgetting that last item. Then the festival begins. This is part of their enjoyment of being Christians and servants of God on this lovely island.”

  The priest smiled and turned toward the merry throng with a gesture of affection. “These, my adopted people are a people of celebration. They rejoice in their faith. They see it not in terms of commandments and do nots, but in terms of victory. They celebrate their freedom from death. And now more than ever.”

  * * *

  It was well after midnight when Frank Towers appeared at the table where they sat surrounded by drink and food and joyful celebration. He eased himself down, grabbed a chicken leg off a passing platter, took an enormous bite, and waved a yellow paper toward Jake. “This came in a couple of hours ago.”

  Jake unfolded the flimsy page and read, CANNOT CONFIRM A WALTERS ON EMBASSY STAFF. DO NOT TRY FURTHER COMMUNICATIONS. LINE NOT SECURE.

  Jake read it a second time, passed it over to Pierre, and watched as his friend grimaced mightily at the words. “This is not good news.”

  Frank Towers shrugged his unconcern. “Doesn’t deny this Walters fellow is there either, you notice that?”

  “What are you saying?”

  “Seems to me they’re playing it cagey, like maybe they have to, given the circumstances.”

  Jake struggled to push the noisy festivities out of his mind and concentrate. “So somebody may have intercepted my communication and knows where we are.”

  “Maybe,” Towers conceded. “On the island at least. But look at it this
way. There ain’t a soul outside of here that knows where you are except me and Father Ian. And there ain’t anybody here that knows who you are except for us. The good father’s got enough secrets to his name to sink this island if he had a mind to. You’re as safe here as anywhere.”

  Jake felt himself relaxing. “What do you suggest we do?”

  “Lay low for a while. Both of you look like you could use a year’s sleep. I’ll be back in three, maybe four days. Soon as I’m back, we’ll meet up and work out the next step.”

  Towers rose to his feet. “Spend a little time on your knees, why don’t you? I ain’t never found a better place to work through the impossibles in life.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Jake was so lost in reverie that he did not notice Father Ian until the priest had settled down on the pew beside him. “How are you doing, Colonel?”

  “Jake, please.”

  “Jake, then. No, do not answer that. There is no need. I have watched you these past three days and seen how you seem to drink in the peace here. It shines from your face.” Kindly gray eyes rested on him. “I can therefore see how you are.”

  Jake looked about the splendid ornamentation of the ancient church. “It is peaceful here,” he agreed. “I’ve had the feeling I can sort of stop off and lay everything down. Take a little time out from the world.”

  He hesitated, then confessed, “I’ve been thinking a lot about a lady I care for. Her work has her back in America, too far away for my liking. Then there’s the war; it keeps popping up in my mind. It’s almost like this is the first time I’ve had to really think things through since it all happened. And the desert.”

  “Yes, your friend has told me a little of what took place during your recent adventures.” The priest’s voice was gently probing, inviting. “Is there anything you would like to speak with me about?”