02 _ Maltese Goddess, The (25 page)

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.

But I have underestimated Mario Camilleri’s ingenuity, and the Maltese love of a parade. “Show time!” he shouts suddenly, and I hear applause from the assembled guests further up the hill. The honor guard, members of the armed forces in dress uniforms, inky black in the darkness except for a red stripe on the trousers, a wide white belt, and lots of brass buttons, steps forward briskly to take their place flanking either side of the lower end of the pathway. I look up the pathway and first hear then see a brass band, followed by a row of little golf carts, spanking new and brightly painted, each decorated with colored lights, flying the flags of the country of the occupants. It looks very festive, and is, I have to admit, ingenious.

In the first cart, leading the group of dignitaries is the Prime Minister, Charles Abela, followed by the British Foreign Secretary, Sir Edmond Neville, followed in turn by the foreign ministers of Greece, Italy, and France. I am interested to see the Prime Minister. Until now he has been a bit of a cipher, a man I have never seen, someone I have come to know only as the man who does not like Giovanni Galizia. It is not good, I remember, to stand in Galizia’s way. Bringing up the rear is Galizia himself, who, when his cart reaches the assembled guests on the hill, urges his driver to stop and gets out to walk the rest of the way, shaking hands, pointing to people he knows, pausing briefly to have his photo taken with children, and generally pressing the flesh. His wife, the British-born aristocrat, whom I recognize from her portrait but have not had the pleasure of meeting at her lovely home due to the male-only restriction at the palazzo party, goes on ahead in the cart.

The guests help themselves to champagne, caviar, and oysters, then take their places. In the front row are Charles Abela and the foreign ministers, in the second their wives and Galizia. In the third row sit a few people that I can only assume are security staff and other hangers-on. It is galling, no doubt, for Galizia to be considered second tier, and I notice that rather than take his seat in the row, he stands a little to the side, in line with the first row and well in view of the crowd.

At a sign from Camilleri, the lights go down, and we find ourselves in darkness for a few seconds. Victor has arranged to bring the lights back up very gradually, so that for a moment or two, the temple ruins seem bathed in an eerie glow. A hush falls over the crowd. The setting is truly magnificent. Impressive as these ancient stones may be in daylight, in the dimly lit darkness, they have a primordial power that reaches deep into the psyche.

It is as if, for a short time, the ghosts of ages past inhabit the site, and for a few moments are almost visible. It is possible to imagine in those few seconds how those early people would have felt in the presence of their Great Goddess, omnipotent, omniscient, a Goddess to be loved, adored, and feared. I feel a frisson, a sense of impending disaster, and suddenly I very badly want the performance to be over, and everyone to be safe. But then die lights come up, I turn the spotlight on the sacred entranceway to the temple, and the performance begins.

Sophia stands there, in a long white dress, her voice strong and sweeping across the night air.

“I am at the beginning, as I am at the end. I am the sacred circle, spinner of the web of space and time. I am the Cosmic ‘And’: life and death, order and chaos, eternal and finite. I am Earth and all things of it.

“For periods of time you call millennia, we lived in harmony, you and I. I gave you the bounty of the lands and seas to nourish you, and taught you to use them. I gave you artistic expression so that through your sculpture, painting, and weaving, you might honor me, and through me, yourselves. And I taught you writing that you might remember me.”

The audience sits in rapt attention. Even the politicians, cynical and bored though they must usually be by many of the official activities planned for them, are drawn into the spell of the place. All except for Galizia it seems, because he steps away from the tent and lights a cigarette.

As Sophia speaks, I realize I am once again the apex of a perfect triangle. This time it is not the sun, but the rising moon that is low to my horizon. With my left hand I can point to Anna Stanhope, with my right to the man, Victor Deva, standing with his back to the sea.

As I look from one to the other, a breeze wafts up from the sea. It catches his hair and blows it forward across his face. For a second or two it sits there, hugging his skull, emanating from a tiny bald spot on the top of his head, perched like a polar ice cap on some small planet, like a bowl on top of his head.

“Neglected, devalued, insulted, and profaned I may be, but I remain,” Sophia says. “I wait in my sacred places. I live in your dreams. Nammu, Isis, Aphrodite. Inanna, Astarte, Anath. Call me whichever of my manifestations you will. I am the Great Goddess.”

Finally the mental match is made, and I know now what Ellis Graham was trying to tell me was wrong. I remember when I first saw Victor Deva. It was only in profile, but I recognize him nonetheless. He was a priest, on an airplane, the seatmate of Graham.

But now he is not dressed as a priest. My mind, slowly, as if mired in some sticky substance, works its way through the permutations and combinations. If he is a priest, he is toying with Anna Stanhope’s affections. And if he is not, then what, and why? There is danger, Ellis Graham had said. As I ponder this, I sense, rather than actually see, Galizia move further away from the tent. Somehow I know something terrible is about to happen.

And then I see the gun.

Victor Deva steps out of the shadow of the giant stones and takes aim at the VIP tent. I hear a collective gasp, but everyone is frozen, captives of space and time. Except Anna Stanhope, who sees, and in a single instant understands. Her emotions dance across her face, first disbelief, then comprehension, then a mask of pain I know even in that moment I will never be able to forget. She races forward and intersects the line of fire as the gun goes off.

She stumbles, her body jerks twice, then falls, collapsing like a large rag doll in a party dress of blue chiffon, blood all over her. Somewhere the Great Goddess weeps.

The gunman, undeterred, raises the gun again.

I am standing by the light standard. I push the tall pole as hard as I can. We stand, Victor Deva and I, mesmerized by the arc of light as it sweeps across the night sky. It catches him by the shoulder, he stumbles and drops the gun.

Now there is screaming everywhere. In the tent there is chaos, security personnel pushing their charges to the ground, chairs crashing, glass breaking. Over that there is the roar of an engine. A helicopter with police markings races toward the site, low to the ground. I think help is coming, but then, for reasons I cannot understand, Victor Deva runs in a direction that will have him intersect with its path, vaulting over a low stone wall that surrounds the temple to do so. I see Tabone and Rob, limping badly, and Esther, gun out, running behind him. To my amazement, Tabone fires, several times, at the helicopter, as does a soldier. It veers and weaves out of control across the temple site, and as it passes one of the lights, I see Francesco, his face contorted in terror, at the controls. The aircraft screams over the edge of the cliff and out to sea where it crashes in a huge orange ball of flame.

Victor Deva, his escape route gone, cornered, changes direction. Tabone and Esther race to intercept him, but I know I am now closest. Propelled by a fury so intense it absolutely consumes me, I run after him. Both of us stumble on the rocky ground, but both of us keep going. There is a roaring in my ears, I can hardly see, and I want to hurt him very, very badly. I am only a few yards behind him when he reaches the edge of the cliff. With nowhere to go, he turns, looks right at me, and then steps—or stumbles?—backwards off the cliff. I am howling with rage, and I believe I am prepared to follow him into the very jaws of Hell to exact my revenge, but strong arms pull me back and a voice says, “You can stop now, Lara. It’s over.” I lean on Rob’s shoulder and cry.

We leave Esther and Tabone looking over the edge of the cliff to the broken body I know must be on the rocks far below, and we go back to the place where Anna Stanhope lies. A doctor from the crowd attends to her, and I hear the comforting wail of a siren nearby. For a minute her eyes open and she sees me. She reaches for me, and with surprising strength pulls me down to her. Then she laughs a little, coughs, and grasping my hand very firmly whispers, “There is no fool like an old fool.”

FIFTEEN

My gorge rises. When will this end? My people have been enslaved, betrayed, converted, deserted, patronized, anglicized. They’ve fought other people’s battles, died for other people’s causes. Leave them be. Let them choose their own future. Those who worshipped Me best.

“So what have we got?” Rob asked. It was the day after the disastrous event, and we were sitting once again in Vincent Tabone’s office.

“We’ve got a real mess, that’s what we’ve got,” Tabone replied morosely. He sighed. “But perhaps you were hoping for more detail than that.”

“Indeed,” Rob said. “Like who, what, where, why, and how, for starters. Something a little more concrete than mess, or Lara’s contention that it was Galizia in a fit of ambition.”

“Well, we’ve got one of the who, at least,” Tabone replied. He slapped a photograph on the desk in front of us. It was fuzzy but recognizable. “Marek Sidjian, alias Victor Deva, along with a long list of other aliases. Not Italian, but a master of disguise, and someone who seems to have acquired many convincing accents along the way, to say nothing of passports. We believe he learned his craft with the Russians in Afghanistan. He is a suspect in other similar plots, some unfortunately more successful than this one. Do you recall the shooting of an Italian businessman, a banker, in broad daylight on a crowded street in Milano just a few months ago?”

We both nodded.

“He’s a suspect in that, and others like it I’ve been working with Interpol, and Rob with U.S. and Canadian authorities, all night, and we’ve learned a good deal about how Sidjian operated. He was not only the killer, but quite the businessman, the one who dealt with the clients, and who used his charm to insinuate himself into a position to carry out the deed. He actually studied acting, wouldn’t you know? Perhaps he should have stayed with it. On the face of it, at least, he would have been good at it. Usually he had an accomplice, an assistant, which brings us to cousin Francesco, whoever he is. I’ll have some photos coining in soon I’d like you to look at for me, Lara. Essentially Sidjian was a hired gun. I do not believe that he selected targets himself, nor do I think he had any particular political agenda. He was not burdened by any philosophical or religious convictions that I can see. He was just a thug. He did what he did solely for the money.