Gaman: SEVEN PARIS MYSTERIES, #3

By Peggy Kopman-Owens

Cover Art © Roger Kopman. Who knew? Spies read! Danger awaits best friends Jamie Litton and Ben Foulof on the island of Malta, where one will be accused of murder and the other of being a spy on the run. A missing journalist cannot tell the world he is still alive by becoming a mystery writer's alibi. An escape to sea seems like their only option, but is it? Hiromi failed in an earlier attempt to capture her target, but after finding him hiding on the island of Malta, she now has a second chance to redeem her reputation at the agency. She must neutralize their rogue agent and silence a mystery writer who hides agency secrets in his novels. She must… or die.

• Language: English
• Publisher: PKOBOOKS LLC
• Release date: Mar 3, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215209288

Peggy Kopman-Owens

Peggy Kopman-Owens writes suspenseful fiction, gentle mysteries with touches of romance that inspire readers to search for their passports. Her literary properties, reflecting her work in 35 countries, include three series set in Paris. SIMON PENNINGTON MYSTERIES, MRS. DUCHESNEY MYSTERIES, and SEVEN PARIS MYSTERIES now available in eBook, paperback, hardcover, and / or audiobook. (author's photo: © Michael D. Owens)  Cover Art © Roger Kopman. Online gallery at KOPMANPHOTOS.com "My mother wrote stories and songs, becoming my inspiration, teaching that passion and patience are inseparable partners. From my father and mother, both musicians who loved to travel, I learned to embrace a world full of diversity and endless possibilities. I can never thank them enough for bestowing this lovingly unselfish gift of intellectual freedom."

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Chapter 1

Wait

I CAME TO MALTA TO escape. After Paris, a return to Corfu was no longer a safe option. Ryka was dead. It no longer mattered, where I slept.

Jamie was in Paris, where he felt safe.

So, why was he endangering both of us by leaving its safety and coming to Malta? It didn’t make sense. Then again, Jamie’s choices over the years had rarely made sense, but I had learned to accept him the way he is. It was only fair. He has always done the same for me. We are as close as brothers.

My previous trips to Malta had proved that these islands could keep their secrets. These is­lands have enjoyed that reputation for centuries. Certainly, the Knights of St. John of Jerusalem had brought their share of secrets, when they came here in the 1530’s. Many of their secrets remain hid­den. Mine pale in comparison.

Valletta, the knights’ city fortress built of sun-drenched gold­en stone, remains standing to­day, a living, breathing city, and home to four centuries of descendants. The knights, suspended in time and still on guard, appear in row after row of battle worn armor standing at ghostly attention in the Grand Master’s Palace. Their empty metal shells boast proudly of enemies’ unsuccessful, yet ghastly, attempts to silence these mighty warriors. I hoped their shadows would continue to protect me, at least until my wounds healed.

In Ying-Yang contrast to this ancient training center for war­riors, a twelfth-century hospital still stands on the island. A quiet testament to those Knights, who chose Hospitaler over warrior, it waits empty. Theirs was an equally noble profession. Their devoted attention to wounded crusaders and returning pilgrims demonstrates a long history of remarkable courage, faith, and compassion. Caring for the health of its citizens is a tradition still proudly demonstrated by Malta today, where its modern health care system ranks fifth in the world, a living legacy to its charitable ancestors. It was that reputa­tion, specifically, and the need to recover from a long series of wounds, some physical, some of a deeper nature, which first drew me to the islands.

It didn’t take much to make me stay. Malta’s warm position in the southern Mediterranean and clear blue waters are what I understood and could embrace. When it appeared that my age was catching up with me faster than my enemies were, a safe place to rest became a priority. I am no longer the young warrior I once was. Malta became an easy choice. Malta accepts Euros for medi­cal services, with few questions asked. Hence, it was a good place to come, both for the corrective surgery, and for time to mend.

I wasn’t the first to discover this glamorous spot for recover­ing from medical procedures. Vacation surgeries, a new industry called medical tourism, keeps the beaches here filled with the rich and famous. They hide behind sunglasses and large hats. Spa names su­per­sede clinic or rehab on the walls of well-hidden resorts within resorts, where paparazzi are whisked away by celebrities’ bodyguards. Tabloids pay a fortune for tips from stringers strategically masquerading as hotel staff. I learned my lesson, long ago in New York, and won’t risk, again, seeing my picture show up on the front page of a grocery store tabloid, simply because one night I have a beer next to a pop singer with a new nose.

These days, I prefer the privacy of my boat. It may have not cost as much as a month at a five-star resort, but it keeps better secrets. I dress in khakis or not at all. Most days, I opt for swim trunks. My rehab takes the low-impact form, water exercise. The sea is safer for many reasons, not the least of which is, no one was ever recognized wearing scuba gear.

As enchanting as it can be, Malta is not Corfu, but it will do. Corfu was special. Islands have always called to me like a siren’s song. Perhaps none would ever compare to our spot on Pelekas Beach, but it no longer mattered. When I was no longer sharing my space with Ryka, my priorities suddenly changed. I travel lighter, quicker, with fewer needs now. She had been a warrior, but also a woman. A woman, even one as well trained and disciplined as Ryka, has different needs. Corfu met those needs for her, and provided everything else for me. It would always hold a warm place in my memory. Not many places did.

On Malta, I was learning to listen to my own voice. I missed her voice, hated the open-ended silence in the middle of the night, but was growing accustomed to the empty echo of my un­answered questions. The pain was lessening with each passing day. Here, I had begun healing on many levels.

Malta’s location was more than a casual choice. It was a strategic one because of its proxim­ity to Sicily, a ninety-minute ride by jet cat or, if there were time, a more leisurely journey by sail. Sicily opened the door to all of Europe and beyond. Malta is also close to Tunisia and North Africa. This too is advantageous. There are possibilities for disappearing quickly, completely, if I need to. There are also private jets on the island. It’s always good to have options, old acquaintances in high places with discretionary income. But, given a choice, I prefer traveling by boat, with fewer security checks, and more coastlines with places to hide.

These days, I spend more time hunkering down than in planning escape routes, more time under the water, than on land. The diving has become more than a personal ritual. In Italy, I dis­covered that strangers pay generously for my expertise, which in turn, pays for my newer, faster boat. Whenever a place proves dangerous, the boat and I disappear for a few days.

There are other islands and places, where people learned a long time ago that the business of strangers is none of their business. It is better not to ask, not to know, not to tell. Malta is one of those places. There’s an expres­sion, an acknow­ledgement of mutual respect, as well as a warning: 

In-negozju tiegħek huwa negozju tiegħek. M'għandekx tagħmel dan minjiera. (Your business is your business. Do not make it mine.)

I’ve learned which bars to avoid, when to keep my eyes down, and when to keep my mouth shut. As long as I don’t break any laws, don’t start any trouble, I’m safe here.

What lay beneath the Mediterranean is rarely appreciated by those on the surface. I am one of the lucky ones, spending every daylight hour, scouring the underwater shorelines. It requires pa­tience. Patience comes easily, because below the water, I am safe. When necessary, I can remain lifeless, dead, and uninteresting to the most ravenous of predators. It is a skill acquired by practice and honed by necessity. It has saved my life on more than one occasion. In both instances, the predator was human.

Since first discovering Gozo, the smaller of Malta’s two in­habited islands, I have grown to covet the area around the Azure Window. I have made no fewer than a hundred dives there; most after the tourists have gone for the day. Its treasures are best viewed at sunset. Ryka saw them once. Jamie has never seen them. I doubt he will ever don scuba gear and get that deep in the water. It’s un­fortunate, and one more thing, which we will never share. There are other great diving locations around the three islands of Malta, Gozo, and Comino, but none, in my opinion, quite so alluring. The colors are dazzling, underwater rainbows. When I am there, I am in a different universe.

The islands are crawling with tourists, mostly teenagers and college students. Language schools on Malta attract them from all over the world. Their parents send them here to learn Eng­lish. The students come for the nightclubs and the beaches. I doubt if their language instructors see very much of them in the daylight. When they aren’t in clubs, they come to the shorelines, and luckily, they all seem to have money. I show them the ropes. In my younger days, I would have shown the females a few more things, but these days I stay away from women. Men, my age, stand out around young women, at least around the ones I find most attractive. I don’t need the attention it attracts.

On the water, to the young language students, I am just another leather-skinned, middle-aged stranger, and nearly old enough to be one of their fathers. It’s a fact, which I hate to admit. The women of Malta, who are my age, seem to have been married for centuries. Divorce is forbid­den and rare among this mainly Roman Catholic population. It’s unfortunate because there are beautiful women here, ones who are vibrant, full of life, but tethered to ungrateful men. I watch them from the dis­tance of my boat. Even from that distance, I can see it in their faces.

They arrive in pairs on market day, sashaying their way down the narrow stone streets to the water’s edge. They toss their sexuality in the faces of men, knowing fully the effect, yet enjoying that they are untouchable. They giggle behind their hands as they pass secrets. By dressing to show off their best features, their large breasts, tight hips, muscular buttocks, long legs with well-defined calves, they tempt and emphasize their status as forbidden fruit. They torture the men, who lust af­ter them despite the prohibition, or perhaps, even more so, because of it.

All that’s left among the local population, for men seeking real or imagined satisfaction, are young single women, too silly to know their own mind, or grieving widows, too old to care. Men’s clubs entice the young ones out from under their fathers’ roofs with promises of riches. They dance for foreign men, who throw money at them. Having crossed dangerous moral borders, they con­tinue their journey onto the mainland of Europe, never to return.

Churches recruit the widows. Men, those who choose one or the other, do so knowing that the price for one could be jail, and for the other, worse still, a lifetime of punishment... mar­riage. Sometimes, a poor unfortunate man finds himself forced to choose. Sailors and the sea have always created a bounty of beautiful young widows on shore. 

So, if I am interested at all, I must search among foreign, single women on holiday to satisfy my needs. So far, there has been only one, and she came after me like a whaler with a harpoon. There’s something about being on holiday, which releases the carnivore instincts of women. She’s a Brit, consumed with finding the hero of her romantic novels. She’s a writer. In some ways, she re­minded me of Jamie, another writer obsessed with imaginary quests. This one has returned to the island only once since we first met. I doubt that she will, again. Our last encounter did not end well. She burns easily... in many ways.

The students come from everywhere. With the former Soviet Union finished, the younger generations from the once iron-curtain countries are intent upon traveling and seeing the world. It is an adventure once coveted by their parents and grandparents. It is pure entertainment to listen to their conversations and to let them think that I don’t understand. It provides other benefits, like hearing recent world news, first hand. I practice my language skills; ask questions, like in the old days, when I was a journalist. When necessary I can fake a convincing Australian accent. It keeps people off track, a necessity, if I want to continue living here.  

Teaching them to dive keeps me fit, physically and mentally, which is good. I like being busy. There is less time to think about the past. There is no reason to think about the future. There is only today. I try not to waste any of the time I have left on Earth, worrying about those things, which I cannot control. Besides, wasn’t I the one who said, Control is an illusion? No one should know that better.

The irony of the illusion for so-called civilized nations is so thick as to be palpable. Wars, fought to control a specific piece of land, are made moot in the blink of an eye by something as un­con­trollable as an earthquake. Victors gain only a worthless pile of rubble. I’ve seen it happen twice. Everyone loses in war. There are no winners. I don’t care what you read in the brochures.

If the physical wars weren’t bad enough, the secret wars fought in boardrooms and back­rooms are even more odious, with far more peripheral damage. Economies teeter on the whim of a few power-hungry people, while millions starve from real hunger. My young customers talk of cyber wars. Their eyes fairly sparkle with the thrill of it. I can see that I am quickly becoming an antique, someone with no battle experience in this arena. They, on the other hand, are skilled, and eagerly waiting for the trumpeter’s call. Make it a battle of words, ideas, or if those fail, fists, then I have no problem, but tell me the enemy is invisible, declaring war from behind his computer screen, and I am done in.

In the future, the fate of how many lives, will be determined by the click of a mouse? How many have already been lost over an appealing piece of military recruitment PR? A young man, or woman, struggling to find an identity, rushes to sign up in response to a thirty-second television commercial. For what? A family will mourn. A country will honor. Friends will toast. A future will die. What may have been... lost forever.

In truth, in every country, under all circumstances, soldiers die for other soldiers. Under fire, being old or young, straight or gay, male or female doesn’t matter. It’s simple barter. I protect your ass and you protect mine. If we’re both lucky, we both get out alive. You go home to your family. I go home to mine. Fair trade. The politicians and the newspapers will decide if we’re heroes or villains. We have no control over that. They are the experts at illusion.

The start-up rumble of a nearby boat engine disturbs Ben’s thoughts. How did I get started on that? he mutters, as he watches the boat depart. It is a boatload of tourists out for a dive. Busi­ness opportunity lost. Where was Tavio? His thoughts drift off again.

All I care about is today, being out from under anyone’s thumb. It had been a quick, but easy decision. One day, I woke up and realized that I’d wasted my life fighting ghosts over pieces of land that no longer exist on someone’s map. Some were places that have changed names three times on my watch, the people in charge, more often than that. Wars are cat and mouse games played on a larger scale. When the mice get too big, there’s always someone with a bigger cat. The chase will never end. To those not on the battlefield, it’s just a game. To those on the battlefield, it’s hell. I cannot imagine what it will be like, when all battles move into cyber-space. Cleaner maybe. Less peripheral damage. One can only hope.

In time, all my enemies will become ghosts. If they find me first...  Well...  The trick is to out­live them. It’s the ultimate revenge, although revenge, is a worthless motivation. I gave it up a long ago. It’s an empty reason to live. I rationalize that the things I’ve done were - simply doing my job. I helped some people achieve immor­tality, a little sooner than they planned. I am consoled, some­what, in knowing that they were just as stupid as I was, believing that we could change the game, change the rules, or change history. Their mistake was being in the wrong place at the wrong time, not in being on the wrong side. There are no wrong sides. There are no right sides. It’s war. Every­thing about it is wrong. Call me a slow learner. It only took twenty years to figure it out.

We believe, whatever other people - mostly our contemporaries, tell us. With the internet, I have to wonder, if the youth of the world today are better informed, or simply force-fed propaganda at a quicker rate. We would all do better to believe only what we discover for ourselves. The world operates on lies and propaganda. It always has. Surely, in the Garden of Eden, someone was screaming, The sky is falling when in truth, it was only an apple.

When we’re young, we don’t know which lies to accept, so we accept them all, then, spend a lifetime sorting them out. In the end, does it really matter? We will all become ghosts, leaving only lies for the next generation to sort out. What was it that Ryka always said? Grains of sand. That was it. We’re all just grains of sand, unaware that the next wave will wash us all away. She had learned that the hard way, seeing her family dissolve into thin air. There... and then, not there.

Amazingly, my time here on Malta has healed my mind more than my broken body. It’s given me time to think, unencumbered. I’ve tried to let go of the bitterness. I focus on how much Ryka loved me. I have no idea why. Her death was my mistake. I broke my own rule by letting someone get too close. It is my fault that she is dead. I denied it until only a few weeks ago. Ad­mitting it makes it easier.

It would have been different if Ryka had died on the job. She and I expected that. We trained for it. I could have accepted it. This was different. She died because she was a woman. It should have never happened. Women in the past had said, I love you usually in the throes of pas­sion, or right before I moved on to the next one. Ryka proved it without ever saying it. I should have been paying more attention. I should have listened.

Anna, the Brit, left Malta because I pushed her away. I said some things she found insulting. It was intentional. It’s easier to ignore the feelings of a stranger, especially when you want the stran­ger to go away. She had absolutely no idea what went wrong between us. I did. She wanted more than a casual sexual relationship. I will never go there again. Besides, she was nothing like Ryka. I saw no future with her. Subconsciously, I realized that it was impossible to connect with her. She was the exact opposite of Ryka in every way. Pale, thin, and unattractively helpless. Her translucent white hands had never held anything more lethal than a garden trowel.

Anna came to Malta looking for romance and adventure, for something resembling one of the trashy paperback novels she writes. I gave that to her. She was hooked on the fantasy that she had created for herself. It would have never gotten any further than that. By the end of her second visit, I was growing tired of her idea of sex, which was lukewarm at best compared to Ryka. Anna could have never understood a woman like Ryka, much less become her. They were never in the same league. Ryka had real passion, real desires. She knew her own body, what she wanted, and wasn’t afraid to get it. I loved that about her. She didn’t need to read a trashy novel to be turned on. She could have written one from memory.

Church bells RANG in the distance, reminding Ben that he had been daydreaming for some time. He hated waiting. Waiting for Jamie was to blame for his mind wandering. He was never good at waiting.

What’s wrong with me? I hate this kind of psychobabble. If anyone heard me, he’d think I needed a shrink. Focus, Ben muttered an audible reminder, as he studied the shoreline.

It had been a beautiful day on Malta with bright sunshine and a cool breeze keeping the August heat down. The cobblestone streets in the distance had filled with people, crowding elbow to elbow, beneath the brightly colored umbrellas of the market stalls. None seemed interested in Ben or his boat. The scene appears benign, but Ben is keenly aware that he can never let his guard down, not even in the daytime. There is safety in hiding behind the closed sails of his boat, but then, he is drawn out into the open, his eyes locked onto a woman in a bright pink dress. His stare follows her as she saunters slowly along the promenade, holding the hand of a little girl. They stop to watch the fish at the water’s edge.

Adela. Ben says her name aloud. The sound of his own voice startles him. He coughs, before repositioning himself against the mast. Adela. I wonder what she looks like, now. Ben glances toward the sun to determine the time of day.

Jamie will be here soon. It will be good to talk to someone who remembers the same things that I remember, and who knew Ryka, if only for a few hours of her life. If I am lonely for anything, it is for someone, who shares my history. Even if we have spent most of the last two years apart, I still feel attached to Jamie. Part of me always will. I would have never guessed in college, that at this stage of the game, we would still have this con­nection. Jamie was such a nerd in college. I jetti­soned all of my college friends within weeks of graduation, all except him. There must be a reason. It’s strange.

I couldn’t have been happier than when Jamie wrote to say he had finally found someone, that he and Jacqueline were making a life together in Paris. He loves Paris, probably more than he loves Jacqueline, and Adela, probably more than both Paris and Jacqueline combined. He talks about Adela at every opportunity, as if he were her real father. I’m actually relieved that he took to the role, in a way that I never could. Perhaps, Ryka sensed that about him in those final days and hours.

Jamie is never happier than when he feels needed, and certainly, Adela, at two, fills that need. Her needs, and perhaps her love for him are unconditional, but I wonder how he will react when she gets older. How he will react, when she rejects him for the first time, as all children are bound to do. She will need to establish her independence, and he has never taken rejection well. All healthy children need to rebel, reject their parents’ views of the world. If Adela is anything like Ryka, or me, it will be inevitable. However, there’s still time for him to enjoy her. She’s only two.

Jamie has a network of friends in Paris. From all accounts, Jacqueline is a good woman. I like the fact that she works as an EMT on an ambulance, and can take care of all of Adela and Jamie’s medical needs. At least, I don’t have to worry about that. Little kids are always getting hurt or sick. Jamie, too. There’s Bernadette, who baby-sits, and Otto, who provides male companion­ship, and who has proven to be a true friend, according to Jamie. However, Jamie is so easily influ­enced by others; I wonder if he can tell which ones are his real friends. One day, his gullibility will get him into real trouble... again. I may not be there to save his sorry ass next time. The episode in Paris with Gunter should have been a warning. We could have all ended up dead in the Seine. I can’t be everywhere.

The day was wearing on. Ben wanted to close his eyes and take his afternoon nap, one of the Mediterranean traditions that he especially enjoyed. From two o’clock to four in the afternoons, you could hear a universal chorus of snores on the island, and nothing more. Traffic stopped. Music stopped. Only the church bells kept track of time. The sun, his berth below, and the late lunch of pasta and fish were calling to him. The heaviness of his eyelids seemed to take over, as he sat down and rested his head in his hands. The sun beat down upon his graying hair and tanned leathery neck. The heat felt good on his tired bones.

He tried to stay awake. They will be here soon, he and Jacqueline. It would be too easy to fall asleep in the sun and forget. Ben stretched out his stomach on the deck and laid his head on his crossed arms. He tried to remember the last time that he had seen Jamie. Luxembourg Gardens in Paris. It was cold. Wet. His body had become accustomed to the climate of Greece. This heat felt good. He drifted off to the gentle rocking of the boat.

It’s been too long since we talked face to face. I want news of Adela, to see a picture of her. The only one that I’ve seen was taken right after she was born, when, as Jamie says, all babies look like Winston Churchill. Surely, she has changed. I wonder, if she asks about her father, or if she calls Jamie, Daddy. What Jamie has told her about us? Whom does she resemble? I hope it is Ryka. She was a beautiful woman. It would be unfortunate, if her child grew up to look like me, but then again, maybe it would cause her less trouble in the long run. Beauty has a price. Ryka would have been the first to tell her that. If she had lived... Ryka could have told her many things.

Ben fell deeper and deeper asleep. In his dreams, he could still hear the church bells ringing out the hour and the minutes. They had become so familiar, as to be nothing more than audible punctuation marks, which began and ended his dreams. Two boats entered the harbor, steered by visitors, strangers to the sacred afternoon ritual of napping. The owners began yelling at each other for crossing too close, one cutting off the other on his approach to the marina. Their angry voices startled Ben awake. He sat up, quickly evaluated the situation, determined that their argument was none of his business, and then, rubbed his eyes, before looking at his watch.

Where is he? Ben muttered, irritated to be awake, irritated to be waiting. He glared at the boat owners, each going his separate way on the water. They had no idea how many people they had disturbed. He was probably only one of many on this lazy afternoon. He searched for some­thing to drink, as his thoughts returned to Jamie.

Jamie and I communicate via a social website. We cannot provide true details of our lives, not in the way we use to, over beer in our New York neighborhood bar. However, our system suf­fices. To the outside world, we are teenagers. Since we can no longer email, we had to come up with something. Our code, the one we thought unbreakable, was broken. It was how they lured me in from the cold, only to be set up for an assassination attempt. Before that happened, before their false messages drew me to Paris, I thought I was free of my past life and my enemies. I made the mistake of believing one of