Mission In Malta by Deborah Abela

in some kind of lower garden and it looks like it’s fertiliser time.’
    Linden smiled. ‘At least it would have softened the fall.’
    Max carefully pulled herself out of the smelly bed, hoping to reduce the amount of reeking bits that stuck to her. ‘I bet things like this never happen to Alex Crane,’ she complained.
    â€˜I know I shouldn’t,’ Linden’s voice snuck carefully out of Max’s watch, ‘but … do you need a hand?’
    â€˜No, I’ll be fine.’
    It was then that Max saw two shadows hidden beneath a stone arch at the far end of the lowergarden. The lights from the city behind them turned the figures into two sharp silhouettes. One towered over the other, arms flinging into the air and stabbing into the smaller one’s chest.
    Max slowly laid back on the manure pile and took her MP3 player from her pocket. She switched it on, pressed record, slipped in her earpieces and pointed the device directly at the men.
    â€˜Do you understand me?’ The tall shadow again beat into the chest of the other. He grabbed his shirt collar and delivered a hoarse threat. ‘We need the leech man if our plan is going to be successful. If he’s delivered to us and everything works out, you get a nice little payout; if he isn’t, well …’ He sniffed. ‘You might find yourself going to sleep one night with the fishes. And we wouldn’t want that, would we?’
    â€˜No,’ the smaller man wheezed.
    Max raised her hand slightly, pointed her watch at the men and began recording with her mini digital camera.
    â€˜If he isn’t at the window by the end of the week, you’d better start running, because you don’t want me catching up with you to tell you how disappointed I am.’
    â€˜But I –’ The small shadow began to cough.A strangled, gasping cough that was being wrenched out of him. ‘Okay. Okay. By the end of the week. He’ll be there.’
    With one more squeeze of his shirt, the coughing man was pushed into a wall before he scuttled away.
    The tall man straightened out his jacket and adjusted his tie. He took one long breath and snapped his head to the side in a sharp, bone-crunching crack that vibrated through Max’s earphones.
    â€˜Ow.’ A sympathetic groan escaped from Max’s lips and floated through the now quiet night. She bit down tight on her lips and flattened herself against the manure.
    The tall man stepped slowly towards her, searching the darkness. Max willed herself not to move, hoping the cover of night would blanket her from his view. He stopped only metres from where she lay.
    â€˜You coming back to the party or what? You’re missing all the fun.’
    The shadowed man turned to face the questioner behind him. ‘Yeah. I’m coming.’ He cracked his neck again in a sickening snap before taking one more look and retreating into the night.
    Max took a deep breath and let her chest deflate in a long, relieved sigh.
    â€˜Linden,’ she spoke into her watch. ‘Can you hear me?’
    â€˜Yeah. Where are you? Are you okay?’
    â€˜Nothing a shower wouldn’t fix. Meet me back at the hotel in five minutes. I think I’ve found the men who are after Alfonzo.’

Max Remy stayed close to one of the inner walls of St John’s Co-Cathedral in Valletta, Malta. The tolling bells of midnight rang throughout the sleeping city, signalling not only the hour of night but the time of the proposed robbery of one of Europe’s most famous and treasured works of art: The Beheading of St John the Baptist by master Italian painter Caravaggio.
    â€˜Come on, Archibald,’ Max whispered. ‘I’m ready for you.’
    Archibald Fossdrake – art thief, fairy floss stall owner and failed artist – was the person behind the robbery in yet another of his attempts to rid the world of its most famous artworks, and the Caravaggio was