Kira began her first full day in Malta with breakfast in the hotel, followed by a stroll along the wharf toward the Siege Bell War Memorial. The day promised to be scorching hot, and she was glad for her airy sundress, broad-brimmed sun hat, and sturdy sunglasses.

She hadn’t slept well between the disturbing text message and disgruntled body clock that was unhappy with the six-hour time difference. Ten a.m. here was four a.m. in Virginia.

She would probably have to take a nap before heading to the reception tonight.

She made her way to Fort St. Elmo and paid the entry fee to tour the fort and museum. She leisurely explored the exhibits, trying to be mindful of anyone following or paying her undue interest.

As she promised Freya, she would not be caught off guard.

The museum was separated into time periods in different areas of the fort. She spent a fair amount of time in the World War II exhibit, even though it was likely that art stolen by Nazis had arrived in Malta much later, as Malta had been a Crown Colony from 1813-1964.

During the war, in spite of massive bombardment by the Axis powers, the Crown Colony of Malta—with the aid of Allied convoys—survived its second brutal siege, this one beginning 375 years after the Great Siege that established the small island country as a force to be respected in the Mediterranean.

After finishing at the fort and museum, she went to the movie theater next door to watch The Malta Experience, a forty-five-minute film that presented the seven-thousand-year history of Malta followed by a tour of La Sacra Infermeria—the Holy Infirmary of the Knights of St. John—a hospital established in 1574.

She sat in the dark, air-conditioned theater with her translation headphones set to English. Only a dozen or so other tourists shared a theater that seated more than a hundred. As she watched, she began to doze. The dark, cool room and exhaustion defeating even the excited history lover in her.

Her eyes drifted closed, but she forced them open when the narrator described Neolithic sites, including the Ħal Saflieni Hypogeum, a series of connected underground burial chambers that dated to about 3000 BCE—Before Common Era. She hoped to visit the site, but hadn’t been able to get tickets, as they sold out weeks—even months—in advance.

The film progressed, giving the early recorded history of the islands, but even her love of all things historic couldn’t compete with jetlag and the cool, dark room. She drifted off, lulled by the Maltese-accented English words describing the battle that had been waged in 1565 in the waters around the fort she’d just toured.

The sound of explosions became gunshots, and the voice in her headphones changed. An eerie, singsong male voice with an unidentified accent saying her name: “Kiiirrraaa. Kiiiiraaaaaa.”

She jolted awake. Yanking the headphones off, she jumped to her feet, then twisted and tried to scan the faces of the other tourists in the dark theater. The light from the screen revealed clusters of fellow tourists listening with their headphones. Only the two attendees seated behind her noticed her odd behavior.

She slowly sank back into her seat.

Had she dreamed it?

That had to be it. The pop of cannon fire could have stoked the memory of gunfire. Plus, she’d had lots of realistic dreams of her abduction in the weeks that followed her rescue.

But what if it hadn’t been a dream? What if danger had followed her over an ocean and halfway across the Mediterranean Sea?

Kira opted to walk through the interior streets after the hospital tour, following the other tourists, so she would appear to be one in a crowd. The city’s interior architecture was even more charming in person than in the photos she’d spent endless hours studying. Narrow alleys with arched doorways and the colorful, enclosed balconies the country was famous for.

It was a visual feast, many of the structures built more than four hundred years ago. There were people everywhere, and she felt safe in the crowd, even though it made it harder for her to spot anyone who might be following her.

She’d grown more convinced she’d dreamed the voice singing her name in the theater, but that didn’t mean she could slack on her situational awareness. If she wanted to become a true Valkyrie, she had to act like one. Diana would never lose her vigilance on an assignment.

In a way, she supposed she was playing spy, in addition to being an art sleuth. Her vacation game had gained another layer of complexity.

There was no more perfect setting for such a game. James Bond would blow things up and destroy markets and artwork as he chased down the bad guys, while Kira had just taught a class on how not to destroy local cultural history when deployed. She would tread more lightly than 007.

Unless, of course, there was a warlord seeking a bioweapon that would unleash the next pandemic, like in the book she’d read on her flight. That did justify a little destruction to save humanity.

She’d checked the publication date on the novel when she realized it had a pandemic plotline and saw it had been published late in 2019, prior to the first wave. It bore no resemblance to how things played out, so she imagined the underlying plot—which was a midpoint reveal—hadn’t hurt sales. The author’s second book had released about a month ago. She might grab it for her flight home if the first book had a satisfying ending.

She shook her head, wondering why she was thinking about her return trip when she’d only just arrived. She’d have to be vigilant in DC too. At least here she was in a real old city, not one that mimicked ancient architecture.

What would it be like to go back and face Freya after this? They should probably have the long-overdue chat about Apollo. After twenty years of avoiding the subject at all costs, it was time. Plus, she’d hopefully have more answers about her parents, so she’d be sorting all the old dirty laundry.

She returned to her hotel room and took a cold shower to both wake her and cool her body down after wandering through the streets of Valletta in the hot afternoon sun. Then she made herself leave the hotel so she couldn’t take a nap. She needed to adjust her internal clock, so she’d power through.

She had a few hours to kill before the reception and decided to sit outside at a restaurant that was next to St. John’s Co-Cathedral and have a late lunch. She tried rabbit for the first time, which she’d noticed was on most of the local menus.

Not wanting to take chances while alone and exhausted, she ordered a mocktail so she could at least pretend this was a normal vacation. James Bond never worried about drinking, but he wasn’t a lightweight like her. Plus, he never suffered from jetlag.

It wasn’t long before a man asked to join her, but she declined. She remembered her promise to herself about flirting with handsome strangers, and he fit the bill, but that didn’t seem like a wise, Valkyrieish thing to do.

Not while jetlagged, anyway.

Besides, he wasn’t as good-looking as Rand. Although, that was a dangerous baseline to set, given that no one—with the possible exception of the happily married Ian Boyd—could match Rand’s sheer perfection.

Rand had asked her out, and she’d shot him down. Twice. Most recently because she knew she needed to focus on her trip. Well, that and insecurities built on a lifetime of experience. He’d end up bored by her in less than a week.

Still, she considered taking a chance and agreeing to that date when she returned to Virginia.

She rolled her eyes. And that was exactly why she’d turned him down. So she wouldn’t be thinking about him when she needed to be a hundred percent present here.

She should be thinking about her father and the cryptic letters he’d received and might have attempted to destroy before Kira could find them.

It crossed her mind that he’d moved them to the safe so she would find them after his death, but that didn’t make sense. In that instance, wouldn’t he have told her about his ties to Malta to prepare her?

His ability to speak had been lost in the immediate aftermath of the stroke, but by the time he came home from the hospital, his speech had improved. It took effort, but he could communicate. Lord knew he could argue. So why had he placed the letters in the safe, and where had they been hiding before that?

Chapter Thirteen

Kira smiled as she shook hands with a glass artist from Gozo. The bronze-skinned Maltese woman looked to be in her sixties. She had voluminous wavy brown and gray hair and was as beautiful as her delicate, colorful vessels and sculptures. Some of her work was traditional Gozo glass in shape and design, and other pieces were unique works of art that weren’t confined to time or culture.

Kira rarely salivated over contemporary art. In general, she preferred historic works, whether they be two thousand or a mere fifty years old. For her, the history of the piece added to her appreciation. But Juliette Vella was an artist who could turn her to the other team.

She was the Gillian Anderson of new art styles.

“It’s such a pleasure to meet you,” Juliette said. “Your father was a dear man. I’m so sorry for your loss.”

“Thank you.” She had half a dozen questions to ask about Juliette’s association with her father, but it was embarrassing to admit he’d told her nothing of his trips to Malta and even more humiliating as she met person after person in this gallery to discover that her father had never, not once, mentioned his wife or daughter during his travels.

At least her suspicion of a secret second family had been dispelled. None of the people here who knew her father had known he’d had a wife and child at all, let alone a local family.

“Is this your first visit to Malta?” Juliette asked.

“Yes. I just arrived last night.”