The Cana Mystery Read online

  Title page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Half title page

  Quote

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Epilogue

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  Back cover

  Title page

  THE

  CANA

  MYSTERY

  David Beckett

  WELLESLEY, MASSACHUSETTS

  www.TuscanyPress.com

  Copyright

  Copyright © 2013 by David Beckett

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or utilized in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  Tuscany Press, LLC

  Wellesley, Massachusetts

  www.TuscanyPress.com

  The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Publisher’s Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  (Prepared by The Donohue Group, Inc.)

  Beckett, David, 1972–

  The Cana mystery / David Beckett.

  p. ; cm.

  ISBN: 978-1-939627-11-7 (hardcover)

  ISBN: 978-1-939627-10-0 (pbk.)

  ISBN: 978-1-939627-09-4 (ebook)

  1. Turning water into wine at the wedding at Cana (Miracle)—Fiction. 2. Benedict XVI, Pope, 1927—Fiction. 3. Massachusetts Institute of Technology—Graduate students—Fiction. 4. Storage jars—Middle East—Fiction. 5. Conspiracy—Middle East--Fiction.

  6. Mystery and detective stories. I. Title.

  PS3602.E355 C36 2013

  813/.6 2013939718

  Printed and bound in the United State of America

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Text design and layout by Peri Swan.

  This book was typeset in Garamond Premier Pro with Shelley Andante Script as a display typeface.

  Dedication

  For Catherine

  Half title page

  THE

  CANA

  MYSTERY

  Quote

  In a time when error reigns—

  bleak days the world doth mourn,

  cries of anguish, great with pain,

  children of the light forlorn.

  AVA OF GÖTTWEIG,

  “Der Antichrist,” Vorau Manuscript

  (trans. author)

  Prologue

  PROLOGUE

  THE VATICAN, 1462

  Daybreak. Pope Pius II watches a fiery orb crest the Tiber. His mind drifts. He recalls that Aristotle’s student Callippus once computed the seasons’ duration, measuring the sun’s movement within its ethereal sphere. While the pontiff ruminates, his valet methodically extinguishes the candles that had illuminated a long, busy night. Pius smiles. An educated man, he’d known it would be difficult to glean the secret. Nevertheless, anticipation grows in him. On this blessed day they may unlock the great enigma, a message concealed for a millennium.

  One artifact has remained hidden in the catacombs since the Vandals’ attack in 455. He’d retrieved the second from Scotland twenty-five years ago. Now he prays the cryptic knowledge these objects contain would avail his church in its desperate campaign against the Turks, who are occupying Constantinople.

  Pius turns away from the window and crosses through a cleverly masked portal. Emanating from his private library, wondrous voices speak incomprehensible words. Inside, a dexterous young acolyte transcribes the mysterious cipher. Pius watches the boy ink words onto a scroll. Gradually, words form into couplets; couplets become quatrains. “It must be the lost prophecy,” the pope thinks, “just as Bessarion and Regiomontanus described.” Pius understands not a syllable.

  “What language is that, Jacopo?” he asks his most trusted cardinal.

  “An ancient tongue, Holiness. Few in Christendom speak it. It’s beyond my ken, but my young scribe can translate.”

  The pope is not surprised. Cardinal Jacopo Piccolomini-Ammannati is ever surrounded by an entourage of brilliant students. Over the years, he’d guided countless priests’ careers. The shrewd academician could be elected pope himself someday, supported by this army of admirers and protégés.

  “Very well. What does it say?”

  The Gallic child smiles. He is eager to win favor with the Holy Father—and he is secretly pleased he will be able to report the prophecy to his true master, the brilliant Spider King. Having transcribed several quatrains into Latin, he begins to read aloud.

  Chapter 1

  1

  NEAR SANTO STEFANO, ITALY

  DECEMBER 24, 2007

  The tiny archipelago had been inhabited since prehistoric times. Romans named it Ilva, then Fussa, and, later, Bucina. In medieval times it was called Bicinara. Pisa and Genoa disputed ownership throughout the twelfth century. Four hundred years later, Corsican shepherds rechristened it Santa Maria Magdalena. Now it concealed a secret U.S. submarine base.

  Across the bay a dilapidated ferry’s halogen floodlights pierced the gathering fog. On board, Roderigo leaned against the wet metal rail and smoked. He checked his watch: 11:20 P.M., plenty of time. Earlier that day, he had crossed the causeway from Caprera and piloted his van through Moneta’s narrow streets. The Italian’s movements betrayed no anxiety. His papers were legitimate, his registration was authentic, and his custom-tailored delivery uniform bore Francese-Trinita Catering’s interlocked F-T logo. Don VeMeli had seen to every detail.

  The lumbering boat docked. Roderigo started the van and drove to the base, where, just before midnight, a moderately intoxicated guard waved him through security. At the appointed spot, the Italian parked, killed the ignition, rolled down the window, and tapped his cigarettes.

  Before long, he detected a diesel engine’s tubercular mutter. He swung his long legs out of the vehicle, stood upon the rain-soaked asphalt, and stretched. A motorized forklift emerged from the gloom. Roderigo hailed its driver, who nodded in recognition.

  Working in collusive silence, the men removed three heavy suitcases from the van and replaced them with a ponderous steel container. Business complete, Roderigo was preparing to depart when he felt a hand on his elbow. He turned.

  “Your boss . . . he keeps his word, right? He’ll use it only on Arabs?”

  The Italian’s eyes narrowed. He appraised this curious confederate: shaved head, pale skin, several fierce tattoos, but really just a frightened lad.

  “Because if that,” the speaker continued, gesturing to the van’s cargo, “goes off in New York, D.C., anywhere else in the States . . .”

  Roderigo’s nostrils flared, emitting a curl of bemused smoke. “Relax, paisan. The Gruppo hates ragheads as much as you. My boss will do the right thing, like Truman did in forty-five.”

  The serviceman’s posture eased, and if he suffered further pangs of conscience, Roderigo knew, the million-dollar bribe would dull them.

  “Okay. I just needed to be sure.”

  “No problem.”

  As they shook hands, the lanky Italian smiled, knowing the young American soldier would be
dead inside a week. Roderigo rammed the door shut and started the van. Just before leaving, he called out, “Merry Christmas!”

  BOSTON, FEBRUARY 2013

  Ava was roused by her phone vibrating. Who calls at three in the morning? Groggily, she traced a finger across the screen to answer.

  “Hello?”

  “Hi, Ava. What’s happening?”

  The man’s voice was familiar, but she couldn’t quite place it. “Listen, I need help on something,” he said. “What’s your schedule next week?”

  Emerging from a drowsy fugue, Ava struggled to identify the caller. Not Gabe, not Dad, not her thesis adviser. Maybe the pushy guy from the bachelorette party? Hadn’t she given him a fake number? Was he stalking her?

  “Who is this?” She was fully awake now, and riled.

  “This is Paul. Paul Grant. Can you come to Yemen? My boss will pay for everything. We found something important and we need your help to—”

  “Paul?” It had been years, and, as she recalled, they’d parted under ambiguous circumstances. Now he was calling in the middle of the night expecting her to drop everything and fly to Yemen?

  “Is this a joke? Who is your boss?”

  “Oh, I thought you knew. I work for Simon DeMaj. You’ve heard of him?”

  Of course she had. DeMaj was a global celebrity. Rising from the slums of Algiers, the half-French, half-Algerian polymath had flown helicopters for the French air force before attending Yale. Later, he made headlines when his high-tech start-up landed contracts to provide Jordan, Syria, Egypt, and Libya with state-of-the-art digital infrastructure. DeMaj had wired half of the Middle East, becoming one of the world’s four hundred richest men in the process. He was equally famous for romantic liaisons with models and actresses—juicy affairs providing fodder for gossip columns and tabloid pictorials. DeMaj was as likely to be seen hosting an economic development forum at Davos as canoodling with best-supporting-actress nominees at the California Governor’s Ball.

  “I may have heard the name,” Ava deadpanned. “What does he want?”

  “We need an expert in ancient languages,” Paul told her, “someone who can solve difficult puzzles. I can’t explain by phone, but you’ll be well compensated. How about two thousand dollars a day?”

  Despite herself, Ava was intrigued. She couldn’t resist an intellectual challenge and she could use the money, but that was insufficient justification to leave the country.

  “Paul, I need more info.”

  He groaned. “You’ll get me in trouble. I’m really not allowed to say. How about this: I’ll give you a hint and you figure it out, just like the old days.”

  In college, Ava had been known for cracking riddles. Classmates tried to stump her at every cocktail party, but she’d amazed them all. It was a gift. Too bad it didn’t pay well.

  She accepted the challenge. “Lay it on me.”

  “I’ll e-mail you.”

  He pecked keys. “Okay, it’s sent. I’m going on Expedia now. I’ll book you an open-ended ticket from Boston to Yemen. Simon’s lawyers will set up your visa and handle the diplomatic details. If you decide not to come, text me back at this number. Otherwise, I’ll meet you at the airport in Sana’a.”

  She scrolled down to a message that was sent from [email protected]: “Something sought in a historic hat bag has been found.”

  For half an hour Ava lay on her back and stared at the ceiling. She pondered the clue, working to discern a hidden subtext or pattern, but she made no progress. A different puzzle preoccupied her mind: After all this time, why did Paul still have her number? Before she reached a firm conclusion, she fell into a dream.

  When the alarm rang, Ava rolled out of bed. She dressed, grabbed her backpack, trotted downstairs, and, it being an exceptionally sunny morning, began riding her bicycle toward Harvard. Ava was earning her doctorate from MIT, but she’d enrolled in one cross-registered history course. She didn’t need the credit; it was mainly an excuse to see her friends Gabe and Jess and to visit her beloved alma mater. After an invigorating ride, Ava skidded to a stop and secured her bike outside Lowell House. As she cut across the interior courtyard, her eyes lingered on a favorite tree, a majestic giant growing directly in front of the main entrance. Its tallest branches reached three stories; its lowest swept the ground. Each October it turned a brilliant gold, as if touched by Midas. Smiling, Ava crossed Mt. Auburn, made for Dunster Street, turned right onto Mass. Ave., and ducked into Au Bon Pain, ending up in line behind a striking young woman in a sheer tunic and skinny jeans.

  “Hello, darling!” said Jess. Several male customers turned, secretly hoping. With her alluring features and sexy British accent, sable-haired Jess stood out in any crowd. A gifted scholar, she might have been Ava’s rival. Instead, Jess numbered among the kindest, most sincere people in their class. Unlike many Harvardians, who would bayonet their peers to obtain a better grade or job, Jess rose above the competitive, duplicitous environment. She’d become one of Ava’s closest confidantes and most steadfast allies.

  “Ready to be televised?” Jess asked.

  “What?”

  “Have you forgotten? We have the guest lecture today. Bagelton. It’ll be on Book TV.”

  Ava groaned. “You’ve got to be kidding. I knew he’d speak today, but I didn’t realize it would be a media event.”

  Dr. Ron Bagelton was a rising academic celebrity. His books sold well, but Ava considered him guilty of pandering. The type of scholar who appeared on the History Channel, MSNBC, or The Daily Show with Jon Stewart, his usual method was to posit spectacular hypotheses based on scant evidence. One of his best-sellers described a previously unpublished Divine Comedy that featured characters who were different from those in the well-known version. Bagelton alleged that, contrary to Dante’s wishes, a revisionist conspiracy had populated the inferno with victims chosen to reinforce orthodox Church values.

  “It’ll be a nightmare,” Ava said, paying for their chai lattes.

  “Why?”

  She rolled her eyes. “Bagelton’s ego is titanic. He’ll use us as props to establish his brilliance. Our classmates haven’t read his latest book, so they’ll be unable to refute his outlandish theses. To the TV audience, polite passivity will be indistinguishable from submissive acceptance. Viewers will think Bagelton must be legit if he lectures an auditorium full of Ivy Leaguers, never mind that his treatise is just ahistorical speculation tarted up with academic gobbledygook.”

  They entered Harvard Yard and walked by Wadsworth House, a clapboard structure in which Washington stayed during the Revolutionary War. They passed Widener Library and entered a redbrick building named Emerson Hall. Ava and Jess took two of the last available seats in room 105, an airy lecture hall with three hundred wooden chairs bolted to its floor. Five minutes later, Dr. Bagelton burst through the doors and strode to the rostrum. With a sinking feeling, Ava whispered, “Here we go.”

  It was worse than she’d imagined. Bagelton lectured for thirty-five minutes, then spent another fifteen reading passages from his latest work, The Philosopher-Queens, its cover displayed for the cameras at all times. Afterward, he opened the floor to questions. There were no microphones for students. All cameras remained focused on the author. Ava recognized this bit of media manipulation. No cogent question, correction, or critique would be broadcast. Viewers would see only the speaker’s smiling, confident replies. Despite the rigged game, Ava couldn’t help but play. She raised her hand. Predictably, given the speaker’s interest in pretty college girls, he called on her right away.

  “Dr. Bagelton,” she began, “your conjecture seems terribly unlikely. You assert that because highly advanced Atlanteans didn’t conquer the ancient world, Atlantis must have been a peace-loving matriarchy. The notion certainly appeals, especially to women, but you offer no verification that a place called Atlantis ever existed. Even if we suspend our disbelief on that point, no archaeological evidence supports your second premise: that Atlantis achieved an advanced tech
nology. Furthermore, you provide zero proof that the supposed inhabitants were peaceful. Maybe they tried to conquer the region but failed. Or if they did conquer—”

  “My dear,” Bagelton interrupted, “your course work must have skipped over the fact that no historical records document an Atlantean conquest, attempted or otherwise. If brave female warriors from Atlantis attacked Greece and Egypt, wouldn’t some evidence remain? Because none exists, we must conclude that the Atlanteans were pacifists.”

  “No! The only logical conclusion to draw from no evidence is no conclusion.”

  Bagelton’s features settled into a patronizing smirk. “As you advance in your studies, young lady, you’ll discover that much true history has been repressed and hidden by the establishment. The fact that the world’s first and, arguably, greatest civilization was dominated by strong, independent women threatened the monopoly of political power held by the Catholic Church and the European monarchs. These fearful males eradicated all evidence of Atlantis and its philosopher-queens.”

  To her amazement, Ava noticed many audience members nodding. What a crock! Frustrated, she collapsed back into her chair. The bigger the lie, she thought, the more books you sell.

  The speaker called on another student, who expressed his deep admiration for The Philosopher-Queens and asked Bagelton if he needed a research assistant. The audience groaned, offended by such blatant boot-licking.