The Cana Mystery Read online

  Barakah waited near the mosque at the appointed hour. When the Mercedes arrived, he climbed in and communicated to Ahmed all he’d learned.

  “I tire of this game,” said the sheik.

  Barakah nodded and then asked, “Where are we going now?”

  “Alexandria.”

  “Sir?”

  “Obviously, the fugitives plan to leave Egypt by sea. Why else would they come this way? Finding the river blocked, they would continue over land to Alexandria. We will do the same.”

  Chapter 10

  10

  A shout jolted Ava awake. She sat up, hands clutching cold porcelain in fear. Then Paul’s voice boomed in the adjoining room. He began laughing and talking excitedly. Soon, she heard him hang up the phone.

  Ava stood up and toweled herself dry. Wrapping her long hair in another towel, she put on one of the hotel’s luxurious Egyptian cotton robes. After almost slipping on the slick marble floor, she cracked open the door and peeked out. Paul was smiling. With the ivory telephone receiver wedged between his ear and shoulder, he appeared to be reading the room-service menu.

  Ava cleared her throat. “What was that shouting?”

  Looking up, he opened his mouth to answer. Then she heard a muffled voice from on the phone. Paul spoke into it. “Room service? Can you send us some dinner, please?”

  Ava simmered with impatience. Noting her expression, Paul’s eyes widened. He spoke quickly into the phone.

  “Yes, thanks. Can you just—okay, hold please.”

  Cupping the phone in his palm, he stage-whispered, “Sefu’s alive! They got through to the hospital and he’s in stable condition.”

  Ava’s shoulders relaxed and a smile blossomed. She crossed the room to Paul, sat next to him on the bed, and listened while he ordered two steak dinners and two bottles of an expensive claret. Grinning, Ava shook her head. “Nick will regret his generosity.”

  “The hell with it!” Paul said. “We’re celebrating!”

  Gabe stopped typing, stretched his arms, and took a deep breath. Several people had responded to his query. Despite his fears, no one had flamed him. No one had called him a fool or a moron. In fact, he’d received numerous sympathetic replies, but only one fellow hacker had offered actual assistance, and Gabe worried about him. He reread the IM from DURMDVL: “Let’s discuss your problem directly. 919-555-3253.”

  DURMDVL had posted on the crypto board for years, earning a reputation for taking no prisoners. Many suspected DURMDVL of launching the viral attacks against the rude noobs. From some posts, Gabe had the impression that DURMDVL frequently raided international corporate databases, leaked documents, and even snooped on governments. Of course, it was just a hypothesis: he had no proof. All he knew for sure was that DURMDVL lived somewhere on North America’s East Coast, spoke English fluently, wrote tight code, and possessed a razor-sharp sense of humor.

  Gabe punched in the number. Before it rang, he noticed it was 3:08 A.M. and hung up. That call would have to wait until later in the morning. In the meantime, he decided to eat. He rued the fact that every pizza joint was closed, especially Tommy’s. Leaning far back in his leather chair, he opened the mini-fridge: nada. Frustrated, he pushed away from the desk, rose, and checked the cabinet. Inside he found half a bag of granulated sugar, some expired pudding, and an ancient box of Pop-Tarts.

  He sighed, sat again, and pulled on his shoes. CVS was open late. He could get ice cream or something. He walked out the door, then he did a quick about-face; he’d forgotten his phone. He couldn’t tolerate the idea of missing a call from Ava. It had been days since he received her text. Presumably she’d deciphered his message, alerting her to potential eavesdroppers. That’s why she hasn’t called since, Gabe told himself, refusing to consider other explanations.

  He stepped outside and stopped again. He’d forgotten his wallet.

  Savoring the cool evening breeze, Ava reclined on the balcony and let her bare feet dangle over the rail. She closed her eyes and listened to the surf caress the shore. There were other sounds in the air: the rhythmic creak of moored sailboats’ rigging, the cacophony of polylingual conversations along the corniche. Next to her Paul finished his steak and attacked the remnants of Ava’s. Wind gusted, almost extinguishing their candles. He looked up to find her watching him eat.

  “Do you remember when we met?” she asked.

  “When we met? Or do you mean the first time I saw you?”

  “When was the first time you saw me?”

  “Freshman year. You were running.”

  “Why do you remember that?”

  “I don’t know, but I know that the first time we talked you called me an idiot.”

  “I did not!”

  “Oh yes you did, after we discussed the game-show question in class. Don’t you remember?”

  “I remember perfectly. It was the Monty Hall problem. I called you ignorant, not idiotic.”

  “Oh, thanks,” he said. “That’s much nicer.”

  She giggled. “There’s a difference.”

  “What?”

  “Ignorance can be cured. Idiocy, I fear, is permanent.”

  Paul grunted, finished his drink, and reached for the bottle. Ava lifted her glass for a refill and watched as the wine refracted flickering candlelight. A halyard strummed against a mast. On the street below, frustrated drivers honked and cursed. Ava set down her wine, drew her knees up against her chest, and rested her chin on them.

  “What happens now?”

  Paul sighed, rubbing his eyelids. “Tomorrow I’ll find us a way out of the country.”

  “What about the jars?”

  Gazing across the ancient harbor, Paul thought for a minute. Then he shrugged. “Let’s roll them into the sea.”

  “Ha, ha, ha. Any serious ideas?”

  He shook his head. “We can’t go to the police. Did you see that guy smile when he shot Sefu?”

  Ava nodded. “We could take them to the Bibliotheca . . .”

  “No way. Sheik Ahmed’s got his hooks in the local authorities. If we turn over the jars, he’ll get them. I won’t let that happen, Ava. I won’t let those murderers win.”

  “So, what then?”

  “I’m meeting Nick at Monty’s Bar after his shift. Maybe he knows someone who can smuggle us out of Egypt.”

  Ava’s posture stiffened. She was silent for a moment. Then she announced: “No. For centuries, Europeans have stolen Egypt’s priceless relics. I’m not going to participate in that crime. Looting antiquities is illegal and immoral.”

  “I don’t want any loot! I’ll happily give the jars to the first institute or museum you choose. Once we get out of Egypt.”

  “And go where? Libya? Yemen? Tunisia? Saudi Arabia? Where will they be safe from Simon?”

  Paul sagged into his chair. Brilliant ideas weren’t his strong suit. He had no grand strategy. He knew only that, somehow, he must keep them safe. He clung to what Father Besserion had said: “Protect what you found.” He’d accepted that charge, and his heart told him the jars would never be secure in Egypt. Suddenly Paul had a brainstorm. The more he thought about it, the more he liked it. Smiling, he sat up and turned to Ava.

  “You said the jars are priceless if they’re authentic, right?”

  “Yes, but we can’t simply assume—”

  “Hear me out, please. The jars are either real artifacts or worthless junk. If they’re worthless, no one cares if we take them.”

  “Sure, but if they’re real—”

  “If they’re real, then they’re Jesus’s property! I mean, the true lost jars of Cana should belong to Christ’s heir on earth, a.k.a. the Catholic Church!”

  Ava opened her mouth to disagree, and then paused. It was a novel argument. If Jesus took the jars from Cana to Capernaum, presumably they belonged to him. Wouldn’t the pope have a claim to Christ’s property, regardless of where it was unearthed? Of course, the argument’s basis, which Paul assumed as fact, was a biblical account. Not everyone acc
epted that version of history. Even Ava, with her Catholic upbringing, regarded most Bible stories as, in Einstein’s words, “honorable, but primitive legends.” She had no idea how the World Court would rule on the subject.

  “Let’s assume you’re right. What then?”

  “I propose that it’s our legal and moral duty to transport the jars to a nearby Catholic country and deliver them to the appropriate bishop, archbishop, or whatever. While the cardinals are busy electing the new pope, history experts can determine the jars’ authenticity. Assuming they’re real, international lawyers can sort out who gets them. Maybe they belong in Egypt, maybe they go to Rome, but no matter how the court rules, we’ll be okay. We never claimed ownership or sought compensation. We just relied in good faith on our plausible, albeit unorthodox, legal interpretation.”

  Ava smiled. “That’s very clever, Paul.”

  His shoulders lifted, and for an instant joy sparkled in his eyes. Then he turned away and shrugged.

  “Ah, well, even a blind squirrel finds acorns—”

  “Anyway,” she said, “what should I wear?”

  “What?”

  “What should I wear to Monty’s? Nick burned my robe, and I presume the bikini is inappropriate.”

  Paul grinned. “I’ll call the concierge.”

  Sheik Ahmed and Lieutenant Barakah arrived at the police station just after ten at night. While his underling questioned the cops, Ahmed commandeered an office and opened the telephone directory. He found the number of the local newspaper, called, and asked for the managing editor. The receptionist put him on hold. As he waited, Barakah entered the room. Seeing the sheik on the phone, Barakah apologized and turned to leave. Ahmed shook his head and motioned for the lieutenant to sit. Then someone picked up.

  “Who the hell is this?” demanded the prickly editor.

  “This is Sheik Ahmed.”

  The editor gasped and juggled the phone. Instantly his tone became obsequious. “Oh, Sheik! I’m so sorry. I had no idea! No one mentioned . . . I would never—”

  “Apology accepted. Now listen carefully. I have breaking news that you’ll want to publish in tomorrow’s paper.”

  Gabe exited Lowell House and turned left onto Mt. Auburn. It was an exceptionally foggy night. Wet, snow-free asphalt glistened, reflecting streetlights. Humming, Gabe crossed the empty street, stopped at an ATM, and slid his card into the slot. At that moment, he sensed someone watching. He’d been mugged once in South Boston. He knew robbers try to catch people at bank machines. Warily, he glanced back into the mist: No one there. With a sigh of relief, he withdrew eighty dollars. Outside the CVS, he nodded to the Champ, a homeless man who frequently sought refuge there.

  “Hey, bro,” said the Champ. “Got any change?”

  “Not yet,” Gabe replied, but I’ll hook you up in a sec.” He went into the store and proceeded directly to the frozen section, seeking ice cream: Vermonty Python. Then he stopped, shocked. The entire freezer was empty.

  “Yo!” he yelled to the long-haired clerk. “What’s up with the ice cream?”

  “Aw, dude! The freezer is totally wack. All that stuff melted.”

  “Great.” Gabe sucked in a breath and pressed two fingers against the bridge of his nose. It wasn’t his day. Should he go home and eat Pop-Tarts? No, that sounded gross. As he scanned aisles of junk food, he noticed a bearded man across the street, watching him through the fog. “Odd,” Gabe thought. “He doesn’t look like a student. He’s not nearly drunk enough.”

  Chuckling, he grabbed a bag of Cheetos, then changed his mind. Maybe he could get a pastry at Tealuxe, just a few blocks away. He dropped the Cheetos, left, and, still lacking change, handed the Champ twenty dollars.

  “Damn! Thanks, bro.”

  Gabe smiled. Feeling virtuous, he continued north on JFK and passed Cardullo’s Gourmet Shoppe, wishing it was open. As he neared the intersection, his peripheral vision caught a flicker of movement. He looked over his shoulder. Oh, hell. The bearded man was walking behind him. Gabe wondered: “Is he following me, or am I just paranoid?”

  Involuntarily, his pace quickened. He darted around the corner and turned right onto Palmer. Breathing heavily, he leaned against the brick building and waited. Moments later, the bearded man appeared. Their eyes locked. This was no coincidence. The man reached under his shirt and began to withdraw something. Gabe didn’t wait to find out what. He turned and ran. The bearded man gave chase.

  Gabe had a head start, but he was out of shape. He couldn’t outrun anyone. Years ago he played Ultimate Frisbee, but since graduation he’d spent most afternoons and weekends working on the computer. Ava frequently invited him to run with her, but he was always too embarrassed to accept. Now he wished he had.

  Heedless of traffic, he dashed across Church Street, raced past Starbucks, and turned into the adjoining parking lot where, to Gabe’s horror, a tall brick wall blocked further progress. Desperate to escape, he leaped onto a car’s hood, stepped onto its roof, and vaulted himself over the wall. Frightened, he tumbled into a dark churchyard. Seconds later he heard the car creak as his pursuer copied his maneuver. Gabe stood and tried to flee, but his shoe caught on a gravestone, dropping him face-first onto the cold, damp earth. He waited in terror, anticipating gunshots. Instead, rapid footfalls passed within inches of him. Holding his breath, he listened. The steps grew distant as the bearded man continued running. In the gloom, he didn’t see me fall, Gabe realized.

  He kept perfectly still. Soon he heard angry voices speaking Arabic. Two men argued and then departed. He remained motionless for a half hour, afraid to betray his position. When he could wait no longer, he rose, cautiously, and looked around. Seeing no one, he crept out of the churchyard and headed back to Lowell House. Taking a circuitous route, using backstreets and watching at every corner, it seemed to take an eternity to reach the dorm. Gabe yearned to get inside, lock the door, and strip off his wet clothes. Nearing Mt. Auburn, he inched up to the corner. He poked his head around the edge and took a peek. It was just as he feared. Two men waited outside of Lowell.

  He couldn’t go home.

  In the elevator Paul could see that Ava was feeling her wine. Confident and relaxed, she laughed often and spoke a little louder than usual. She looked pretty in her new dress, a black Versace knockoff that hugged every curve. He struggled to keep his imagination in check.

  “You look amazing, by the way.”

  Ava beamed. Then she rolled her eyes, feigning embarrassment.

  “You must be kidding. This is so not my style. I feel like Posh Spice.”

  On the walk to Monty’s Bar, they discussed where to take the jars. Paul favored somewhere with a large Catholic presence. Ava said, “Well, if that’s the criterion, we could try Malta. It’s ninety-eight percent Catholic.”

  “Wow. Have you been?” Paul asked.

  “Not yet, but I know someone there. Professor Laurence Clarkson, from the University of Malta, taught a guest seminar at MIT last year. It was great. He’s brilliant.”

  “We’ll have to look him up.”

  “I will. Actually, I’m surprised you’ve never been to Malta.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Because of your namesake.”

  “Paul Newman?”

  “No, your biblical namesake.”

  “Uh-oh. I sense a history lesson coming.”

  Ava laughed. “Okay, class, now pay attention! In the year 60, St. Paul was on his way to Rome for trial before Emperor Nero. His ship was caught in a terrible storm and wrecked off the Maltese coast. At the wreck’s site, known as St. Paul’s Island, there’s a statue of the apostle. The event is described in Acts 28:1: ‘Once safely on shore, we learned that the island was called Malta. And the barbarous people showed us no little kindness; for they kindled a fire and received us.’”

  “Cool. At least the locals are friendly.”

  “Yeah, but watch out for snakes.”

  “Seriously?”

  “The Bible sa
ys a venomous snake bit Paul’s hand in Malta. The islanders considered his survival a miracle, and legend says that they decided to convert en masse. The incident is very important to the Maltese, and it’s depicted in many religious artworks. For example . . .”

  Sunrise found Gabe sitting alone in the old Algiers Coffee House, nursing an espresso romano. His clothes were damp and mud-stained. His ankle hurt. He was angry. He wanted to call the police, but couldn’t. If they searched his room, they’d find copious evidence of computer crime. Some hackers got off easy because they were just kids, but Gabe doubted such leniency extended to twenty-seven-year-olds. Still, he needed help. He was in exile, unable to return home and cut off from his network. Absently he scrolled through his iPhone and noticed that his last outgoing call was to a number he didn’t recognize. A 919 area code? Who the hell was that? Then he remembered: DURMDVL.

  Gabe hit the CALL button. As he expected, his call went directly to an anonymous voice mail.

  “Hello. Sorry to call so early. My name is Gabe. I use the screen name RKNGEL. We met online and you sent me this number. You said you wanted to discuss things directly. Well, the situation has, um, intensified. I’m currently unable to access my residence and therefore have limited resources. I’ll provide details via a secure mode of communication. Of course, if you don’t want to get mixed up in all this, I understand.”

  Monty’s was a tranquil lounge named after Field Marshal Bernard Montgomery. Muted, unobtrusive music kept numerous conversations private. Nick complimented Ava’s dress. The men ordered whiskey; she chose a champagne cocktail.