The Cana Mystery Page 13

  “How is your suite?” asked Nick.

  “It’s great. Thanks again.”

  “De nada, amigo.”

  For the next hour they went from subject to subject: U.S. politics, the Red Sox, El Alamein, Texas Hold’em strategy. Eventually, Nick smiled and said, “So, why don’t you just ask me?”

  Paul laughed. “Is my poker face that bad?”

  “No,” said Nick, then pointing at Ava, “but she’s about as subtle as a bulldozer.”

  “Do you know someone who can fly us to Malta?”

  “Sure. United Airlines? Lufthansa?”

  “We’re not eager to pass through airport security.”

  “Hmm. I suppose I could charter you a flight. It won’t be cheap.”

  “Do you know a good pilot?”

  “Several, but few I trust.” He thought a moment and then went on, “Let me ask a question.” Nick lowered his voice and leaned toward them. “You want to avoid airport security. Does this have to do with those two canisters we lugged into your room?”

  Paul and Ava exchanged a look. “It might.”

  “Well, I don’t need to know details, but does it involve narcotics?”

  “No!” Ava shouted, eyes bright with anger. The word reverberated across the quiet bar, attracting attention from several patrons.

  “Okay, okay, relax. What was I supposed to think?”

  Paul apologized for Ava’s outburst but corroborated her position: “It’s not drugs. You have my word of honor.”

  “Good. Because the guy I’d recommend is an antidrug fanatic. He has a personal vendetta against Sheik Ahmed.” At the mention of that name, Ava blanched. Nick caught her expression. He sank down into his chair and moaned.

  “Oh, bloody hell! You didn’t cross the sheik?”

  Paul said, “It’s a long story. I was working for DeMaj—”

  “No, no, stop. I don’t want to hear it. You need to be gone pronto. I was worried about getting fired? Hell, we’ll be lucky if we don’t get killed. I’ll call Sinan right away. Maybe he can meet us first thing tomorrow. Go back to your suite and don’t open the door for anyone except me.”

  Paul nodded. He stood, took Ava’s hand, and led her toward the elevator.

  Nick sat silently for a few minutes. He took a breath, finished his whiskey in one go, and opened his phone.

  Gabe was halfway through a Levantine omelet when his phone chirped, indicating a new text. He keyed in his PIN and opened a message from the 919 number: “Find a public computer. Create an anonymous user account and post a message on the usual site. Create a screen name reflecting one of our common interests, something only I will get.”

  Gabe assumed “the usual site” meant the programming group where he’d met DURMDVL. He entered the university computer center and followed DURMDVL’s instructions. Once on the site, he posted some banal observations about process virtual machines under the screen name Pope_1000. An hour later, a reply from R.Goldberg74 appeared. The response included a line of apparent gibberish, which Gabe recognized as a code. The code revealed a symmetric algorithm. For the initialization vector, he guessed 74. That didn’t work, but his second guess—1974—did, generating a string encryption key. The key enabled a secure protocol by which Gabe and DURMDVL could e-mail and IM.

  Finally able to speak freely, Gabe composed a long message describing his situation. He explained that he’d installed bots on his phone to see if anyone was snooping. Yesterday, the bots had alerted him to dual traces. The first, a crude sniffer program, came from an Aden-based shipping business. The second, sleek and subtle, had been difficult to detect. After hours of investigation, Gabe tracked it back to the DeMaj Corporation.

  The next part was more challenging to write. “Honestly, I’m terrified for myself and for Ava. How can I contact her? The satphone is compromised, she can’t (or won’t) check e-mail, and I don’t even know her current location! I think she’s in Egypt, but I can’t confirm. Suggestions?”

  DURMDVL replied: “It may be possible to communicate through the LEO phone.”

  Gabe snorted. “So I’m just too stupid?” He typed: “Reread previous message. If there was a way to use the LEO phone, wouldn’t I have done so already? My friend’s life is on the line. I told you, the satphone is subject to constant surveillance by DeMaj. You’ve heard of DeMaj Corp? Billion-dollar transnat w/top-notch crypto? That phone is 100% penetrated. Any incoming call or text will be intercepted, monitored, and traced.”

  When no reply came in a half hour, Gabe was overcome with remorse. He thought, “Why was I so abusive? Did I burn my only ally? Why don’t I think before I type? I’m such an idiot!”

  It wasn’t the first time Gabe had dissed a friend. Gabe hated asking for help. Ever. From anyone. Asking for help was an admission of need. Whenever someone offered assistance, he became snide. He’d say mean-spirited things that he’d later regret.

  “I gotta grow up,” Gabe decided. “If we get through this, I swear I’ll stop acting like a petty jerk. I won’t insult someone who is just trying to—”

  At that moment, a response appeared on the glowing screen: “G, relax and leave minor problems 2 my superior intellect. Bad guys aren’t as smart as they think. After covert satphone link is established, what message 2 transmit? Require personal trivia 2 prove our message is from u & 2 confirm recipient’s identity.”

  Back at their suite, Paul closed the door and locked the deadbolt. While unzipping her dress, Ava noticed a light flashing on the satphone. Its display indicated an unread text: “You don’t know me. I’m writing on G’s behalf. To prove I’m friendly, he said you mix too much Splenda in your tea. G’s sorry he can’t contact you directly. Bad guys are monitoring your phone, so don’t use it except in emergencies. I implanted this message using a trick that (I hope) will make it invisible to them. We need to speak. Call me from a landline @ 919-555-3253. You’ll get an anonymous voice mail. Code in 999. It will redirect to me.”

  She read the message to Paul, who then asked, “What do you think?”

  “I’m nervous, but I think it’s legit.”

  “What’s the Splenda reference?”

  “Gabe always says I put too much in my tea. It’s an inside joke. No one else would know it.”

  “Then we should call.”

  “From here?”

  “I’d prefer an anonymous pay phone, but we agreed to stay in our room until we hear back from Nick.”

  Ava weighed the alternatives. It was risky to call, but she was worried about Gabe. She lifted the hotel phone from its cradle and dialed the long-distance number. After one ring the call was answered and diverted to an anonymous voice mail. She keyed in 999. It clicked and then started ringing again.

  “Hello?”

  “Hi,” said Ava. “This is Gabe’s friend. Do I have the correct number?”

  “Maybe. First I need to confirm your identity. Which of your friends was an extra in Harry Potter?”

  “What? Oh, that was Jess. My friend Jessica.”

  “Perfect, but from now on, try to avoid proper names. We don’t know who or what might be listening.”

  “All right, but why can’t . . . why didn’t my friend contact me?”

  “They’re after him. Men came to Lowell House. He escaped. Now he’s on the run.”

  “Oh my God! Is he okay? How did they find him? It’s my fault! He doesn’t have anything to do with this! He doesn’t know anything!”

  “Calm down and listen. Your friend will be fine. He’s smart, and we’re working on the problem. I’m much more worried about you. You’re in grave danger. Here are the rules: No using credit cards, cell phones, or regular e-mail. Avoid airports, train stations, embassies, or any place with security cams. Never show ID or use your real name. Don’t contact family or known associates. Don’t go to the police. If you follow these instructions, you’ll be very hard to find.”

  “But we need to leave the country. How can we travel without passports?”

  Th
ere was a pause. Ava heard rapid-fire taps on a keyboard.

  “I show you calling from Egypt. Where do you need to go?”

  “Malta.”

  “Are you still traveling with the same guy?”

  “Yes.”

  “Give me his SSN.”

  “Paul, what’s your Social Security number?”

  After he gave it to her, and Ava relayed it over the phone, for several minutes Ava heard only a keyboard’s clicks.

  “Okay, I just dropped some awesome kung fu. You shouldn’t have trouble with customs and immigration. Just go through the diplomatic line. Now, how do you plan to get there?”

  “Charter a plane.”

  “That should work, but you’ll need some real money. How can I get it to you?”

  “We have a friend here. You could transfer to him, and he could give us cash.”

  “Perfect. Give me his name. There’s no time to avoid saying it.”

  Ava learned Nick’s full name from Paul. They didn’t have his SSN, but Paul knew his birth date and former address. For DURMDVL, that was plenty.

  Two minutes passed. “It’s done. Nick’s bank account will get a nice fat deposit.”

  “Thank you. We’ll repay you the moment we—”

  “Forget it. Now, whatever happens, don’t call again from your current location. Get yourselves to Malta and keep your heads down. In a few days we’ll contact you. Until then you’re on your own.”

  Early the next morning Paul heard a discrete rap on the hotel room door. When he unlocked it, Nick entered carrying a newspaper.

  “You want the good news first or the bad news?”

  “Good news first, por favor.”

  “I found a pilot to fly you to Valletta. I swore you weren’t smuggling drugs or weapons and luckily he believed me. Sinan may ask more questions when we get there. Just be as honest as possible. He’s got no love for the local authorities and he doesn’t mind breaking some rules, but he hates liars.”

  “What’s the bad news?”

  “This.”

  Nick dropped the newspaper on the coffee table. On the front page were pictures of Paul and Ava. Underneath the photos, a headline in Arabic exclaimed: “American Fugitives Wanted for Murder.”

  “Holy Mother of God!” cried Ava. She grabbed the paper and began reading. The story claimed Paul had killed the seven men at Simon’s dig and maimed a police officer in Rosetta. The two Americans were armed, dangerous, and attempting to flee the country with priceless historical artifacts. A sizable reward had been offered for information leading to their capture.

  Paul exclaimed, “Nick, it’s not true! We didn’t kill those people. We didn’t kill anyone! I did punch a cop—but only after he shot our friend. You’ve got to believe me!”

  “I do, but it hardly matters. If you don’t skip town, someone will see you and try to collect that reward.”

  Ava packed their bags. Meanwhile, Paul lugged the canisters out the door, down to the elevator, through the service exit, and into Nick’s ’79 Jeep Renegade. Driving fast and taking shortcuts, Nick zipped his passengers through the waking city. Ava’s wet hair dried quickly in the breeze. To keep it under control, she tied a scarf around her head. To conceal her identity, she added sunglasses.

  When Nick stopped at an intersection, a delicious aroma engulfed the jeep. Hungrily, Paul observed several traditionally garbed Egyptian women setting freshly baked pita loaves atop garden walls to cool. His stomach rumbled.

  When the jeep reached Alexandria’s industrial waterfront, a friendly security guard waved Nick into harbor parking.

  “I thought you found us a pilot. Aren’t we going to the airport?”

  Nick pointed out a pontoon plane tied to a capstan. “This is an airport,” he said.

  He drove up next to the pier and parked. On a dock, an impatient foreman yelled instructions to his crew. Ava inhaled a lungful of harsh diesel fumes blended with the reek of desiccating barnacles and the ozone scent of melted solder. Looking closely at the seaplane, she noticed Arabic characters printed on its fuselage. Ava spoke the name aloud: “Zulfiqar.”

  “You read Arabic?” an enormous man asked, startling her. At six foot five, with a full beard and dark, weathered skin, he presented an intimidating figure. Nick introduced his American friends to their pilot, Sinan. When Ava saw his kind eyes, she liked him instantly. About the same age as her father, he possessed the aura of one who loved life but had known unlimited sorrow. Ava greeted him in his native tongue and thanked him for accepting them as passengers. Sinan bowed slightly and smiled.

  When Nick apologized for the short notice, the pilot shrugged and said, “Mektoub.” Zulfiqar was Sinan’s plane, a sparkling Cessna Caravan 675 powered by a PT6A-114A Pratt and Whitney engine. It was built to seat eight, counting the pilot, but Sinan had removed some seats to create space for an additional sixty-gallon fuel tank.

  As they unloaded the jeep, Sinan asked his passengers, “How much do you weigh?”

  Paul replied, “Two hundred ten pounds, maybe two fifteen.” Sinan nodded. Then the three men looked at Ava. She was mortified.

  “How is that relevant?” she asked.

  “Fully fueled, my available load is about fifteen hundred pounds,” Sinan said. He pointed to the canisters. “Your mysterious cargo is a little heavier than normal suitcases. If I don’t calculate the weight correctly, we could crash.”

  Ava told the men to weigh everything else first, add it up, and tell her what remained. Then she’d let them know if she exceeded the limit.

  After they confirmed that the cargo load was not too heavy, Sinan asked Nick about money. Nick handed him a roll of hundreds, saying, “Here’s four thousand dollars. I guarantee the balance when you return.”

  Sinan nodded and began loading the plane.

  Paul pulled Nick aside and whispered, “How much is this costing you?”

  “Eight thousand total. A bargain under the circumstances.”

  Paul winced. “Nick, I don’t have much cash left, and I don’t even have a credit card.”

  “That figures.”

  “We’re having money transferred to your bank account,” said Ava.

  Paul offered to contribute his cash, but Nick waved him away, saying, “Just hold on to that. You’ll need it in Malta. Pay me back once you two are safe and everything has blown over. I know you’re good for it.”

  Handing Paul a slip of paper, he said, “This is a decent hotel. Nice rooms, but they burn their steaks.”

  Paul was deeply moved. “I don’t know what to say, Nicky. Thank you so much.”

  “De nada.”

  The two friends embraced. Paul said, “I won’t forget this.”

  “You’d better not,” said Nick, grinning. “I’m thinking World Series tickets might be an appropriate token of your appreciation.”

  “Done.”

  Once Paul and Ava were aboard the seaplane, Sinan yelled, “Prop clear!” and hit the throttle. The Pratt and Whitney engine whined, shuddered, and roared to life. Moments later, the plane taxied into the center of the bay. When Sinan radioed the harbormaster for permission to take off, Ava tensed, but the tower cleared Sinan with no questions. Paul wondered if Nick had bribed the officials.

  A freshening wind kicked up a small chop upon the sea, bluer now as the sky cleared. Sinan increased speed, and Zulfiqar began skipping across the water. The interval between skips grew until finally they were airborne. They circled over Alexandria, gaining altitude. When they reached ten thousand feet, Sinan leveled off, increased speed to a hundred and eighty knots, and set a westerly course for Malta.

  Ava dozed off after they’d been in the air for about an hour. Noticing that she was asleep, Sinan turned to Paul and said, “You have trouble with Ahmed.”

  It was phrased as a statement, but the pilot seemed to expect a response.

  “Yes. He’s our enemy.”

  With a curt nod, Sinan agreed. “Good. I have sworn vengeance against him and his accurs
ed master.”

  “His master?” asked Paul, nervously wondering if the enormous pilot knew of his connections to DeMaj.

  Ignoring the question, Sinan probed: “Why is Ahmed your enemy?”

  “His thugs tried to kill us, several times. They shot our friend Sefu, a teenager who—”

  Paul stopped. The pilot’s face was ashen. A tempest of fury roiled behind the pilot’s eyes. It was some time before he spoke again. Finally, in a cold voice, Sinan said, “Ahmed is an abomination. He has killed many innocents, many children. He belongs to the devil.”

  Five hours later, the pontoon plane breached a bank of clouds and the rocky isle of Malta burst into view. Sinan radioed traffic control, received clearance, and began his final approach. Before landing in the grand harbor, they beheld a stunning view: The very deep blue of the sea and sky contrasted sharply with the white and green of Valletta. Olive trees reached all the way down from Mt. Sciberras to the magnificent natural anchorage. Murmuring a prayer to Allah, Sinan executed a textbook water landing.

  They rounded the bay and tied up near a customs office. Happy passengers were disembarking from a cruise ship while officials scrambled to keep them in the proper lines. Sinan exited the plane and began negotiating with dockworkers to purchase gasoline. After a few minutes, a young customs agent knocked on the cockpit window. He looked bored. Sinan said, “Bongu!” and provided the requisite documentation. The man glanced at the papers, gave the passengers and cargo a cursory inspection, and entered a mark on a computerized notepad. He pointed to a building and said something unintelligible to Paul. Then he handed Sinan a printed receipt and a set of colored decals. Shaking the young officer’s hand, Sinan said, “Grazzi.” The agent smiled, nodded once, and returned to his station.

  “That was easy,” Paul observed.

  “We have an understanding,” said Sinan.

  “You know him?”

  “His boss, the customs supervisor, is an old friend. He knows I never allow drugs, guns, or explosives on my plane, but he understands that my passengers are particularly concerned about privacy and prefer to avoid waiting in line.”