The Cana Mystery Page 18

  “What now?” asked Paul.

  Ava sighed. “I don’t know. My brain is kaput. First thing tomorrow I’ll go online and try to determine exactly what the heck we’ve discovered. I’m out of my depth. I can’t process all the ramifications.”

  “Maybe because someone tried to murder us a few hours ago?”

  “Maybe. I was so scared. That man—”

  Paul interrupted. “Listen, I need to say something. I’m incredibly sorry about that. It won’t happen again.”

  “It’s not your fault!”

  “Really? Let’s see: I proposed going to the church. I called the bishop’s office. It was my brilliant idea to give the assistant our contact number, and I’m the one who agreed to meet that bastard in private, at night, in the freaking catacombs—”

  “And I’m the one who forgot to thank you for saving my life.”

  Paul shrugged. He glanced at the clock: four in the morning. Rubbing his eyes, he walked to the window, pulled aside the curtain, and looked out. Lights from Manoel Island Fortress reflected on the water. Everything was closed. The usually busy avenues were empty. Still, someone could be out there, watching the hotel. After a few moments, he said, “I’m very glad you’re okay, but it doesn’t count as saving you when it was my fault you were in danger.”

  When Ava didn’t respond, Paul looked over at her. She was fast asleep.

  He stayed awake all that night, watching over her. An hour after sunrise Ava’s eyes fluttered open. She looked at Paul and smiled. Then, noting the time, her expression changed to one of annoyance. “Why did you let me sleep so long?”

  “I thought—”

  “Oh, never mind. Let’s get moving.”

  They dressed and walked down to the lobby. While Paul ordered breakfast (coffee, tea, pastry, and orange juice), Ava tried to access the Internet. Unfortunately, the ISP was down. Refusing to admit defeat, she marched out to a pay phone and rang Professor Clarkson. Though surprised by her call, he agreed to meet her at the university in a few hours. She hung up, collected Paul, and led him back upstairs. Once the hotel-room door was locked, Ava removed the golden disks from their hiding place. While they ate, she reexamined the objects. Both disks had delicate, etched rings radiating from the center. Around the edge, she found on each a chain of tiny symbols. Then she noticed an interesting difference. The first disk’s center was marked with a pair of symbols:

  X

  The second disk, however, was etched with:

  P

  She showed Paul.

  “I recognize X and P, but what’s the box thing?”

  “It could be the Star of Lakshmi.”

  “Come again?”

  “A Hindu symbol that represents Ashtalakshmi, the eight forms of wealth.”

  “Hmm. The disks are gold. I suppose it’s appropriate.”

  “A better guess might be Rub el Hizb.”

  “What in God’s name is that?”

  “It’s Arabic. Rub means ‘lord,’ ‘nourisher,’ or ‘protector.’ Hizb means ‘group.’”

  “I don’t know anything about that, but I know X stands for ten in Roman numerals. Does P stand for anything?”

  “In medieval Roman numerals, P means four hundred.”

  “Huh? How can there be medieval Roman numerals?”

  “Don’t ask. Besides, these artifacts predate that system. Forget I said it.”

  “I already did.”

  Ava laughed. “Of course, P could be rho. In Greek numerals, rho represents one hundred. Or it could stand for radius.” She paused. A little bell was ringing in her subconscious, but she couldn’t identify it. “Anyway, it’s time to go.”

  As she gathered her things, Paul wrapped the two treasures in cotton cloth, concealed them inside pillowcases, and loaded them into his backpack. Surreptitiously, he grabbed his hunting knife. He suspected it was illegal to carry it here, especially on campus. Ava probably wouldn’t approve, but a weapon might come in handy.

  He turned to her, “Are you ready?”

  Ava didn’t respond. She was rooted to the floor, staring at the satphone. Its NEW MESSAGE indicator was flashing. Ava dashed across the room, snatched the phone off the windowsill, and opened the text message from DURMDVL. “Your location is not secure,” it said. “Obtain a disposable cell phone and call me ASAP. 919-555-3253.”

  Shaded by an aluminum umbrella, Nick sipped his Bloody Mary and reclined on the chaise longue. It was ten o’clock. He’d watched the morning’s gentle sun intensify. Soon it would burn fiercely. He scanned his messages: nothing yet from Sinan. He ignored all other calls. He turned off the phone and told the steward to send him a second cocktail. It promised to be a long afternoon.

  Resting his head against the canvas, he opened the newspaper. Nick read for a half hour before he sensed someone approaching. He lowered the paper and scanned the beach. A teenage Egyptian was slowly making his way across the sand. The boy drew near but rather than take sanctuary beneath the umbrella, he waited at a polite distance. Nick dipped his head and regarded the visitor over his Ray-Bans. He looked harmless. Nick smiled. He motioned for the kid to approach.

  “Care to have a seat?”

  The courteous teenager sat and then said: “You are Mister Nick? From Alexandria?”

  Nick pushed up his sunglasses again and said, “Sorry, kid. Wrong guy. I’m from Texas.”

  The boy made a face. “You are not the friend of Paul and Miss Ava?”

  Nick’s smile evaporated. “Who wants to know?”

  “My boss seeks them. It’s very important. He begs to ask where they’ve gone.”

  “Nope. Never heard of ’em. Y’all got me mixed up with someone else. I’m just an American tourist in for the regatta.”

  The boy looked suspicious.

  Nick relaxed, opened his paper, and said, “Hey, there are a lot more umbrellas, kid. Keep asking around. Somebody out here must know.”

  Scowling, the teenager took off. Nick waited an appropriate interval before finishing his drink, pocketing his phone, and sliding his feet into his sandals. After scanning the beach in both directions, he stood and set off for the hotel at a brisk pace.

  Halfway back he encountered the overworked waiter toting an enormous tray of drinks. With one smooth motion he snatched his off the tray and left two hundred-pound notes in its place. The waiter called after him, offering change. “Keep it,” said Nick. “I have to run.”

  Paul and Ava walked to the open-air market. For a hundred and forty euros they purchased a decent world phone with a prepaid international SIM card and a rugged, waterproof case. Unfortunately, the battery required several hours of charging before it would function. Ava put it in her backpack.

  The square was filling with celebrants for some kind of street festival, making it impossible to flag a cab. The university wasn’t too far away, so they opted to go by foot. They traveled southwest on Triq Ix-Xatt (the Strand) for a quarter mile. To their left a magnificent eighteenth-century fortress dominated the horizon. They passed the bridge to Manoel Island, cut through the Ta’ Xbiex Gardens, and veered right on Triq Imsida. After another half kilometer, they passed the Empire Sports Ground, a decaying soccer stadium unused since 1981. They turned right, then left, then passed the National Swimming Pool Complex. Finally, they crossed under the highway and were on the campus.

  The university was one of Europe’s oldest. Founded by Pope Clement VIII in 1592, the college had been administered by the Jesuit order for centuries. Now it enrolled more than nine thousand students. Professor Clarkson was listed in the directory under the faculty of arts, history department. He was in his office, awaiting their arrival. The professor seemed genuinely happy to see them. Paul sensed no duplicity whatsoever. The three of them chatted for several minutes before Ava came to the point.

  “Dr. Clarkson, I’m sorry to ask, but could you help us with something?”

  “Anything, dear.”

  “Would it be possible to borrow a computer?”

&nb
sp; “Certainly.” He gestured toward the silver laptop on his desk.

  “Actually, our project might require several hours. I hoped to use the university’s computer lab.”

  Clarkson thought for a minute. “Well, I don’t see why not. It should be empty today because of the festival. Let’s walk over, and I’ll sign you in as visitors.”

  Just outside the door they saw Clarkson’s boss, Professor Fenech, being harangued by a shrill, hawk-faced woman. The academics acknowledged each other collegially as they passed. Once they were out of earshot, Clarkson confided in Ava and Paul.

  “I despise that woman. She’s teaching a postmodernist contemporary history seminar: The Life and Struggle of Elisabeth Burgos-Debray. If you ask me, it really belongs in the literature department.”

  Sensing he’d missed another witticism, Paul smiled and nodded knowingly.

  The computer lab was on the northeast corner of campus. As predicted, it was empty. While Paul found an outlet and plugged in the phone charger, the professor logged Ava in to the LAN using his password.

  “Voilà! Let me know if you have any problems. I’ll be working in my office all afternoon.”

  Ava thanked him. After Dr. Clarkson left, Paul warned her not to check e-mail. Simon might have people monitoring it.

  “Can they really watch my e-mail?”

  Paul shrugged. “Honestly, I don’t know. I’m not great at tech stuff. If you think it’s safe, go ahead. To me, it’s not worth the risk.”

  Despite immense temptation, Ava refrained. Rather than e-mailing, she spent several hours reading everything she could find about the secret hidden inside the lost jars of Cana. She tried to ascertain the language, origin, and meaning of the symbols etched onto the golden disks. Meanwhile, Paul poked around the empty computer lab. Finding little of interest, he returned to Ava’s cubicle and sat down at the neighboring workstation. Its desktop machine was linked to a Metris LC15 Laser Probe. He inferred from the setup that an engineering student had been using the scanner to model the leading and trailing edges of microturbine blades. He toyed with the cool gadgets for an hour, then suddenly the hairs on the back of his neck stood up. Someone was watching them. He turned around and saw Clarkson standing silently in the doorway. The professor looked furious.

  Without disturbing Ava, Paul rose and approached him. The normally pleasant academic was too angry to speak. Instead, he handed Paul a page printed from the Times of Malta website. The article said Maltese police were looking for two Americans seen in Rabat the previous night. A local woman had been murdered. The story continued: “These may be the same fugitives who fled Alexandria two days ago.”

  Clarkson’s gaze was flinty. “We need to talk.”

  Nick detoured around the Puerto Marina lobby, taking a shortcut to his executive suite. He’d secured a room at the exclusive hotel through industry connections. Many wealthy guests who stayed at the Marina gambled in his casino, so naturally he had some friends on staff. The posh resort was built to emulate Venice, replete with canals. The food was stellar and the service was impeccable. Too bad he wouldn’t get to enjoy either. After passing the canal bend where the gondolas were moored, Nick rounded a corner and hopped onto the elevated promenade. Then he stopped.

  An elegant, middle-aged man sporting an eggshell linen suit blocked his path. Nick recognized DeMaj immediately.

  “Bonjour,” said Simon. “A pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

  With a taut smile, Nick estimated his odds. Simon was fit but not muscular—it had been decades since the technocapitalist had performed manual labor. Furthermore, every man’s reflexes slow with age. Nick was twenty years younger with a muscular body, but his greatest asset in any fight was his intuition. He excelled at predicting his opponent’s moves, thereby gaining a tactical advantage. He could read a bluff in poker and anticipate a line of attack in chess. Nick figured he could outfight DeMaj with relative ease.

  As if reading Nick’s mind, Simon gracefully drew open his coat, exposing a deadly firearm. The gesture wasn’t aggressive, but it communicated the futility of attempting a fist fight.

  Nick nodded. Message received. Simon bowed slightly and extended his hand toward the promenade. “Come this way, mon ami. Let’s walk and talk.”

  Clarkson was visibly irate. He threatened to call the police and demanded to know all that had transpired the previous evening. Ava admitted they’d visited the catacombs, but she swore they hadn’t killed the tour guide. Not believing her, Clarkson asked for the murderer’s identity. Ava said she didn’t know and attempted to explain why, but he threw up his hands. Finding the notion of a false bishop preposterous, he insisted on a complete report. Ava apologized again for deceiving him, and tears flowed freely. At that, Clarkson’s manner softened. In a gentler voice, he asked Ava what happened. She began by revealing that they weren’t in Malta to marry. Rather, she explained, “We fled Alexandria to avoid false charges. They accused us of horrible crimes that we didn’t commit.”

  Paul broke in. “It was my fault. I made some powerful enemies in Egypt when I worked for Simon DeMaj. He does business with a lot of characters: smugglers, corrupt officials, maybe even terrorists. When I learned the extent of his dealings, I quit.”

  “And that’s why they’re after you? Because you know incriminating information?”

  “No. They’re after us because I took something. Something very valuable.”

  “You stole from them?”

  “Yes, but it’s complicated. The items we took belong to the Church. Or Egypt. Maybe all humankind. I’m not really sure—”

  Ava interrupted. “That’s why we need to see the bishop. If we deliver the items to the Church, legitimate authorities can determine ownership. Professor, our methods may be questionable, but our intentions are pure. We’ve never claimed ownership or sought compensation. We’re trying to prevent a crime, not participate in one.”

  Frustrated, Clarkson replied, “Pardon me for being a stickler, but before we parse the legal niceties, do you mind telling me exactly what items we’re discussing?”

  Paul glanced toward Ava, wordlessly asking, “Can we trust him with this?” She gave an almost imperceptible nod. Ava trusted Clarkson, but she’d defer to Paul’s judgment. She’d learned to appreciate his instincts about people. Paul deliberated. His mind told him to suspect everyone, but his heart told him the professor was a good man. On the basis of that intuition, Paul decided to tell the truth.

  “We stole the lost jars of Cana. They’re in our hotel closet.”

  Clarkson almost fell over. “Sliem Għalik Marija (Hail Mary),” he whispered.

  While the two academics discussed the jars’ exalted status in archaeological history, Paul reread the newspaper report. He noted that investigators had found only one dead body in the catacombs, that of the female tour guide. The report made no mention of the impostor. This omission led Paul to an alarming conclusion: The killer had survived.

  Chapter 13

  13

  Someone knocked. Gabe and Jess shared a look. Walking quietly, Gabe approached the door and peered out. It was a FedEx deliveryman, and he was loaded with packages. Suspicious, Gabe’s instinct was to leave the door locked. Then he remembered DURMDVL’s message to expect a delivery. He signed for the shipment, and the FedEx man left. When Gabe opened the boxes, he discovered they contained thousands of dollars’ worth of cutting-edge computer hardware and a new phone. Jess was floored.

  “What is all this stuff? What’s it doing here?”

  “I have no idea. I didn’t order it.”

  Suddenly Gabe recalled his offhand remark to DURMDVL about needing a computer upgrade. This must be DURMDVL’s response. Wow, thought Gabe, the guy doesn’t mess around. Refusing to consider how DURMDVL had paid for the gear, Gabe concentrated instead on getting it unpacked.

  “I have to go to class.”

  “Okay, I’ll be here.”

  By the time Jess returned from school, Gabe had taken over her den. E
verywhere she looked an exotic computer component was humming or blinking. When he noticed her, Gabe said, “Hi, Jess. I set up everything in here. Hope you don’t mind.”

  She sighed and forced a smile. “Of course not. How could I mind?”

  With his attention focused on the computer screen, Gabe missed the sarcasm. “Great. Thanks, Jess. Oh, by the way, I finished off the rest of the Cokes. Looks like you’re out of soda.”

  After hearing the details, Clarkson believed Ava’s story. He excused himself and hurried back to his office to contact Bishop Garagallo. As he passed Professor Fenech’s door, he recalled that his boss had seen him with the Americans. Clarkson swallowed. What would happen when Dominic realized they were murder suspects? Would he call the police? He turned to knock. Dominic was reasonable. If he spoke to him now, perhaps he could convince him of the truth. Then Clarkson realized it hardly mattered. Professor Xanthippe had seen the fugitives too. When that harpy connected the dots, she’d inform the authorities instantly. Time was of the essence.

  He went directly to his office, closed the door, and turned the lock. A quick shuffle through his Rolodex produced a phone number for the archdiocese. He called and a polite receptionist answered. In rapid-fire Maltese, Clarkson asked to speak to Bishop Garagallo on a matter of utmost urgency. The receptionist apologized, saying the bishop was unavailable. “Where is he?” Clarkson barked.

  “I’m very sorry, sir. I’m afraid I couldn’t say.” Then she confided, “It’s been an absolute madhouse here today. Everyone’s trying to follow the latest developments in Rome and then, on top of everything else, the bishop’s executive assistant never showed up for work. He’s gone missing. Personally, I’m not surprised. I always felt that young man was a little wiċċ laskri” (unstable).