The Cana Mystery Page 21

  “Speak English!” Paul barked.

  “Okay, sorry. I’ll back up. Let’s say you break a wax record. Now you can’t play it with a needle, right? But the information is still there—it’s stored mechanically. Once upon a time, two geniuses at Lawrence Berkeley Laboratories got bored studying subatomic particles and used their scanner to optically ‘read’ etchings in damaged antique records. They scanned the physical objects, digitized the images, reintegrated them, and calculated what a stylus would do. The experiment turned out beautifully.”

  “Would that work on our disks?”

  “I don’t see why not. The Berkeley software is hard core. It was designed to find Higgs bosons. If we had a really good scan, I could model the artifacts’ undulating grooves and extract the audio data. I can even enhance the result to remove scratches, noise, or whatever, but I don’t see how any of that’s helpful.”

  “Why not?” Ava asked.

  “Because I can’t do anything without scanned images. Photos won’t work. We need much greater detail. Given the point density required, we’d need a high-res scanner suitable for soft, delicate surfaces—”

  “Would a Metris LC15 Laser Probe suffice?” Paul asked, enjoying the silence that followed his question.

  Once Ava was dressed, she and Paul took a cab to the university. As they were hurrying to the computer center, Paul told her that their hotel room had been robbed. To his surprise, she wasn’t crushed. In fact, the news didn’t seem to faze her. She remained enthused about their current project. After logging into the system using Clarkson’s password, Ava called Gabe. Over the phone, he explained how to use the 3D scanner. She relayed the instructions to Paul, who carefully scanned both disks.

  The resultant mountain of digitized information was too large to transmit by phone. Ava attempted to send it via the secure e-mail interface but the system crashed. They were stymied until Gabe suggested saving and transmitting each scanned file individually. It was tedious, but following Gabe’s directions to the letter, Ava completed the task. When Gabe confirmed receipt, Ava heard excitement in his voice. She knew he couldn’t wait to begin his analysis. “Okay, just one last thing,” she said.

  “What? What?” he asked.

  “Gabe, I really miss you. It’s beyond wonderful hearing your voice again. I was scared that something bad had happened. Thanks for everything you’ve done. You’re a true and loyal friend, and I’ll never forget it.”

  Gabe tried to reply, but the words caught in his throat. He felt tears welling up. Self-conscious, he handed the telephone to Jess and turned away, struggling for self-control.

  “Hello? Gabe? Are you there?”

  Grinning, Jess said, “Ava, this is Jess. Gabe will be just a moment. He got something in his eye and he’s run to the loo.”

  They talked for a while. After bringing her friend up to speed on everything happening in Boston, Jess mentioned that Ava’s parents and teachers were becoming concerned about her extended absence.

  “Please tell them not to worry. I’m okay, and I’ll be home soon.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Of course! The situation is under control. For heaven’s sake, we have first-class tickets on the next catamaran to Italy. How cool is that?”

  When Sheik Ahmed heard the mobile phone, he smiled. He’d been eagerly anticipating this call. Finally, he had good news to report.

  Before it could ring twice, Ahmed had answered. “Master?”

  “Yes.”

  “We have the jars. Shall I bring them to you personally?”

  “No.”

  To Ahmed’s surprise, the master did not sound pleased.

  “The clever little troia is close to the secret. She must be exterminated immediately. Spare no expense. Utilize any resource. Stop at nothing. Kill her now.”

  For perhaps the first time, Ahmed detected a human emotion in the master’s voice. He must be furious, thought the sheik, but then he reconsidered. Fury wasn’t quite right. He’d heard something more, something hidden underneath. Was it possible? Ahmed wondered: Was the master afraid?

  Embarrassed that he’d teared up during the phone call, Gabe retreated into his work. After several hours he located and downloaded the software necessary to read the scans. While the parallel processing algorithms monopolized his available computing resources, Gabe decided to eat. He pondered a momentous decision: pizza or Thai? As he vacillated between the two enticing options, he checked his inbox. It contained an urgent e-mail from DURMDVL.

  “We have a problem. I’ve been snooping on DeMaj Corp so that if it located our friends, I’d know. As of last night, none of our spiders had detected a single usage of the term Malta, Valletta, or bishop. We know someone found Ava (and sent the assassin), but nary a word about it was uttered or typed on the DeMaj network. That doesn’t scan. I’ve drawn 2 conclusions, both of which are scary. (A) Someone other than DeMaj sent the killer, meaning we’re facing an unexpected enemy. (B) The bad guys found her in Malta almost immediately. They set up an ambush in less than 24 hours. Therefore, they have already compromised her new phone, they have a spy in the Malta police, immigration/customs, or both.”

  “If that’s true,” Gabe realized, “they’ll know Ava’s itinerary.”

  Paul and Ava strolled down Pinto Road through Valleta, then checked in at the Sea Passenger Terminal. The catamaran wouldn’t depart for an hour, so they sat down on a bench to wait. Eventually Paul asked, “Would you explain something?”

  “I’ll try.”

  “How could ancient people have done all this stuff?”

  “What stuff?”

  “Well, for example, how could they make recordings? I understand it’s physically possible, but they didn’t have the necessary technology—”

  “Ancient people had all kinds of technology. Thales of Miletus wrote about electrostatic phenomena in 550 BC. Heron of Alexandria invented a working steam engine in the first century.”

  “A steam engine? Seriously?

  “He called it an aeolipile. The basic principle is jet propulsion. Heat up water in a sealed metal cauldron. Water boils into steam. Steam shoots out from two jets, rotating a ball.”

  “That’s awesome!”

  Ava smiled. “Do you know about the Baghdad Battery?”

  “Is it the Iraqi baseball team?”

  She laughed despite herself. “No. Before World War II, archaeologists discovered terra-cotta jars buried near Baghdad. Some claim they date from the Parthian era. I think the Sassanid dynasty is more likely. Regardless, they’re at least fifteen hundred years old—and they’re basic electric batteries.”

  “You mean like Duracell?”

  “Pretty much. Each clay jar had a stopper. Sticking through it was an iron rod surrounded by a copper cylinder. Filled with vinegar or any other strong electrolytic solution, they produced electricity. Experts estimate each made about one volt. In 1980, Arthur C. Clarke built a reproduction, filled it with grape juice, and proved it could electroplate a statuette. The MythBusters determined it was plausible for ancient people to have used such batteries.”

  “That’s so cool.”

  Gradually, as Paul and Ava talked, the terminal filled with passengers. Representatives of many nationalities and ethnicities congregated around the gate. Soon the metal building reverberated with the babble of two hundred simultaneous conversations.

  Efficient security personnel appeared and organized the crowd into three lines. First, an officer reviewed identification. Second, luggage was examined by customs agents, who offered to stow heavier bags belowdecks. Finally, a smiling steward tore tickets and welcomed passengers across the gangway.

  Ava and Paul waited their turn, but when the officer saw Ava’s ID, he pulled them out of line and escorted them past security. In broken English, he explained that Police Commissioner Rizzo personally insisted the two Americans were to be shown every courtesy. Paul thanked the officer and helped Ava board.

  Meanwhile, out on the waterfront,
a diesel pump throbbed as it refueled the massive catamaran. The wharf bustled with activity. Growling, a forklift shuttled to and fro, lifting crates into the hold. Dockworkers rushed aluminum tubs of perishable food up a ramp and delivered them to the galley. Supervisors shouted instructions to burly men hefting innumerable cases of beer, liquor, wine, and soda to the ship’s four bars and passenger lounges.

  Amid the chaos, no one noticed a tall Italian spiriting aboard an unregistered case and hiding it in the aft engine room.

  Chapter 14

  14

  ROME, SEPTEMBER 6, 1464

  Mired in melancholy, Cardinal Jacopo Piccolomini-Ammannati attended the coronation of Pope Paul II. A vain, suspicious, and ineffectual man, Paul II was no elector’s first choice. Rather, the self-important Venetian represented a compromise between ideologically divergent factions. To secure support in the College of Cardinals, the new pope had signed a capitulation that, among other things, required him to continue Pius’s campaign against the Turks. Cardinal Jacopo was instrumental in obtaining this concession. He championed the cause not out of personal animus or ambition, but rather out of loyalty to a departed friend.

  The forty-two-year-old cardinal had accomplished much in his career. He was ordained a bishop at thirty-eight. One year later he was named cardinal of Pavia. He’d served as secretary of briefs under Pope Calistus III and continued in that role until Pius II made him a member of the pontific household. Sadly, his meteoric rise would now stall. Jacopo suspected the new pope would break his political promises, arguing that preelection capitulations abridged a pope’s absolute authority. By disregarding these commitments, Paul II would ignite a feud within the Vatican, weakening the Church at an inopportune time. Fraught with internal division, Rome could never check the Ottoman advance. Pius’s steadfast allies, the valiant Knights of Rhodes, would continue to fight. But it was only a matter of time until the Turks invaded Italy. Worse, Spain might persuade the isolated pope to revive the execrable Inquisition. Jacopo’s humanist friends and cohorts, particularly de Volterra, Carvajal, and Roverella, feared that an anti-intellectual backlash could engulf all of Europe, strangling the nascent Renaissance in its crib and dragging Christendom back into darkness.

  As soon as decorum allowed, Jacopo bade farewell to the assembled ministers, clerics, and plenipotentiaries. He had important duties to perform. On his deathbed Pius had ordered Jacopo to destroy the artifacts and the prophecy they contained. Jacopo had objected. The two men disagreed sharply on the topic. Jacopo believed the prophecy was simply mistranslated, by either accident or design. Pius thought otherwise. He insisted the prophecy was a demonic instrument, imbued with black sorcery that turned arrogant mortals away from God. To prove such speculations were illogical, Jacopo invoked the reasoning propounded by the brilliant Franciscan friar William of Ockham. Pius, however, would not be dissuaded. He ignored all arguments, endlessly repeating: “A daemonibus docetur, de daemonibus docet, et ad daemones ducit.” (It is taught by the demons, it teaches about the demons, and it leads to the demons.)

  Though he opposed the pope’s decision, Cardinal Jacopo finally agreed to destroy the relics. To disobey the pontiff was an unthinkable sin, one that would expose his soul to eternal damnation. More important, Jacopo would never refuse his mentor’s last request.

  It was vital to act quickly, before the new pope consolidated his authority. Piccolomini-Ammannati summoned his personal secretary. While Jacopo and his fellow cardinals were locked in the papal conclave, this aide collected every extant copy of the prophecy. These Jacopo would burn. Whispering to the young priest, he revealed the ancient jars’ hiding place and instructed him to throw them over the balcony. As the stunned academician turned to obey, the cardinal said, “Inside the cabinet, hidden below the jars, are two disks of pure gold. Melt them down.”

  The young man’s eyes widened. “And what should I do with the gold?”

  Jacopo smiled. “Cast it into coins. Distribute them to the poor to honor our generous new pope’s election.”

  “Yes, Eminence.”

  The secretary hurried to perform his assignment. He found the secret chamber, located the hidden jars, and dragged them onto the balcony. After inspecting the courtyard below to ensure that no one would be crushed, the young priest shoved the first jar over the edge. With an ear-splitting crack, it shattered. He wiped his hands on his cassock, then repeated the process with the second jar. That task complete, he searched the cabinet and uncovered the golden disks. For a moment he was awed by the glimmering objects, but he soon regained his composure and transported them to the goldsmith.

  In exchange for a modest bribe, the artisan agreed to begin work immediately. He pumped the bellows, bringing his furnace to a white heat. Inside, the disks melted rapidly. Dripping with sweat, the goldsmith removed the assembly from the fire and poured refulgent metal into a cast. While they waited for it to harden, the smith offered the priest a cup of cool water. He smiled and drank. Suddenly, the door burst open. A gang of soldiers marched into the workshop, arrested the occupants on charges of conspiracy, and seized the gold as evidence.

  At trial, few were surprised to learn that the evidence had mysteriously vanished. The missing treasure, as much as Jacopo’s able defense, persuaded the tribunal to dismiss the complaint.

  Years later, after the death of Paul II, a group of cardinals inspected his treasure vault. They noted fifty-four silver shells filled with pearls; a collection of jewels, including several magnificent diamonds; and a cache of unfashioned gold worth at least three hundred thousand ducats. The origin of this gold remains unknown.

  Though he mourned the lost artifacts, Jacopo maintained a fervent hope that the ancient secret endured. Hidden somewhere, probably in Africa, two jars still existed. The secret brotherhood would protect them. Jacopo whispered, “One alone shall be chaste. Only when two are gathered is the truth revealed.” As long as two jars survived, the prophecy would survive, and the coming evil might still be defeated.

  MALTA, MARCH 2013

  Once clear of Valletta Harbor, the MV Maria Dolores throttled up its Rolls-Royce Kamewa 80 SII engines and put out to sea. Powered by six water jets, the sixty-eight-meter catamaran could make thirty-six knots running at ninety percent capacity. The Australian-built vessel’s 4.6-meter clearance height (in combination with T-foil and interceptor ride control) enabled safe, year-round operation, regardless of unpredictable Mediterranean conditions. Accordingly, the experienced captain wasn’t concerned by a wall of thunderclouds looming on the eastern horizon. Over the intercom he advised his passengers that the stormy forecast was no cause for alarm. The Maria Dolores was designed and built for rough weather. Heavy seas might slow their voyage to Sicily, but there was no danger.

  Paul led Ava through the posh club-class lounge to the observation deck. They leaned against a painted metal rail and watched the evening sun dip behind Mount Sciberras. As Tommy Dorsey’s orchestra warbled through the tinny loudspeaker, Paul thought how perfectly a white cotton dress complemented Ava’s tanned skin. Her long hair danced in the maritime breeze, defying her efforts to tame it. With a smile, he asked, “Where are we headed?”

  “Pozzallo.”

  “Ah, yes. Of course. I believe that was the birthplace of the immortal Homer.”

  She giggled. “No, just a quaint Sicilian fishing town. It has an excellent harbor, which made it an important fourteenth-century outpost. Now it’s the main port for Ragusa Province.” She paused, brow knitted in concentration. “Actually, it might be the only port in Ragusa Province . . .”

  Amused, Paul watched Ava search her memory. After a few seconds, he said, “It’s okay. We can look it up later.”

  “Don’t patronize me,” she said, then grinned.

  “What should we do while we’re there?”

  She thought, “Hide out, stay safe, not get killed,” but she said, “We might tour the Cabrera Tower. It dates back to the 1400s.”

  He made a sour face.

>   “Or there are pretty beaches.”

  “Yes! I vote for the beach.” He knelt and opened his backpack, wondering if he’d remembered swim trunks. He nudged aside the priceless golden disks and dug through the odd laundry. He didn’t see his trunks, but, happily, he found Ava’s black bikini. He pulled out the bottoms and announced, “Look! We still have—”

  “Put that away immediately,” Ava scolded. She grabbed the backpack, zipped it closed, and hefted it over her shoulder.

  Convinced that DURMDVL’s suspicions were valid, Gabe didn’t dare call Ava. His only hope was that their enemies hadn’t yet twigged the stratagem of inserting edited text messages into the satphone. In desperation, he typed: “Current escape plan likely compromised. Strongly recommend you cancel tickets. CHANGE PLANS and find another route! G”

  Moments later, in Malta, the satphone blinked. Sheik Ahmed opened the text, read Gabe’s warning, and smiled. He pocketed Ava’s phone and watched the doomed catamaran vanish into the distance.

  The aft engine rooms were quite cramped. In fact, the challenge of squeezing three enormous water jets into each slim hull had involved some complex engineering. To create room for the intakes and drivelines, the designers chose to mount powerful boosters above and between the tandem steering jets. It was a good design, but it necessitated running all six fuel lines through the transom. To generate its 2,465 kW (roughly 3,300 HP), each jet required a generous allowance of high-octane gas. Thus, at any given moment, a surprisingly large volume of refined petroleum pumped through the nexus.

  Thunder clapped as the storm began rocking the ship. In response, the captain turned the bow into the wind and gently increased the rate at which fuel coursed through the engines. Meanwhile, inside an apparently misplaced crate labeled JOHNNY WALKER SCOTCH, a digital timer counted down the final seconds until 00:00.