The Cana Mystery Page 24

  Ava’s thoughts were interrupted by the already-intoxicated Mellania braying that everyone must have another drink. The car’s tiny wet bar featured a variety of miniature bottles. Giggling, the Slovakian bent over the seat, popped a piccolo of champagne, and filled two foaming glasses. Leering, she offered Paul a flute, allowing her arm to graze his chest as she moved. When he accepted, Ava felt a flicker in her abdomen. Nodding to the model, Paul said, “Thanks, Mel, but I prefer something less bubbly,” and with a conspiratorial wink, he handed the drink to Ava. She felt dizzy.

  Minutes later the car arrived at Da Paolino, a restaurant on the Marina Grande known for its Caprese cuisine. The owner met Simon at the door and led them to a table on the patio within a grove of delightful lemon trees. Ava smiled, noting that several menu items incorporated fresh lemon. Music played in the kitchen. Edith Piaf sang and an accordion bellowed. When the wine arrived, Simon raised his glass.

  “Cento di questi giorni!”

  They drank the toast and began to eat. Ava started with a salad of sliced mozzarella, vine-ripened tomatoes, and basil. Sautéed ravioli stuffed with fresh cacciotta (a soft-textured, mild-flavored cheese) was her main course. Between bites, Ava looked at Paul. If his freshly shorn head made him self-conscious, it certainly didn’t inhibit his appetite. He demolished a titan’s portion of spicy pirciati (pasta with anchovies, lemon, onion, garlic, capers, black olives, basil, tomato, and pepper), a spinach salad, and three glasses of Sancerre.

  When Simon had finished off his rigatoni with sautéed pumpkin flowers, he leaned back, smiled, and turned to Ava. “How was your supper, Ms. Fischer?”

  “Marvelous, Mr. DeMaj. Thank you. You’re a generous host.”

  “My pleasure.”

  “As much as I’ve enjoyed this sumptuous meal, though, I can’t impose further on your hospitality. How soon can we leave your home?”

  He took her question in stride.

  “What’s the rush? Officially, you’re still considered lost at sea. You never had legal permission to enter Italy, so it might be tricky to depart. Furthermore, I believe the Egyptian government has taken an interest in your whereabouts.”

  Paul met his eyes. “We’re innocent of those charges and you know it.”

  “Of course, of course. It’s just a technicality. My lawyers are working diligently to resolve the situation. In the meantime, may I suggest you try to enjoy a brief vacation on Capri?”

  Ava began to argue but then stopped. “I suppose we can tolerate a few days here.”

  DeMaj smiled. “You like the island?”

  “I agree with Emperor Tiberius’s opinion. It’s spectacular.”

  “Yes, Tiberius loved Capri. He spent the final ten years of his reign enjoying its serenity. Did you know he founded the first archaeological museum here?”

  She nodded.

  “Of course, Tiberius wasn’t the only emperor to appreciate Capri’s delights.”

  “Didn’t Augustus vacation here?”

  “Yes. And Caligula. Each built a villa on the island.”

  Nick laughed. “I’ve heard some crazy things about Caligula.”

  Ava adroitly changed the subject. “Did you know,” she asked everyone at the table, “that Capri wasn’t always an island?”

  “How’s that?” Paul said. “The strait must be five kilometers wide. Did the Romans build a giant causeway or something?”

  Ava smiled. “No. According to Strabo, Capri was part of mainland Italy. When the sea level rose, it became an island.”

  “Well, I think Strabo is full of it,” Paul joked.

  “Yeah,” Mellania giggled, beaming at Paul across the table. “Me too.”

  Ava’s face colored. Her lips thinned into an expression of disgust. Under the table she clenched her napkin and thought about strangling the empty-headed tramp.

  “Regardless,” said Simon, watching Ava closely, “it’s an island now, and for that I’m thankful.”

  She turned to look at him. “Yes, I’m sure you prefer it this way. Keeps out the proletariat.”

  He lifted his hands in a supplicant’s gesture. “If Mother Nature saw fit to provide a moat, who am I to object?”

  “Of course, it’s no impediment for the right kind of visitors, meaning those with private yachts.”

  “I don’t own a yacht, mademoiselle.”

  “Oh, right. I forgot. You don’t need one. You own a helicopter. Or do you have two?”

  “I own twenty.”

  Ava gasped. “Twenty?”

  “Simon collects helicopters,” Paul said, hoping to defuse the situation. “It’s one of his passions.”

  Despite herself, Ava was impressed. “You collect helicopters?”

  DeMaj angled his head to one side and shrugged as only a Frenchman can—an expression of modest pride with a hint of carelessness.

  “Would you care to see my collection?”

  After dessert they thanked the restaurant’s owner for a splendid meal. Simon’s driver was outside, flirting with a hostess. Spotting DeMaj, the chauffeur ended his conversation and hurried to start the car. Ava took Paul’s arm, casually ensuring that Mellania couldn’t sidle in between them. The car sped back to the villa. After clearing the security gate the driver veered away from the house and approached a large, windowless structure built into the hillside. Simon typed a code into a recessed keypad and the automatic door opened. They entered a cavernous hangar full of helicopters.

  With obvious pride, Simon jumped from the car and led his guests toward a Bell 47 Sioux AH1, his first purchase. Powered by a six-cylinder turbocharged engine, the Sioux had flown in Cyprus with the United Nations. Adjacent was a Sud-Ouest SO.1221 Djinn, built at Rochefort for the French army. Simon found the retired ’59 Djinn in a storage facility at Versailles-Satory and restored it to glory. Nearby were two German helicopters: a Bölkow Bo.102, the first helicopter built in the Federal Republic after World War II, and an MBB Bo.105M, designed by Messerchmitt-Bölkow-Blohm for police and air ambulance.

  “The 105 was a light-attack helicopter,” Simon said, enthusiasm apparent in his tone. “This one was operated by the West German army.”

  Mellania stifled a yawn; Simon ignored it.

  As he went on and on, extolling the technical merits of his ’56 Bell 47H (one of only thirty-four built), Ava noted her companions’ glazed expressions and experienced a moment of clarity. Is this how she sounded when talking about history? In the future, Ava resolved, she’d pay more attention to her audience and avoid smothering them with extraneous detail.

  Meanwhile, Simon had directed attention to his modern exhibits. Conspicuous was an Aérospatiale SA-330 Puma that had participated in Opération Daguet.

  “And this is my sentimental favorite.” He gestured toward a helicopter displayed on a concrete riser: “The AS 565 Panther.” Stepping up, he placed a loving hand on the craft’s fuselage. “In eighty-two, I commanded one in Lebanon. We survived some tight scrapes.” For a moment, Simon was lost in reverie.

  Ava whispered, “Is he for real?”

  Paul nodded. “Simon loves helicopters. They’re his children.”

  “Does he still fly?”

  “Hell, yeah! He’s a legit ace. He keeps all these birds in top condition, and occasionally he takes one for a spin. Whatever else you think of him, never doubt his piloting skills. Simon can really fly.”

  Noticing a locked doorway, Nick asked, “What’s in there?”

  DeMaj cocked an eyebrow. With a sly grin, he whispered, “Nothing that’s included on the public tour.” He pulled an electronic passkey from his jacket, swiped the door, and ushered his guests into a dark antechamber. When Simon flipped on the lights, they beheld a jet-black aerodynamic machine.

  Impressed, Nick whistled. “Is that what I think it is?”

  “May I present the RAH-66 Comanche prototype. Assembled in Boeing-Sikorsky’s Stratford, Connecticut, facility, it first flew on January 4, 1996. Only four were completed before the U.S. Congress ca
nceled the program.”

  “It must be worth a fortune!”

  Pleased to have an appreciative listener, Simon expounded on the topic. “Well, the Comanche is state of the art. The LHTEC engines are shielded against infrared. Its composite airframe incorporates several antidetection features: silent running, stealth faceting, energy-absorbent materials. It’s effectively invisible to radar.”

  “And, I presume, illegal for a private citizen to own,” said Ava.

  “Officially, this helicopter does not exist.” Simon smiled. “But I have friends in the industry.”

  “I’d love to see it fly,” Nick said.

  Simon beamed. “I’m free tomorrow after five o’clock. Why don’t we pop over to Naples for some pizza?”

  “Are you serious?”

  “Of course. I can accommodate two passengers, provided you don’t mind getting cozy. Care to join us, Mellania?”

  She demurred.

  “But wouldn’t that be an act of war or something? A Comanche has to be loaded with classified missiles and technology,” said Nick.

  “Oh, no. We’ll have no problems. True, some design elements are classified, but the U.S. military removed all armaments, countermeasures, and combat equipment long before I took possession. Despite what you may have heard, I’m not in the munitions business.”

  Ava and Paul left the hangar together and strolled toward the villa. The main house, perched atop a high precipice, had been constructed to take advantage of the view. Hand in hand, the Americans walked to the cliff and peered over the edge. It was a stunning drop. Hundreds of feet below, waves battered ancient boulders. A boreal wind gusted in from the sea. Ava shivered, visualizing slaves thrown to their death by a sadistic emperor.

  “Can we go back?” she asked. “It’s getting chilly.”

  Paul took off his coat and draped it over her shoulders. “Follow me.”

  He led her through a sliding door into an airy gallery decorated with Hokusai prints. Ava relaxed. It was much warmer inside. She stopped to admire a striking Shirabyŏshi dancer. Something about the woman’s attire sparked a question in Ava’s mind.

  “Paul, did you come up with that anagram: hat bag?”

  He looked sheepish. “No. I can’t take credit for that. Hatbag was Simon’s code name for our dig in Israel. I had no idea what it meant until he explained. I figured you’d love it because you’re both . . .”

  Her voice turned cool. “We’re both what?”

  “Look, don’t take this the wrong way . . .”

  Her eyes narrowed.

  “But you remind me of him sometimes.”

  Ava scoffed. “I hope you don’t expect me to be flattered.”

  “No. I mean, I know you think he’s an evil capitalist.”

  “I’m hardly alone in that judgment.”

  “Right, and I don’t mean to offend. Obviously, you’re a much better person. I’m just saying you’re alike in some ways. I bet you have a lot of common interests.”

  Disgusted, Ava stomped off to bed. Paul started to follow, but another print, one depicting a clumsy chess player, reminded him of Sefu. Out of habit, Paul glanced at his wrist. Was it too late to call the clinic? As Ava vanished into the adjoining chamber, Paul exhaled. Someday she’d get to know Simon. The two of them would probably while away countless hours discussing Tintoretto, Sobek, Charlemagne, and Thales. Then maybe she’d understand.

  Midnight found Simon and Nick seated across a chessboard. DeMaj opened with the King’s Gambit, sacrificing a pawn to gain a commanding position. Sipping his single malt, Nick mounted a vigorous counterattack, but on the twenty-seventh move, he faced a dilemma: whether to exchange his active knight for a defensive bishop. After some thought, Nick passed on the exchange and retreated his piece. Pouncing, Simon advanced his queen. “Mate in six,” he announced.

  Nick slumped. Then, straightening his back, he began to reset the board. Glancing up, he caught his opponent in a smirk.

  “Don’t get cocky, DeMaj. I play better after I take my first lick.”

  Simon laughed. “Like Masséna.”

  “Who?”

  “Marshal Masséna was a brilliant tactician, perhaps Napoleon’s best field commander. Bonaparte said Masséna was useless until the first cannons fired, then he became a lion.”

  “Sounds like my kind of guy.”

  “Mine too,” Simon agreed. “Nick, you play well, but withdrawing your knight was a mistake.”

  “I felt vulnerable.”

  “Conquer that fear. Use it to your advantage. Weak players shy away from open, complex positions because they dread the unknown. They tie themselves in knots to avoid exposing their king, afraid the essential piece will be caught in the crossfire, and to be sure, common sense supports this habit. Superlative players, on the other hand, embrace complexity, seizing opportunities to attack from unexpected angles. Create confusion, then let your opponent’s aggression work against him. Tempt him into rash moves by risking something precious. In my experience, a queen standing brazenly undefended often lures the enemy into a fatal error.”

  Nick pushed himself back from the table and gave Simon a long, appraising look. After a moment, DeMaj inclined his head and said, “Shall we play again?”

  Chapter 15

  15

  The sheik’s call woke Barakah at two in the morning.

  “Meet me at the harbor immediately.”

  A half hour later four men were cruising north aboard the Saracen, a Riva 63 Vertigo. The glassy Mediterranean shimmered under the full moon’s glow. Ahmed took a long drag from his cigarette. Tossing it overboard, he directed Barakah to follow him belowdecks and shut the door. The cabin’s dark hardwood floor contrasted with its pale oak, leather-bound bulkheads. In this private setting, Ahmed revealed some information gleaned from his spy within the DeMaj household.

  Both targets had survived the shipwreck. Consequently, the master had directed Ahmed to eliminate the troublesome Americans before they interfered with his Piano di Rinascita (Plan of Rebirth). Ahmed didn’t appear angry or frustrated by this turn of events. In fact, he seemed elated. Emboldened by the sheik’s high spirits, Barakah pressed a question.

  “What is the Plan of Rebirth?”

  Ahmed eyed his assistant. “Be patient. Soon, all will be revealed. The time is near. With one bold stroke, our master’s grand vision will be realized. I cannot disclose details, but take comfort in the knowledge that you will play an important role.”

  Barakah nodded, apparently satisfied.

  They reached Marsala in less than three hours. Ahmed throttled down the twenty-four-cylinder shaft drive and steered into Don VeMeli’s secluded harbor, where a team of dockworkers waited. Each man wore a red Gruppo Garibaldi armband. Refueling was conducted in silence and with efficiency. As dawn broke over Sicily, Barakah cleaned and loaded his automatic pistol. He reclined into the comfortable leather seat, mouthed a prayer, then slept. Spiritually, he was at peace and ready to perform his sworn duty.

  The next morning everyone except Mellania, who claimed illness, met for breakfast. Ava was the last to arrive.

  “Buon giorno, Ms. Fischer. Did you sleep well?”

  “Quite well, Mr. DeMaj, thank you.”

  “I heard a nasty rumor that you prefer tea to coffee.”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  Shaking his head with exaggerated disdain, Simon muttered, “De gustibus non disputandum est” (there is no disputing tastes). Then he signaled to the cook, who brought forth a sky-blue porcelain tea service. Ava was struck by how lovely it was. The delicate china was almost translucent.

  Feigning nonchalance, she inquired, “Tang dynasty?”

  Simon inverted a bowl to reveal its inscription. “Can you translate?”

  “‘Made on the sixteenth day of the seventh month of the second year of the reign of Emperor Yingsong,’” Ava whispered.

  DeMaj filled a cup with fragrant keemun hao ya and presented the steaming tea to Ava. She inhaled its bouqu
et, and immediately her shoulder muscles relaxed. All her anxiety faded. She drank. The complex black brew conveyed a pastoral sweetness accented with a hint of rose. She raised her eyes to Simon’s. “This is sublime,” she said.

  He acknowledged her compliment with a small bow. While his guests finished eating, DeMaj left the room. He returned a moment later and handed Ava a thin black rectangle linked to a plastic cord.

  “Thank you?” she said, confused.

  “It’s a digital encryption scrambler. Plug it into the headset jack on your world phone, enter a sixteen-digit code, and it’ll roll the scrambling up several thousand times, giving you hours before the pattern recycles. My team estimated the fastest computer on earth would need twelve hours to derive the sequence. Provided you change your code reasonably often, conversations are secure. I presume you have some calls to make. Your parents, in particular, will be happy to hear from you.”

  Ava arched an eyebrow. “You spoke to them?”

  “Your mother is a bright, charming lady. We contacted your friend Gabriel too, but when I assured him you were safe, he seemed . . . skeptical.”

  Ava’s eyes widened as she realized that the shipwreck would have been international news. Her parents, Gabe, and Jess must be worried sick! Excusing herself, she grabbed the scrambler and rushed upstairs.

  Paul asked then: “What about DURMDVL? Does he know we survived?”

  Simon chuckled. “Your DURMDVL has proved difficult to locate. The whole crypto team is impressed by his security. At one point we thought we had him. Instead, the rabbit trail led us to a horrible Rick Astley video.”

  “What the hell is that?”

  “DURMDVL’s idea of a joke, apparently.”

  Ava found that the world phone they’d purchased in Malta was still functional thanks to its waterproof casing.

  A female voice answered Ava’s dialing.