The Cana Mystery Page 25

  “Hello?”

  “Mom? It’s Ava.”

  “Oh, thank God you’re safe!”

  “Yes, I’m fine. It’s wonderful to hear your voice. I thought it would go straight to voice mail.”

  “No, no. I’ve been waiting by the phone all day. Mr. DeMaj told me to expect your call.”

  “I’m not sure we can trust him.”

  “Well, he saved my baby’s life. That makes him a friend until I have reason to believe otherwise.” Ava thought she heard a tremble in her mother’s voice. Embarrassed, she changed the subject. Besides, switching to small talk might erase some of her mother’s worry.

  “So, why are you home on a school day?”

  Her mother laughed. She taught music at Sidwell Friends, an elite private school. When the headmaster learned Ava had been aboard the Maria Dolores, he gave her the week off.

  “You’re right. I should go back, now that I know you’re safe, but honestly, I’m enjoying my mini-vacation. Anything to avoid those overprivileged kids and office politics.”

  Ava knew her mother was joking. She had never wanted to teach. She took the job so Ava could attend Sidwell without paying the astronomical tuition. But Ava’s mother had grown to enjoy her work. Every so often she connected with a particularly gifted child. Such moments made the tedious hours of babysitting and bureaucracy worthwhile.

  Ava and her mother chatted for a while. They laughed and exchanged stories, relishing the joy of conversation, but when Ava mentioned Paul, her mother became intensely curious.

  “Paul? Paul who? Not the same Paul you liked in college?”

  Blood rushed to Ava’s cheeks and she shifted uncomfortably. “Yes, I guess so. Anyway, Jess and Gabe are waiting to hear from me . . .”

  “So, when will you be coming home?”

  “Soon. There are a few things I need to finish here.”

  Ava’s mother caught the tone of her daughter’s reply and decided not to argue—they’d been down that path before. “Okay, sweetheart. Keep in touch, and please try to be careful. We want you home in one piece!”

  Ava said good-bye to her mother, then dialed Jess’s number. A British voice answered. Once Jess realized it was Ava, she covered the receiver and called out, “Gabe, pick up. It’s Ava!” Then: “Darling, are you safe? We’ve been so worried!”

  Happy to speak to each other again, Ava and Jess chatted and giggled like children. Their reunion was interrupted by Gabe’s rush of questions about the shipwreck. Eventually, he said, “Ava, I don’t know how to tell you this. The disks—”

  “What? Tell me!”

  He sighed. “The audio from the disks is, well, it’s garbage. I isolated the two recordings. They were roughly identical. Unfortunately, both have been corrupted. Too many years in the desert. Maybe the grooves degraded over the centuries. All that remains is a weird clamor and some incomprehensible moans. I’m sorry. I tried to clarify, but there isn’t enough there.”

  “Both disks?”

  “I’m afraid so.” He sounded despondent.

  “Just send me whatever you’ve got.”

  “Ava, you don’t understand. The data’s ruined. It’s gibberish.”

  “I want to listen, okay? Even if it’s gibberish, it’s two-thousand-year-old gibberish. I almost died for this stuff, Gabe. I need to hear it for myself.”

  “Of course,” he said. “I’ll e-mail the files ASAP.”

  After she finished her phone calls, Ava slipped down to the study, where Simon kept a few computers available for guests’ use. She logged on to the Internet, and for the first time in weeks she opened her e-mail. Naturally, the inbox was jammed with messages. Ignoring dozens, she identified Gabe’s most recent. Two files were attached. Each contained the audio captured from a golden disk. She downloaded both attachments onto a flash drive. Then, holding her breath, she opened and played the first file. It was just as Gabe described: harsh, atonal sounds with bizarre moans in the background.

  Ava realized someone was knocking. She clicked PAUSE and called out, “Who is it?”

  “It’s Paul. Are you all right? I heard creepy noises.”

  Hurrying him in, she explained what Gabe had discovered and unpaused the recording. Surprised at first, Paul wrinkled his nose at the howls and creaks. He could see Ava was disappointed. On the brink of tears, she said, “It’s ruined. Whatever was on those disks is lost. Maybe the audio data degraded after so many years. Maybe we screwed up the scan. Or maybe you were right: Ancient peoples never had the necessary technology . . .”

  He touched her arm. “Hey, let’s get out of here. Just us. Want to go for a hike around the island?”

  “That sounds nice.”

  They decided to explore Punta Cerena by way of the Sentiero dei Fortini (Footpath of the Fortifications). Ava returned to her room, donned a navy blue minidress, slid her feet into sandals, and tied her hair with a silk ribbon; she would meet Paul outside.

  The afternoon was glorious. Gulls called and wheeled, riding thermals up the cliff wall. Ava let Capri’s light and crisp blue sky revive her spirits. She found Paul in the garden, wearing his lucky cap, sharing cashews with an appreciative red squirrel. Simon’s loyal groundskeeper and bodyguard, Tomás, was stationed atop the garden wall, brandishing a lupara. He raised a hand in greeting, looking like an extra from The Godfather. Under Tomás’s watchful gaze, the Americans passed through the pergola, crossed the outer courtyard, and departed.

  They took a bus part of the way, then enjoyed a quiet stroll along the island’s southwest coast. Hand in hand they sauntered past the Orrico, Pino, and Mesola, French forts used when Capri was part of the Napoleonic empire. Flowers perfumed the Mediterranean air. The footpath terminated at the Lido del Faro, a popular swimming spot, with boats for rent and rusted iron steps leading down into the sea. At the poolside café, Paul found a table with a lighthouse view. The bartender served Paul a glass of cold Forst beer; Ava asked for pinot grigio. Relaxed and happy, they sat on the sun-kissed terrace. Ava leaned back in her chair and closed her eyes. Paul sipped beer and smiled. He could stay here forever.

  Nick met Simon at the hangar just before sunset. The two men climbed into the Comanche’s futuristic-looking cockpit and initiated its prelaunch sequence. Moments later, they were aloft.

  Nick marveled at the chopper’s silence. “How can it run so quietly?”

  “Amazing, yes? Honeycombed dampers and vibration mounts muffle the engine, and an ingenious configuration of airfoils, blades, and tips diminishes rotor sound. All that goes only so far, of course: The real sorcery is ANC.”

  “Antsy?”

  DeMaj laughed. “Active Noise Cancellation.”

  “Which means?”

  “Sound-field modification by electroacoustical means.”

  “Oh, right. Obviously.”

  “It’s simple, really.” Simon tapped a box above his head. “The master control ‘listens’ and responds to unwanted noise by driving a speaker to produce an opposite sound field. Opposite fields cancel each other, and the result is silence.”

  Nick shook his head. “That’s wild.”

  Simon grinned. “That’s nothing. Wait till you see her move!”

  In the graying twilight Barakah yawned, then rose. He took night-vision binoculars from his equipment bag and examined the rocky shore. Soft spray blew in loose clouds above blackened stones. He glassed up to the commanding escarpment and studied the view. There was no sign of the house, but segments of well-paved road descended between the ancient trees. By instinct more than training, he scanned for movement. Detecting none, Barakah lowered the glasses, took a deep breath, and wiped his nose on the back of his sleeve. Resuming his vigil, he watched as dusk turned to dark.

  Ava opened her eyes. Content, she watched Paul, who watched the sea. Then she noticed something around his neck.

  “Is that necklace new?” She’d never seen him wear jewelry.

  “Necklace? Oh, wait. You mean this?” He reached under his shirt and w
ithdrew the golden amulet. “Bishop Garagallo said it would protect us.”

  “Why didn’t you show me?”

  “I was afraid you’d call it superstitious nonsense.’”

  Ava laughed. “May I?” He handed it over. As she examined the markings, her brow furrowed.

  “The symbols match the shield behind his desk.”

  “Yeah, you’re right. Do they mean something?”

  “I’m not sure,” she replied, returning the amulet. “But I’ve seen it somewhere . . .”

  “Think food would help your memory?”

  “Absolutely!”

  Instead of getting a menu, Paul let the waiter choose for them. As an appetizer he brought a loaf of Apulian-style scanata bread covered with sesame seeds. Paul dragged a slice through olive oil, balsamic vinegar, and fresh herbs and popped it into his mouth. Dinner was octopus a strascinasali (boiled octopus dressed in olive oil and fresh lemon), sardines a beccafico (rolled sardines stuffed with sautéed bread crumbs, pine nuts, and anchovies), and patati cunsati (seasoned potatoes), washed down with another round of drinks.

  Later, the soothing sound of waves against rocks was pierced by a squeal of electronic feedback. A ska band had taken the stage and was tuning up. The waiter explained that the restaurant sometimes offered live music and occasionally fireworks. At the mention of pyrotechnics, Paul blushed, recalling his embarrassment at Bishop Garagallo’s. He promised not to throw Ava on the floor again. She gave him a noncommittal smile, moistened her middle finger, and rescued a fallen sesame seed from the table linen. Paul wondered what she was thinking.

  That night the two Americans strolled toward the Orrico bus stop under a gigantic moon. Paul studied his companion’s face. She seemed lost in contemplation. To ease her mind, he said, “Suppose you have two buckets and a water hose. One bucket holds five gallons, the other holds three. How can you measure four gallons?”

  For a nanosecond, Ava seemed annoyed. Then, with a grin, she said, “Use the hose to fill the larger bucket. Pour water into the smaller one until it’s full. Dump out the small bucket. Pour the remaining contents of the large bucket into the small bucket. Refill the large one. Pour water from the larger bucket into the smaller. When the small bucket is full, the larger one will contain four gallons.”

  Paul laughed. “Wow! I guess that was easier than I thought.”

  “It’s a classic. I’ve heard it before.”

  “Oh, sorry. Want another?”

  “Bring it.”

  “A prisoner is trapped in a cell. On the wall are two buttons, one directly above the other. The correct button opens his cell. The other button opens an adjoining cell. He doesn’t know which button to push. Because he has just one chance to escape—by throwing his food bowl at the proper button—should he aim for the top or bottom?”

  Another smile: Ava’s mood was improving. “Is that it? Do you want the answer?”

  “No, there’s more. I forgot to say that the prison is on that crazy island.”

  “What island?”

  “The one where every man acts rationally but also cheats on his spouse.”

  “What difference does that make?”

  “It keeps the divorce lawyers busy.”

  She laughed, not so much at the lame joke, but at Paul’s attempts to lift her spirits. In a flash she realized why he’d always been so popular. It wasn’t just because he was handsome, athletic, and from a prominent family. Rather, people gravitated to Paul because he cared. When he saw someone hurting, Paul’s instinct was to give comfort and cheer. Ava loved that about him.

  “So, what’s your final answer?”

  Leaning close, she whispered. “He should aim to hit both buttons.”

  “Nice,” said Paul. “Most people don’t think of trying both at once.”

  Ava froze. She recalled something Clarkson had said: “The two gods speak with one mouth.” An idea went through her mind. Invigorated, she surprised Paul with a peck on the cheek.

  “Let’s go home. I want to check something.”

  Simon landed the Comanche on a private helipad just outside Naples. They transferred to a waiting car, which then brought them deep into the city. Minutes later they were seated in the downstairs section of Pizzeria Brandi. A waiter appeared.

  “Do you like Margherita?” Simon asked Nick.

  “Sure. Just like Mama used to make.”

  “Due, per favore, e vino.”

  While they waited, Nick noticed that his companion’s mood had changed. “Is something wrong?”

  Simon rubbed his temple. “Sorry. Today’s the anniversary of my mother’s death. She passed when I was six.”

  “That must have been hard, but if it’s any consolation, I’m sure she’d be very proud of you.”

  Simon lifted his head. “You think so?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “I hope so. I know she’d want me to resist the coming evil. She’d urge me to fight until the bitter end. That really would make her proud.”

  Before Nick could say something else, Simon lifted a hand for silence. Several boisterous customers were watching the television and applauding. Nick recognized their red armbands. The reporter spoke.

  “Following this afternoon’s emergency session, a Gruppo Garibaldi spokesman blamed Islamic extremists for the terror attack. ‘This is mass murder,’ said Galeazzo Grandi, who himself survived a car bombing in 1995. ‘The time for negotiations has passed. More than half the victims were Italian citizens. What will those people do next?’

  “Maltese Minister B. C. Pisani, who has repeatedly urged his government to hunt down the attackers, was pleased by the Italians’ support. ‘I agree that negotiation is undesirable and impossible with these assassins, who so many times have sown death,’ he said, reading from a prepared statement.

  “In Washington, the State Department pledged solidarity: ‘The United States stands resolutely with our European allies in the fight against terrorism in all its forms. No political pretext can justify premeditated murder.’

  “A confidential source close to the investigation has revealed that the bombers used titadine, a type of compressed dynamite. The Islamist group Hamas recently purchased eight tons of titadine, according to Spain’s El Mundo newspaper. Nevertheless, a U.S. intelligence official, speaking on condition of anonymity, questioned whether the bombers were Islamic terrorists. ‘It’s too early to tell who is responsible. We’re not ruling out anyone yet.’

  “Deputy Grandi disagreed. ‘We all know who did this. As usual, liberal appeasers and fifth columnists oppose any appropriate response, insisting nothing be done until the investigation is complete, but we can’t afford the luxury of certitude. We must act now before the terrorists perpetrate an even greater tragedy.’”

  Simon rose from his seat. “It’s time to go.”

  Sheik Ahmed was not a real sheik; he’d appropriated the title, just as he had seized everything else he possessed. Ahmed’s parents, Arab peasants, had died in Egypt’s Six Day War against Israel. The penniless orphan was then “adopted” by a Cairo brothel catering to wealthy Europeans with perverted sexual tastes. Trapped in this hell, Ahmed learned the power of fear. As he fought to survive, he began to value strength and cunning above all other attributes.

  A bright, attractive child, by his tenth birthday he’d perfected a means of enriching himself while avoiding degradation. After charming an intoxicated pedophile, Ahmed would slip narcotic powder into the john’s drink, preventing him from acting on his lust. The potent drug rendered a victim unconscious for several hours. During this period, Ahmed helped himself to currency from the slumbering European’s wallet or purse. He learned to pocket no more than a few bills, sums that would be overlooked in the morning stupor. He reinvested the stolen funds, purchasing ever bigger parcels of narcotics. Within two years the local dealer was complaining that little Ahmed had cut into his profits.

  On a moonless night Ahmed ambushed and garroted his competitor, supplanting him as the
brothel’s main supplier. This aggressive move brought Ahmed to the attention of the local Mafia, who dispatched a pitiless Italian thug nicknamed La Belva (the Beast) to untangle the situation.

  La Belva captured the scrawny twelve-year-old brat who’d dared to commit murder and administered a savage beating, but when little Ahmed accepted the blows without a single tear or a whimper, the Beast smiled. Soon, Ahmed was his favored protégé. The hardened child followed his Italian master everywhere, absorbing innumerable lessons in cruelty and violence. Ahmed never blamed his idol for beating him senseless. Instead, he came to believe that he deserved it.

  The Beast was fearless, bloodthirsty, and dynamic. Ahmed worshipped him. As the thin boy matured into a solid teen, he became the Italian’s trusted subordinate and most merciless enforcer. At twenty-five, Ahmed assumed full responsibility for the network’s operations in Egypt. By then the Beast, who’d become Don VeMeli, had branched into politics. Ahmed provided invaluable support. The rising capo was continually awed by his master’s ingenious schemes. Year by year their power, wealth, and influence grew. Consequently, Ahmed’s faith in Don VeMeli was limitless. He’d rather die than disappoint him.

  Ahmed sat in the darkness and smoked. His very existence was proof that he’d never failed his master. He massaged the arm Don VeMeli had broken all those years ago. Unaware that he was speaking aloud, Ahmed promised: “I will kill them for you, master. We cannot fail. I will slice their privileged little throats. I will cut out their arrogant, disrespectful hearts.”

  Paul and Ava rushed back to Simon’s villa. As they hustled through the back gate, Paul glanced around for Tomás. Curiously, he was nowhere in sight. Paul slowed, scanning the courtyard. Impatiently, Ava grabbed his hand and dragged him into the house and to the study. She turned on a computer. She located the memory stick containing the encrypted wave files Gabe had transmitted and began saving them to the hard drive. Meanwhile, she asked Paul to power up another laptop. Though he didn’t know her purpose, he complied. A few minutes later, both computers were operative.