The Cana Mystery Read online

  “‘Salvatore T. VeMeli, a.k.a. La Belva, born November 16, 1953. Sardinian. A violent drug lord who rose to great prominence in the 1990s, VeMeli is alleged to have killed at least thirty people by his own hand and ordered the deaths of several hundred . . .

  “‘As a teenager, VeMeli began committing murder for hire. After killing a popular athlete, he was forced into hiding. When VeMeli was arrested and tried for that murder, he manufactured an acquittal by intimidating the jurors and witnesses. Later, he worked in heroin refining and export. An efficient, ruthless criminal, he became a major player in narcotics. The profits were vast, and young VeMeli grew tremendously rich.

  “‘In 1976, an omen caused La Belva to believe himself destined for greater things, and he began plotting war against his rivals. Throughout the 1980s, he expanded his drug-trafficking network into South America, Greece, and Asia. He invested millions of drug profits in international banks and newspapers. He affiliated himself with Propaganda Due, a right-wing political cabal. In the 1990s, VeMeli’s faction waged a campaign for underworld control. At that time, most dons protected themselves with bribes rather than violence. They were highly visible in their communities, rubbing shoulders with numerous politicians. Don VeMeli’s strategy relied on the “law of misdirection.” He remained hidden and was rarely seen, even by fellow Mafiosi. He orchestrated the murders of high-profile law-enforcement officials on other mobsters’ turf. Whenever a policeman or a well-known judge was killed, more criminals were blamed. In January 1993, he framed a rival for the car-bomb assassination of two respected prosecutors. This act caused widespread condemnation and led to a major anti-Mafia crackdown, resulting in the capture and imprisonment of La Belva’s primary competitors. Consequently, Don VeMeli seized control. In 1994, he entered the political arena. He’s rumored to have bankrolled the extremist Gruppo Garibaldi—’”

  Paul interrupted. “Okay, he’s evil and dangerous, but is he the Antichrist?”

  Barakah finished his water. “Possibly.” He nodded to Simon. “Obviously, Mr. DeMaj suspects it. I believe it, and my organization has amassed significant evidence that Don VeMeli himself agrees, but could I prove it?” He shrugged.

  Ava shook her head. “That’s immaterial. Stay focused on the facts. He’s a terrorist, he has no scruples about committing mass murder, and he’s been plotting a major attack for years.”

  Paul had a brainstorm. “Hey! If he thinks he’s the Antichrist, he’d want to attack the Church, right? The cardinals are gathered in Rome. They’re a perfect target!”

  “That was our initial assumption too,” Barakah said. “When Benedict announced his resignation, we anticipated that Don VeMeli would be tempted to move against the Vatican. My superiors communicated with the Swiss Guard. Security for the conclave will be the finest on earth. I don’t believe an attack there will succeed.”

  Paul smiled with satisfaction until he saw Ava’s face.

  “What?” he asked. “What did I get wrong?”

  Before she could answer, Simon spoke. “Ms. Fischer picked up on something in the dossier: the law of misdirection. Our foe’s modus operandi is to attack from unexpected directions. Hence, Rome is too obvious. When you wage asymmetrical warfare . . .”

  Something in the way Simon talked reminded Ava of her father. She flashed back to a sunny afternoon in Washington when he’d spent hours helping his precocious five-year-old daughter memorize the periodic table. At one point she erupted in frustration, insisting that the elements should be organized differently. Patiently, Dr. Fischer explained the various considerations and historical precedents. He’d spoken with clarity and care, just as Simon was doing now.

  “. . . and in the current, hypervigilant atmosphere, smuggling a bomb into Vatican City would be virtually impossible.”

  “Yeah, that makes sense, but if not Rome,” said Paul, “where? I mean, it could be any place—Jerusalem, Boston, Paris, New York . . .”

  Silence filled the room as everyone imagined the worst.

  Paul slammed his fist on the table. “Damnit!”

  “I share your frustration. I wish Ahmed had said more,” Barakah said, “but frankly, I’m surprised he disclosed as much as he did. I’ve been working to uncover his agenda for months. This was the only time the sheik revealed any details.”

  Anxiously, Ava looked out a window. The morning sun was cresting Mount Solaro. She cracked her knuckles. “Ahmed implied the bombing was imminent. We’ve got to hurry.”

  DeMaj agreed. “What else did he say about the attack?”

  She searched her memory. “He said it would be bloody. He said people would be afraid and demand a strong, decisive ruler. He said the infidel leaders had already gathered.”

  Ava met Simon’s stare. As one, they said: “La Maddalena!”

  Chapter 17

  17

  Jess’s mind was searching for options. There must be a loophole, some clever way to escape, but despite her determined exterior, she’d begun to sense it was hopeless. Even if they reached the hedge, the gunmen would follow. Forcing Gabe onward was simply cruel, and the thugs would be on them in seconds. Distracted by despair, Jess misjudged a step. Gabe’s fractured leg brushed the curb and she felt him shudder in pain. With a growl she demanded he keep moving. They took one giant step, then another. The hedge was only six feet away now, but what could they accomplish by struggling? This was absurd. She should ease him down, let him rest. Instead, she elbowed his ribs.

  “Two more steps, Gabriel. Don’t surrender! One, two, step!” Her voice had grown hoarse. She doubted Gabe could even hear it. He tottered, smothering her body under his bulk. With a final effort, she braced her legs, shouldered all his weight, and heaved him forward. Falling, Jess’s knee spiked on the gravel. Gabe’s weight forced her to the ground and pain tore through her. Sobbing, she rolled him off her and into the hedges.

  She turned onto her back and looked up at the sky. When one of the machine gun–wielding men stepped into view, Jess laughed. “Go ahead and shoot,” she said.

  He aimed, then his expression went from pleasure, to confusion, to rage. A second before he fled, her ears registered the welcome wail of police sirens.

  It took an hour to refuel the Comanche. Barakah spent the time on the phone with his contacts to alert them to the threat. Ava sat in the study, translating the prophecy. After changing into clean clothes, Paul used Simon’s secure line to contact Ammon and Sefu at the Segev Clinic. He explained Mellania’s betrayal and urged the boys to be cautious. When a confident Ammon announced “I shall protect him,” Paul couldn’t help but grin. Next, he called Jess’s apartment. No one answered, and Paul grew nervous. Then he glanced at the clock and did the math. It was suppertime in Boston, and they’d probably stepped out for pizza. He left a long voice mail explaining the situation and warning that Mellania might have compromised their location. Just as he hung up, Ava came in. Paul considered sharing his concerns but decided against it. She’d be paralyzed with worry, even though there was nothing more to do.

  Reading the shadows on his face, she asked, “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing, except that I’ve never heard of La Maddalena. Who’s she?”

  Ava sighed. “It’s not a person. It’s an island.”

  Paul’s expression was blank.

  “Napoleon conquered it. Admiral Nelson used it as a base. Mussolini was held prisoner there, before being rescued by—”

  He signaled for silence. “Is it far?”

  From the doorway, DeMaj said, “About four hundred kilometers. Just north of Sardinia. Come quickly. We don’t have a second to lose.”

  NEAR CALA D’INFERNO, ITALY

  Pacing behind the command desk, Don VeMeli was waiting. He despised waiting. Departure had been delayed too long already. His personal conveyance, an attack helicopter on loan from the army, sat fueled and ready. They could be more than one hundred fifty kilometers away within an hour but, infuriatingly, he couldn’t leave. All morning he’d occupied himse
lf with the trivial tasks that were the lot of a diplomatic division supervisor, his official position. Standing in the background, carefully off camera, he watched his military sycophants and legislative factotums welcome dignitaries, representatives, and the world press. Maintaining a broad smile, Don VeMeli appeared calm and serene, but an ember of concern smoldered within him. Ahmed had not reported. Surely the mission was complete. Why didn’t he call?

  Dozens of phones seemed to ring simultaneously. As a buzz of panic spread throughout the communications center, the master realized that Ahmed had failed. Two servicemen sprang from their desks and burst into the office, each jostling for priority. They informed him that numerous security organizations were on the line reporting a possible terrorist threat. Deflecting these calls to his nominal superior, Don VeMeli contacted the Gruppo’s vast network of informants. His spies confirmed the reports, adding that DeMaj and the Americans were flying to La Maddalena by helicopter.

  If they’re coming here, he thought, it could mean only one thing: The girl had unlocked the secret. Cursing Ahmed’s incompetence, the Beast barked to his staff: “Contact the air force. Islamic terrorists just hijacked a military helicopter. They must not approach the island!”

  Terrified aides backed away from Don VeMeli. None had ever seen him so angry, but after his outburst, La Belva quickly regained his composure. There was still time, he reasoned. The glorious plan would still succeed. He commanded a team of pilots to prepare for action. He knew from Mellania that DeMaj’s helicopter didn’t carry weapons. A heavily armed squadron would intercept DeMaj over Isola Caprera and eliminate him.

  Roderigo came into the command center. Confused by all the activity, he sent his master a questioning glance.

  “Demand nothing from me,” Don VeMeli said. “What you know, you know.”

  The sleek black Comanche hurtled northwest. Simon redlined its twin LHTEC T800-801 engines, pushing the helicopter to exceed one hundred seventy-five knots. Below, the sea churned. DeMaj looked back at his passengers. Ava’s eyes were shut, her face a study in concentration. She was replaying the mashed-up audio file on her headphones. All her energy was focused on completing the translation. Paul drummed his fingers against the radar display. He looked nervous.

  “Worried?” DeMaj asked him.

  Paul smiled. “Nah. We’ll be fine. Ahmed was bluffing. They can’t have a nuke.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Terrorists have never built one. It’s too complex, too expensive.”

  “Yes, but they might have bought a rogue device on the black market.”

  “If it’s that easy, why didn’t bin Laden acquire one? He had plenty of money.”

  “The main problem isn’t acquiring a warhead; it’s moving it. Years ago, a Soviet airbase commander sold part of his arsenal to the Russian mob, which then resold the WMDs to terrorists. They were caught trying to smuggle the bombs out of the country. It’s difficult to transport fissionable material across an international border. U.S. Customs pioneered a variety of effective techniques to prevent it.”

  “Then how could Don VeMeli sneak a bomb into Italy? And how could he get it onto the island?”

  Simon looked thoughtful. “Perhaps it was already there.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “During the Cold War the U.S. Navy established a nuclear submarine base at Santo Stefano. They ran boomers out of there for decades.”

  “Boomers?”

  “Ballistic missile subs. Ohio class. In 2008 I heard a rumor about a missing warhead.”

  “How could that happen?”

  “To cut costs, the Navy replaced obsolete sub components by leveraging commercial, off-the-shelf hardware. In 2007 they contracted with Lockheed Martin to complete the D5 Life Extension Program, which included missile reentry vehicles. Supposedly, when they upgraded the subs’ Trident D5 warheads from W76s to W88s, one W76 disappeared.”

  “How powerful is a W76?”

  “Six times Hiroshima,” Simon said quietly.

  After a long silence, Paul spoke up. “Are you sure? I never heard a word about it.”

  “The Bush administration kept it quiet, and I can’t blame them. If the story broke during the presidential campaign—”

  “The press would have accused Bush of using scare tactics to swing the election.”

  DeMaj nodded. “And the 2008 financial crisis was spinning out of control too. News like that might have crashed the system.”

  “So what happened to the bomb?” Paul asked.

  “No one knows, but after the incident, the Navy closed its base. The American commander lowered the flag and transferred custody to the mayor of La Maddalena.”

  Ava closed her notebook, pulled off her headphones, and stretched.

  “Finished?” Paul asked.

  She nodded. “I’ve done what I can. Will we make it in time?”

  “We’ll make it,” said Simon. “The moment we arrive, I’ll drop you at the summit or as close as possible. Then I’ll set down at the nearest pad and come meet you.”

  “What do we do?”

  “Fulfill the prophecy. Thwart the Antichrist.”

  Paul’s eyes narrowed. “What the hell does that mean?”

  “Any ideas, Ms. Fischer?”

  “Maybe.” She opened her notebook and pointed to a quatrain. Touching Paul’s arm, she said, “Read this passage.”

  “Unless the prophecy is proclaimed

  Where the great leaders gather,

  A new devil rises: invincible deceiver!

  Evil and terror consume the world of man.”

  He looked up. “I don’t follow.”

  “Garagallo said Pope Leo stopped Attila by reading a prophecy at their meeting.”

  “So?”

  “So maybe we’re supposed to read the prophecy at the G8 Summit.”

  “What good will that do?”

  Ava dropped her eyes, deflated. “I don’t know. Probably nothing. It doesn’t make much sense. Frankly, all of this stuff seems like—”

  “Superstitious nonsense?”

  A sad smile flickered. “Exactly.”

  “Well, I don’t give a damn if you believe it,” said Simon. “We’ve got to try. It may be the only way to prevent Armageddon.”

  “But it’s ridiculous. How can a prophecy stop a bomb?”

  “I admit that it requires an extraordinary leap of faith, but what other options are thre? Should we run away? Just quit? Right now my people are communicating with the security services of each nation involved in the summit. We’re providing the intel we learned on Capri and we’re doing everything possible to raise the alarm, but no one’s likely to take immediate action. People often call in false threats. They did in London. Furthermore—” DeMaj checked his watch—“even assuming the authorities believe us, I doubt they can evacuate everyone on such short notice. La Maddalena isn’t connected to the mainland by road, and unless Ahmed was lying, the deadline is less than fifty-five minutes from now. They might clear a few critical buildings or hotels, but not the whole city.”

  Ava slumped. It seemed hopeless.

  Simon went on: “They can’t evacuate everyone, so we must do everything in our power to prevent the attack. Through his organization, Barakah is spreading the word that we’re en route to La Maddalena. With luck, some of their people will arrive before we do. Fritz and my crypto team are hacking the Beast’s network, searching for something useful. Honestly, I doubt they’ll find anything, but—”

  “But at least they’re trying,” Ava finished his thought.

  “Precisely. And the same goes for us. Even if the prophecy is just superstitious nonsense, even if we’re on a fool’s errand, we must try. We must fight until the final bell.”

  That made sense to Paul. “Okay. Just tell me what you need. If we go down, at least we’ll go down swinging.”

  “I’m in too,” Ava said. “If you think it might help, I’ll proclaim the prophecy to anyone who’ll listen, but firs
t, please answer one question.”

  “Go ahead, Ms. Fischer,” said Simon.

  “If your people are screaming bloody murder to eight national intelligence services, warning them of the attack and telling them we’re on our way, isn’t La Belva going to hear about it? If he knows we’re coming, won’t he try to stop us?”

  Simon looked at her with approval. “Yes. I anticipate he’ll try to stop us. In fact, I’m counting on it.”

  The cockpit radio crackled to life. It was Fritz. “Mr. DeMaj, I regret to report that you’ve been denied permission to enter La Maddalena’s airspace. It’s now a restricted security zone. Unauthorized aircraft will be intercepted and if necessary destroyed.”

  “Message received.” Simon looked over at his two passengers, gauging their emotions. Neither American spoke as the helicopter continued west.

  “Would the Italians actually shoot us down?” Paul asked.

  “They might try, but it’s hard to shoot what you can’t see.”

  Simon took the chopper into a steep dive, leveling out less than three meters above the waves, close enough to see schools of fish darting just below the surface. Paul’s stomach did somersaults. He knew the Comanche was responsive and agile. It could fly sideways and even backward at sixty-five knots, but reading flight characteristics off a printed page was nothing like experiencing them live. He glanced at Ava, expecting to see her quaking. Instead, she was leaning forward into the restraints. Her eyes were bright, and her posture indicated confidence. Paul marveled at her courage.

  Beneath them whitecaps navigated around and between the heavy maritime traffic originating from the Strait of Bonifacio. Out of necessity Simon buzzed directly over one small ship. Its alarmed sailors hit the deck. As the morning fog lifted, a granite archipelago materialized. They drew closer, until Ava could perceive the ruins of ancient fortifications atop the easternmost promontory.