The Cana Mystery Read online

  Recent excavation, funded by the philanthropist Simon DeMaj, unearthed walls and mosaics of a fourth-century Byzantine church near the junction of Highways 90 and 87, about ten kilometers north of Tiberias. A mosaic depicting fish, loaves, and one of the legendary jars can be seen next to a large rock. Historians believe this location was revered in Byzantine culture.

  She shook her head. Did they actually have the nerve to call Simon DeMaj a philanthropist? That word means “lover of mankind.” If he loves humanity so much, she thought, why does he live in a secluded villa and travel by private helicopter?

  Although many attribute Tabgha’s annihilation to the Arab invasion, it was more likely destroyed in AD 614 by Persians. Regardless, the city was lost for centuries. German explorers claimed to have rediscovered Tabgha in 1932 while seeking the lost jars of Cana. Because no evidence of the jars has been found at Tabgha or Jerusalem, scholars believe the jars must have been removed to a secret location (probably in Egypt) to prevent their being stolen or destroyed by invaders.

  An effete flight attendant with a purely professional smile brought Ava a tiny cup of tomato juice. She’d have preferred the whole can. Maybe she could get a decent Bloody Mary during her three-hour layover. Ava closed her computer, reclined her seat, and dozed until the captain announced they’d begun their descent into Atlanta.

  As she waited for the connecting flight, Ava resumed her research. Indexed under “Lost Jars” and “Cana,” she found an article by Professor Alan Millard.

  Archaeologists have found several stone jars in the ruined houses of first-century Jerusalem. At least six jars stood in the basement kitchen of the Burnt House. They are 65–80 centimeters (2–2.5 feet) tall, were shaped and finished on a very big lathe, and were given a pedestal foot and simple decoration. Such stone jars would hold large quantities of water for washing and kitchen needs. Flat disks served as lids. The jars at Cana may have been similar to these.

  These facts squared with information from a particularly well-researched 2002 piece by Yitzhak Magen.

  Barrel-shaped kratars appear in different sizes, from 76 centimeters up to 87 centimeters. These stone jars have a wide opening. Some feature simple patterns while others have elaborate ornamentation, modeled after decorated bronze calyx kratars. Examples found on the Temple Mount have a large hemispheric receptacle and a base composed of a plinth and a torus. Larger kallal-type vessels had circular stone lids ranging from 40 centimeters to 50 centimeters in diameter, with the top surface worked into a profiled molding. The lids’ underside is typically flat, although some have a stepped rim to fit the jar.

  Eventually it was time to board. Passengers pushed and jostled their way onto the Boeing 777. A nasal voice boomed over the PA, demanding that everyone follow instructions. After stowing her carry-on and fastening her seat belt, Ava resumed reading until interrupted by the singsong tones of mock courtesy: “Miss, you must be eighteen or older to sit in an exit row.”

  Ava looked up to behold a stern attendant whose countenance had been drained of beauty by decades of nagging. “Thanks for the update.”

  “Honey, maybe you don’t understand. You can’t sit here unless you’re eighteen.”

  Several passengers turned. Blood rushed to Ava’s face. Her eyes widened, then narrowed. “I’m twenty-six,” she snapped. The attendant paused, dubious. Ava went on, “I graduated from Harvard four years ago. Next year I’ll finish my Ph.D. I’m twenty-six. Do you need to see my passport?”

  “No, that’s fine,” the woman murmured, wandering off to bother the next passenger.

  Paul was bone weary. He felt sand in his shoes, in his hair, even under his fingernails. Strong body odor attested to the fact that he’d not showered for days. Still, the work was exciting. When he accepted this job, he never expected to participate in one of history’s great discoveries. His phone rang. It was Simon, his mercurial boss.

  “Get packed, and make sure the truck is ready. We’re going back to HQ. We need to perform more extensive testing, and the field equipment is inadequate. You’ve an hour.”

  Grinning, Paul verbally acknowledged the instructions. He loved that Simon called his Yemen office “HQ.” So military! Paul unzipped his bag and started tossing in dirty clothes, toothbrush, razor . . .

  Then he heard angry shouting outside the tent. What now? Had Simon failed to pay sufficient baksheesh to some petty official? Were the diggers demanding overtime? He stepped outside, ready to smooth whatever feathers Simon had ruffled. Paul walked to the truck. A short distance ahead, Simon argued in Arabic with a group of seven locals. Two were very old men. The others were much younger—some looked just fifteen or sixteen. They were shouting and blocking Simon’s progress. Paul couldn’t understand a word, but the argument sounded intense. After a few minutes DeMaj reentered the command tent and gathered his security team. “Uh-oh,” Paul whispered. The guards were tough customers. Technically off-duty police, they were actually thugs. Simon kept them on the payroll to placate Sheik Ahmed, the regional drug lord. They carried AK-47s everywhere they went.

  Simon’s security team waved their guns threateningly, but the seven brave Egyptians stood their ground. DeMaj was irate. He threw up his hands in frustration and shouted in Arabic.

  Then the guards started firing. Each emptied a full clip into the unarmed men, mowing them down, riddling their bodies with holes. Blood sprayed into the air. Bullets whizzed by Paul’s face; others slammed into the vehicle.

  “No!” Paul shouted. He climbed quickly into the truck and punched the ignition. He could overlook bribery, but not murder. Not the murder of innocent civilians. Not the murder of children.

  As he hit the gas, he shouted, “I quit! Do you hear me, Simon? I quit! You’ll never get the jars, and you can go to hell!”

  Furious, scared, and alone, Paul sped into the dark, empty desert.

  Halfway across the Atlantic, Ava tired of solving sudokus and resumed her research. Cross-referencing “hidden meaning” with “gospels,” “Jesus,” and “Lost Jars of Cana,” she found an article among her files.

  Much controversy exists over what (if anything) the sacred jars represent. One theory is that they stand for the early Christian geographic divisions, and the leftover wine represents the Temple. Thus, as the wine is sealed in the jars, so the ancient Temple is superseded by the Christian churches. The importance of the jars’ number is clear. In the Old Testament, the number 7 signifies wholeness and completeness. A week has 7 days. On the 7th day, God rested because his work was finished. There are 6 jars because Jesus himself is the 7th. Christ placed significance on the leftovers from these miracles, whether collected in baskets or in jars. When asked by his disciples what to do, he chides: “Having ears, hear ye not? Do ye not remember? How is it that ye do not understand?” (Mark 8:18–21)

  Ava deleted that article. She had no tolerance for mysticism or numerology. She refined her search terms. To her great amusement, under “legend + Cana + wedding + jars,” she found a 2012 article cowritten by none other than Dr. Ron Bagelton. Ava couldn’t resist giving it a look.

  The first miracle occurred at a marriage feast, often considered the wedding of Mary and John the Apostle, but a suppressed, older version of the legend reveals that the wedding was between Mary Magdalene and Jesus himself.

  She rolled her eyes. Naturally, the unscrupulous Bagelton would exploit the supposed proof that Jesus had been married. Ava recalled the buzz around Harvard when Professor Karen King unveiled a business card–size papyrus fragment purporting to quote Jesus mentioning a wife. The gullible U.S. media went wild. Fortunately, sober-minded journals exercised more caution. The Harvard Theological Review postponed publication of Dr. King’s article, citing the need for further research. In Italy, the Vatican’s L’Osservatore Romano declared the fragment a “very modern forgery.” Faced with the growing consensus among scholars that she’d been victimized by a hoax, Dr. King conceded the existence of doubts about the fragment’s authenticity, accepted the n
eed for additional testing, and agreed to revise her paper. Bagelton’s article, unencumbered by any mention of the dispute, continued.

  The Secret Gospel of Mark relates the story of Jesus in Capernaum, where Jesus says: “Happy are those invited to the wedding feast of the Lamb. Write down the true words of God. The one alone shall be chaste [fruitless]. Only two together behold [contain] the truth.” Later, Jesus explains why Romans cannot yet comprehend his message: “They listen, but do not understand, because their minds are dull. They have stopped-up ears. If you have ears, listen to what the Spirit says to the people!”

  Ava skipped a few paragraphs, then read on.

  In Revelation 5:2, St. John writes: “Who is worthy to break the seals and unlock the message?” This passage has never been deciphered. The interpretation might be similar to cryptic writings of Greek mysticism. There have been attempts throughout history to decode a biblical instruction set for creating a mystic diagram, taking the gematria of the passage into account.

  Gematria? Ava laughed out loud. “Give me a break,” she thought. “How does a man like Bagelton still have an academic career?” She moved on to the next article. On the whole, it provided more history and less baloney, but it concluded:

  Some scholars interpret these stories as factual events, prodding fanatics and treasure hunters to seek the relics mentioned in the biblical text. The legendary lost jars of Cana, said by John to have been used when Christ converted water to wine, are rumored to contain an unreadable prophecy predicting the ultimate apocalypse and providing the subtext for the warnings in Revelation against the coming Antichrist.

  “Great,” thought Ava, closing her laptop. “The end of the world.”

  Simon sat in his tent and fumed. Savage winds jostled the tent posts, rocking a kerosene lantern to and fro. Each pendular swing cast fearsome shadows across the sandy floor, sometimes lighting and sometimes obscuring Simon’s face. He cursed. Events had overtaken them. The recovery mission had devolved into disaster, and now the situation was spiraling out of control. He tried Paul’s phone again. No answer. DeMaj fought to maintain his composure. Pouring another cup of coffee, he wondered: Where would the young American go? What would he think? And what of the girl, the ancient-languages expert? She must arrive in Sana’a soon. Did she know anything? Would she be difficult? As the sirocco clawed the taut canvas, Simon plotted his next move. Reluctantly, he unlocked his phone and dialed Sheik Ahmed’s number.

  Chapter 3

  3

  Surrounded by dramatic mountains of basalt, Sana’a has been inhabited for at least twenty-five hundred years. According to legend, it was founded by Noah’s son Shem after the Great Flood. Ava remembered Sana’a had been conquered by the Mamelukes in 1517 and again by the Ottomans under Sulieman the Magnificent. Fortunately, neither conquest resulted in the historic citadel’s destruction.

  The plane landed and Ava breezed through customs. Mildly disappointed to find no welcoming committee, she waited as fellow passengers greeted friends, family, and business associates. Eventually, only Ava and a man remained at the gate. She regarded him furtively. His features had a distinctively vulpine aspect. Ava didn’t recognize him from the plane. He must be waiting for someone, but she was the only passenger left. Was he waiting for her? She tried to ask him, but when she approached, he retreated into the airport crowd. With a shrug, Ava hoisted her backpack and trekked to baggage claim.

  Twenty minutes later she’d recovered her gigantic suitcase from the carousel. There was still no sign of Paul. She rested her bags on a bench of polished chrome and black vinyl and sat down to wait. After all, she reasoned, why should she hurry? They were paying her two thousand dollars a day. Almost ten minutes passed before her natural impatience gained the upper hand. Ava unlocked her phone and attempted to check her voice mail but she didn’t get service in Yemen.

  Then she remembered Gabe’s satphone. It should work anywhere. Kneeling, she opened her suitcase and began searching through its contents. At that moment she caught a chilling reflection in the chrome of the bench. Ava froze. It was the man from the gate. Concealed behind a pillar, he was watching her.

  As terror gripped her, Ava struggled to remain calm. She told herself there was nothing to fear. He was probably just a lonely guy who watched women in airports. She shut her suitcase, stood, and began dragging her bags toward the exit. As she neared the automatic glass doors, she again looked at her reflection. Was anyone behind her? She wasn’t sure. Then she saw him. He was following her out of the building. Heart pounding, Ava started to sweat. She tried to hurry, but the heavy suitcase anchored her in place. With all her might, Ava jerked it onto her hip, somehow curled her fingers beneath it, and jogged out the door. Yelling apologies in Arabic, she pushed to the front of the taxi line and threw herself into a waiting cab.

  “Hotel,” she demanded. “Hurry!” The driver dropped his newspaper and turned the ignition. As the cab pulled away from the curb, Ava glanced back through the rear window. Her pursuer had disappeared.

  The taxi deposited Ava at an expensive tourist lodging. She checked in, keeping the receipt for reimbursement. Lugging her heavy bags, a bellhop guided Ava to her room and left the key. She gave him a nice tip, mentally adding it to her travel-expense tally. Alone, Ava sat on the edge of the bed, heart still racing from the traumatic experience of being followed. She felt scared and vulnerable. Worse, she couldn’t decide if she’d overreacted. Was she a stereotypical American, fearful that every foreigner posed a threat?

  Using the hotel phone, she called home. The call went straight to voicemail. Ava’s mother, Helen, never answered calls from unfamiliar numbers. After recording a brief message saying that she’d arrived safely, Ava hung up and wondered if that was true. Was she in danger? Maybe she was paranoid. Regardless, she’d make a poor first impression on Mr. DeMaj in this condition. She needed to decompress, and for Ava the best method was exercise. Whenever she stayed in a high-rise hotel she got a terrific workout sprinting up and down the stairs. Ava stripped off her floral dress and donned black running shorts, a white tank top, and pink Reeboks. She dropped her passport, room key, wallet, and Gabe’s satphone into a mini backpack, which she tied across her torso. Then, stretching her arms high above her head, she jogged into the hall and went in search of the stairwell.

  In Ava’s opinion the exits were poorly marked. After two wrong turns, she was lost. Although she could read Arabic, no signs or arrows directed her to the stairs. “What should we do in case of fire?” she thought acidly to herself. As she neared the corner, the elevator’s bell rang. Ava relaxed. She’d just ride down to the lobby and ask the concierge about gym facilities, but when she turned, her heart jumped into her throat. The man from the airport had just exited the elevator. He was faced away from Ava, scanning room numbers. This wasn’t paranoia. He’d followed her here. As she watched, he began walking down the opposite hall. Ava counted three rapid heartbeats and—timing the automatic doors precisely—dashed into the elevator. She must have made a sound, because at the last instant the man turned. Dark eyes brimming with malice, he stared into her as the stainless-steel doors slid shut.

  Several times Ava pounded the LOBBY button. Enduring the agonizingly slow descent, Ava curled her hands into fists and vowed to make the man pay dearly for anything he took. Finally, the bell rang and the doors opened. She peered out of the elevator. He wasn’t there. Never one to test fate, she ran past the startled bellhop to the front door.

  “Gabe,” Ava shouted into the chunky black phone. “Gabe, please! I’m in trouble!” She didn’t want to mention the man following her, but she needed to convince him this was urgent. A long pause ensued. Was it a technical impediment or was Gabe making up his mind?

  “Okay, Ava. What do you need?”

  She gave silent thanks that she knew someone as savvy and loyal as Gabe. They’d met her sophomore year. Gabe lived in the dorm room directly above Ava’s. Her roommate had called the resident tutor to complain about a “psycho
” upstairs who insisted on blasting electronica until five in the morning and apparently smoking clove cigarettes, in obvious violation of dorm rules. Gabe came down the next day to apologize. Ava answered the door in a damp sports bra and running shorts. Even now she grinned, remembering his geeky, endearing efforts to maintain eye contact. He stammered out his mea culpas and explained that he’d been up all night blogging (critiquing something called carnivore) and that whenever he got into his hacker zone he lost all concept of time, music volume, everything.

  Except for the clove cigarettes, which he quit that year, and the fact that he’d risen to become a resident tutor himself, Gabe remained essentially the same sweet-natured guy. He was a little taller and heavier but just as bright, quirky, innocent, and lovable.

  “My contact never showed at the airport. I need to find him and all I have is a phone number. I’m not even sure what continent he’s on. Can you help?”

  “When was the last time you spoke?”

  “Right before I left Boston.” When was that? It must have been at least twenty-four hours before, but she couldn’t be sure with all the time-zone changes. To Ava it seemed that a week had passed.

  “Give me the number. I’ll work backward. Try to use GPS. You’re probably within signal-intercept range of Agios Nikolaos.”