The Cana Mystery
Authors: David Beckett
Tags: #Fiction, #Mystery & Detective, #International Mystery & Crime
Title page
THE
CANA
MYSTERY
David Beckett
WELLESLEY, MASSACHUSETTS
www.TuscanyPress.com
Copyright
Copyright © 2013 by David Beckett
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or utilized in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
Tuscany Press, LLC
Wellesley, Massachusetts
www.TuscanyPress.com
The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
Publisher’s Cataloging-in-Publication Data
(Prepared by The Donohue Group, Inc.)
Beckett, David, 1972–
The Cana mystery / David Beckett.
p. ; cm.
ISBN: 978-1-939627-11-7 (hardcover)
ISBN: 978-1-939627-10-0 (pbk.)
ISBN: 978-1-939627-09-4 (ebook)
1. Turning water into wine at the wedding at Cana (Miracle)—Fiction. 2. Benedict XVI, Pope, 1927—Fiction. 3. Massachusetts Institute of Technology—Graduate students—Fiction. 4. Storage jars—Middle East—Fiction. 5. Conspiracy—Middle East--Fiction.
6. Mystery and detective stories. I. Title.
PS3602.E355 C36 2013
813/.6 2013939718
Printed and bound in the United State of America
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
Text design and layout by Peri Swan.
This book was typeset in Garamond Premier Pro with Shelley Andante Script as a display typeface.
Dedication
For Catherine
Half title page
THE
CANA
MYSTERY
Quote
In a time when error reigns—
bleak days the world doth mourn,
cries of anguish, great with pain,
children of the light forlorn.
A
VA OF
G
ÖTTWEIG,
“Der Antichrist,” Vorau Manuscript
(trans. author)
Prologue
PROLOGUE
T
HE
V
ATICAN, 1462
Daybreak. Pope Pius II watches a fiery orb crest the Tiber. His mind drifts. He recalls that Aristotle’s student Callippus once computed the seasons’ duration, measuring the sun’s movement within its ethereal sphere. While the pontiff ruminates, his valet methodically extinguishes the candles that had illuminated a long, busy night. Pius smiles. An educated man, he’d known it would be difficult to glean the secret. Nevertheless, anticipation grows in him. On this blessed day they may unlock the great enigma, a message concealed for a millennium.
One artifact has remained hidden in the catacombs since the Vandals’ attack in 455. He’d retrieved the second from Scotland twenty-five years ago. Now he prays the cryptic knowledge these objects contain would avail his church in its desperate campaign against the Turks, who are occupying Constantinople.
Pius turns away from the window and crosses through a cleverly masked portal. Emanating from his private library, wondrous voices speak incomprehensible words. Inside, a dexterous young acolyte transcribes the mysterious cipher. Pius watches the boy ink words onto a scroll. Gradually, words form into couplets; couplets become quatrains. “It must be the lost prophecy,” the pope thinks, “just as Bessarion and Regiomontanus described.” Pius understands not a syllable.
“What language is that, Jacopo?” he asks his most trusted cardinal.
“An ancient tongue, Holiness. Few in Christendom speak it. It’s beyond my ken, but my young scribe can translate.”
The pope is not surprised. Cardinal Jacopo Piccolomini-Ammannati is ever surrounded by an entourage of brilliant students. Over the years, he’d guided countless priests’ careers. The shrewd academician could be elected pope himself someday, supported by this army of admirers and protégés.
“Very well. What does it say?”
The Gallic child smiles. He is eager to win favor with the Holy Father—and he is secretly pleased he will be able to report the prophecy to his true master, the brilliant Spider King. Having transcribed several quatrains into Latin, he begins to read aloud.
Chapter 1
1
N
EAR
S
ANTO
S
TEFANO,
I
TALY
D
ECEMBER 24, 2007
The tiny archipelago had been inhabited since prehistoric times. Romans named it Ilva, then Fussa, and, later, Bucina. In medieval times it was called Bicinara. Pisa and Genoa disputed ownership throughout the twelfth century. Four hundred years later, Corsican shepherds rechristened it Santa Maria Magdalena. Now it concealed a secret U.S. submarine base.
Across the bay a dilapidated ferry’s halogen floodlights pierced the gathering fog. On board, Roderigo leaned against the wet metal rail and smoked. He checked his watch: 11:20
P.M.
, plenty of time. Earlier that day, he had crossed the causeway from Caprera and piloted his van through Moneta’s narrow streets. The Italian’s movements betrayed no anxiety. His papers were legitimate, his registration was authentic, and his custom-tailored delivery uniform bore Francese-Trinita Catering’s interlocked
F-T
logo. Don VeMeli had seen to every detail.
The lumbering boat docked. Roderigo started the van and drove to the base, where, just before midnight, a moderately intoxicated guard waved him through security. At the appointed spot, the Italian parked, killed the ignition, rolled down the window, and tapped his cigarettes.
Before long, he detected a diesel engine’s tubercular mutter. He swung his long legs out of the vehicle, stood upon the rain-soaked asphalt, and stretched. A motorized forklift emerged from the gloom. Roderigo hailed its driver, who nodded in recognition.
Working in collusive silence, the men removed three heavy suitcases from the van and replaced them with a ponderous steel container. Business complete, Roderigo was preparing to depart when he felt a hand on his elbow. He turned.
“Your boss . . . he keeps his word, right? He’ll use it only on Arabs?”
The Italian’s eyes narrowed. He appraised this curious confederate: shaved head, pale skin, several fierce tattoos, but really just a frightened lad.
“Because if that,” the speaker continued, gesturing to the van’s cargo, “goes off in New York, D.C., anywhere else in the States . . .”
Roderigo’s nostrils flared, emitting a curl of bemused smoke. “Relax,
paisan.
The Gruppo hates ragheads as much as you. My boss will do the right thing, like Truman did in forty-five.”
The serviceman’s posture eased, and if he suffered further pangs of conscience, Roderigo knew, the million-dollar bribe would dull them.
“Okay. I just needed to be sure.”
“No problem.”
As they shook hands, the lanky Italian smiled, knowing the young American soldier would be dead inside a week. Roderigo rammed the door shut and started the van. Just before leaving, he called out, “Merry Christmas!”
B
OSTON,
F
EBRUARY 2013
Ava was roused by her phone vibrating. Who calls at three in the morning
?
Groggily, she traced a finger across the screen to answer.
“Hello?”
“Hi, Ava. What’s happening?”
The man’s voice was familiar, but she couldn’t quite place it. “Listen, I need help on something,” he said. “What’s your schedule next week?”
Emerging from a drowsy fugue, Ava struggled to identify the caller. Not Gabe, not Dad, not her thesis adviser. Maybe the pushy guy from the bachelorette party? Hadn’t she given him a fake number? Was he stalking her?
“Who is this?” She was fully awake now, and riled.
“This is Paul. Paul Grant. Can you come to Yemen? My boss will pay for everything. We found something important and we need your help to—”
“Paul?” It had been years, and, as she recalled, they’d parted under ambiguous circumstances. Now he was calling in the middle of the night expecting her to drop everything and fly to Yemen?
“Is this a joke? Who is your boss?”
“Oh, I thought you knew. I work for Simon DeMaj. You’ve heard of him?”
Of course she had. DeMaj was a global celebrity. Rising from the slums of Algiers, the half-French, half-Algerian polymath had flown helicopters for the French air force before attending Yale. Later, he made headlines when his high-tech start-up landed contracts to provide Jordan, Syria, Egypt, and Libya with state-of-the-art digital infrastructure. DeMaj had wired half of the Middle East, becoming one of the world’s four hundred richest men in the process. He was equally famous for romantic liaisons with models and actresses—juicy affairs providing fodder for gossip columns and tabloid pictorials. DeMaj was as likely to be seen hosting an economic development forum at Davos as canoodling with best-supporting-actress nominees at the California Governor’s Ball.
“I may have heard the name,” Ava deadpanned. “What does he want?”
“We need an expert in ancient languages,” Paul told her, “someone who can solve difficult puzzles. I can’t explain by phone, but you’ll be well compensated. How about two thousand dollars a day?”
Despite herself, Ava was intrigued. She couldn’t resist an intellectual challenge and she could use the money, but that was insufficient justification to leave the country.
“Paul, I need more info.”
He groaned. “You’ll get me in trouble. I’m really not allowed to say. How about this: I’ll give you a hint and you figure it out, just like the old days.”