The Cana Mystery (11 page)

“Let’s hear it.”

Paul reached across the skiff and lifted his olive-drab backpack. “If I tossed this into the river, would the water level rise or fall?”

Ava examined the item: sturdy canvas, leather straps, and a brass buckle worn smooth by use. She closed her eyes, crossed her legs, and arched her back. Slowly, she rolled her head from shoulder to shoulder, stretching her tired neck.

“Do we care about the boat or the water level?”

“Water level,” he said. “I’m asking: Will the water in the river go up or down?”

She concentrated for several seconds, then asked, “Does your backpack float?”

“I think so,” he answered, regarding the alga-infested channel with distaste, “but let’s not find out.”

“Provided it floats, the river’s level remains constant. If it sinks, the level drops.”

He laughed. “You nailed it.”

“Basic physics. When your backpack is tossed overboard—”

“Never mind. Want something harder?”

“Bring it.”

“You’re trapped in a castle. There are two doors. One goes to the exit, the other leads to a deadly tiger. Between the doors is a robot. Good robots always tell the truth. Bad robots always lie. The robot will answer one question. What do you ask?”

“Should I assume good and bad robots are identical in appearance?”

“Yes. Sorry, I forgot to say that. All robots look the same.”

Ava stretched both arms above her head, interlocking her fingers. She took a deep breath, held it, then slowly exhaled. She stared at the horizon for several minutes. Ammon had guided them out of the algal bloom. He was increasing speed. She turned to Paul and smiled before answering: “Pointing to either door, I’d say ‘Mr. Robot, if I asked you whether this door leads to the exit, what would you answer?’ A good robot would tell me the truth, meaning he’d say the exit was the exit and the tiger was the tiger. A bad robot would lie, but because bad robots always lie, he’d also lie about what he would say, rendering his meta-response truthful.”

“Are you some kind of witch? Who thinks of that?”

“Is it the right answer?”

“Maybe,” Paul muttered.

“Good. Now I get to ask one.” Paul made a face, but she went on. “It’s a classic. There’s an island. Every man on it has cheated on his wife.”

“Manhattan!”

Ava laughed. “No. Don’t interrupt! There are fifty couples on the island. Each woman knows instantly if a man other than her husband cheats but no woman can tell if her own husband cheats. If a woman discovers that her husband has cheated, she kills him that very day. The pope (who is infallible) visits the island and tells the women that at least one husband has cheated. What happens?”

Paul thought for a moment. “Are any of the ladies, you know, domestic partners?”

“Ha, ha. You’re hilarious.”

“Okay. Sorry. Can I consult with my associates?”

Ava giggled. “Be my guest.”

Paul crawled astern and repeated the riddle to the boys. The Egyptians discussed it privately, then Sefu whispered their conclusion to Paul. He nodded in agreement and gestured for Sefu to tell Ava. He approached her shyly.

“This might be wrong,” he said nervously.

“Don’t worry,” Ava said gently, “just try.”

“All men killed?” he ventured.

“Yes! Excellent!” said Ava, patting Sefu’s shoulder. “But when are they killed?”

Sefu wasn’t sure. He went to ask his brother. Ammon reduced speed and the boys huddled, debating. Eventually they agreed, and Sefu announced their conclusion.

“As soon as possible?”

Ava laughed. It was a delightful sound, Paul thought, and it was good to see her cheerful, even for just a little while. When she had caught her breath, she explained the answer: No man died for seven weeks because no woman could be sure her husband was the cheater, but after forty-nine days passed without a murder, the only possible conclusion was that all fifty had cheated, so all fifty were killed on that day.

From their expressions, the boys seemed lost.

“Do you understand?” Ava asked.

They looked to Paul for guidance.

“She’s saying that if you ever cheat on your wife, she’ll kill you.”

“Oh!” said Sefu, eyes wide. “Okay.”

“Yes, ma’am,” said Ammon.

Near the village of Kwam Sharik, the delta was lush and green. Cows grazed in the fields and drank from the river. An orange sun slipped behind the row of tall palm trees lining the channel. Ava rose from her seat and opened the hold. She removed two icy bottles of beer, resealed the compartment, and sat down next to Paul. The boys shared a look.

“Are both beers for me?” In college, Ava never drank beer, preferring fruity wines or champagne.

“No. I enjoy a good lager from time to time.”

“Really? I had no idea.”

“There’s a lot you don’t know about me,” said Ava. She gave the cap a firm twist, removed it, and took a swig.

Slowly, near the village of Basyun, darkness overtook them. Sefu lit a lantern, but soon it was too dangerous to navigate. Paul asked the boys where they could camp. According to Ammon, they were close to a community called Sais. When Ava remarked that she’d heard of it, Paul was impressed, but when they arrived, he was confused. It didn’t look very important.

“It’s just like all the other villages, maybe a little bigger,” he observed as they motored closer. “Why is this place special?”

“It may seem insignificant now, but in ancient times this was an important center for pilgrimage. It contains the grave site of Osiris, the Egyptian god of the afterlife.”

“This place?” asked Paul doubtfully, eyeing ramshackle buildings and heaps of debris. “Says who?”

“Says Herodotus. This was also the location of Neith’s temple.”

“Who’s Neith?”

“Neith was a hunting goddess and a creator. That’s unusual in the Egyptian pantheon because creation deities are generally male. Neith gave birth to Sobek, the crocodile god, who represents fertility, power, and the Nile. In the Late Period, Neith’s temple was famous for exquisite linen cloth. Priestesses wove flax into fine fabric. In fact, royal linen was semitransparent.”

Paul flashed a wide smile. “So, back in the day, this town was full of hot chicks in transparent clothing worshipping a fertility god?”

“Nice!” said Ammon.

“Sexy!” said Sefu.

Ava refused to dignify their behavior with a response.

The boys felt this area was a great place to camp. Cautiously, they pushed a bit farther upriver to a secluded island featuring row after row of espaliered fruit trees. Once the boat was secure, Sefu waded ashore and hiked inland for additional supplies. Ammon opened the skiff’s hold and removed four bags of camping equipment. He tossed them onto the bank, where he and Paul began erecting tents. As they worked, Ava directed a flashlight about the orchard. She sought a private grove for a bathroom break. Watching carefully for crocodiles, asps, and other dangers, she excused herself. When she returned, she watched them complete the tent-raising and Ammon lit a campfire.

Sefu arrived with a basket of fresh fruit,
aish baladi
(a bread), and roasted chicken. The four travelers enjoyed a hearty feast. Subsequently, they retired to the tents, having agreed to rise at dawn.

After visiting the latrine, Paul walked back to camp under a canopy of brilliant stars. Backlit by firelight, Ava’s silhouette moved within their tent. She crawled into her sleeping bag and pulled it up to her chin. Paul entered, and, after stripping to his undershorts, changed the bandage on his leg. He noted with amusement that Ava’s eyes were squeezed shut. Grinning, Paul gathered their sweaty laundry, took it outside, and hung it close to the fire to dry. When he returned, he zipped the flap shut and locked the zipper. Paul wasn’t worried about crocs, but his time working on archaeological digs had taught him that Africa offered many creepy invaders to disturb slumber. He flopped down on his side of the tent.

“Sorry if I snore.”

“It didn’t bother me in Giza.”

“Okay. Goodnight then.”

“Goodnight.”

Paul lay in darkness, listening. Above the river’s patient murmur, hosts of frogs, flies, and beetles pulsed, chirped, and trilled. The boys debated something in voices too muffled to understand while a distant cricket fiddled. Ava wriggled inside her sleeping bag. He thought she must be roasting in there. A quiet laugh passed his lips.

“What’s so funny?”

“Nothing.”

“Then why are you laughing?”

“I don’t know. Look, can I ask you something?”

“Yes.”

“You said Simon was after a secret message inside the jars. What if it’s still hidden in them?”

“How do you mean?”

“I’m not sure. Could the message be hidden in the stone?”

Ava rolled onto her stomach. “Yeah, I wondered that too. That’s why he had you examine them so carefully. Simon suspected there might be a coded message carved on the surface, but we didn’t find anything.”

“But what if it’s literally in the jars?”

“Meaning?”

“Maybe written on the inside. Sealed into the material somehow.”

“I don’t think so.”

Ava mulled over the possibilities. With her mirror and lantern, she’d examined the jars’ interiors and found no evidence of writing, etching, or carving. She wasn’t really surprised. An intelligent author would expect chemicals in the wine to ruin anything written on the inside. Furthermore, she doubted anything was embedded in the stone. That would have been quite difficult to accomplish without giving away the trick at a glance. Plus, she intuitively rejected the notion that shattering the jars was necessary to obtain the message. Would the apostles want such holy relics destroyed? No. There must be another solution. Pondering these questions, Ava dropped off to sleep.

Sheik Ahmed arrived in El Wasta just before ten at night
.
When they recognized his Brabus Mercedes, the uniformed guardsmen saluted and opened the gate. The car entered the police compound and circled to the main building, where Lieutenant Barakah waited. After parking, Ahmed’s chauffeur jumped out and hurried to open the sheik’s door, but Barakah beat him to it. Ahmed turned off his phone, emerged from the car, and strode purposefully into the building. As he walked, Barakah provided his important guest with a summary of the evening’s progress.

Ahmed interrupted: “Bottom line, did he talk?”

“No, sir.”

“He will.”

The police lieutenant led Ahmed downstairs to the basement. He motioned to a guard, who pulled a string of keys from his pocket and unlocked the interrogation cell, or, as most guards called it, the confessional.

Strapped to a wooden chair and bleeding was Captain Akhmim. After enduring hours of torture, he was unrecognizable as the felucca captain who’d taken Paul and Ava to Cairo. His lips were split, his eyes were swollen shut, and he was missing teeth. Interrogators had shaved Akhmim’s thick beard and broken several ribs.

The sheik grabbed an aluminum chair and sat down close to the prisoner. He lit a cigarette and offered one to Akhmim, who refused it.

“You are a proud man,” said Ahmed. “You are strong, and you follow the ancient ways. I have great respect for you.”

Akhmim made no reply.

“Yet by refusing to answer our questions, you protect my enemies. This will not be permitted.”

Sheik Ahmed pulled his phone from his pocket. Involuntarily, Akhmim flinched, expecting a blow across the face.

Ahmed dialed a number. His call was answered on the first ring.

“Do you have them?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Put the boy on.”

He turned to his captive and asked, “Would you like to speak to your son?”

Akhmim shook with fear. “No!” he begged. “Please, no!”

Ahmed smiled. “We have your wife and children. If you don’t tell me where to find the infidels, your children will die. I shall allow you to hear them die, one at a time, over this phone. Then, my men will entertain your wife. Do you understand?”

Akhmim hung his head, his will broken.

“I delivered the Americans to eastern Cairo,” he said quietly.

“When?”

“Yesterday. Sunset.”

“Where are they now?”

“I don’t know.”

Ahmed shook his head. He raised the phone to his lips and said, “Kill the baby.”

“No!” Akhmim screamed. “I swear on my life, I don’t know where they are. They took a speedboat to Giza. They mentioned going farther west, to Rasheed, maybe to Alexandria, but I don’t know!”

“Speedboat?”

“Two smugglers, mere boys, with a fast little boat, a white skiff painted with racing stripes. They took the Americans to Giza, maybe farther. That’s all I know. I swear on my family, that’s all I know!”

Ahmed nodded thoughtfully, finished his cigarette, and said, “I believe you.” He lifted the Ruger SR9 from his pocket, pointed it at the prisoner’s head, and squeezed the trigger.

Over the phone, he could hear Akhmim’s family screaming. Sheik Ahmed put the speaker close to his ear and listened to their terror.

“Kill the family,” he told his aide. “All of them. Bury the bodies in the desert.”

As he issued these orders, Lieutenant Barakah shrank back. Ahmed noticed but kept silent.

“As I suspected,” Ahmed thought. “Barakah is weak. He lacks the strength for what must be done. He is unfit to serve the master.”

In the predawn light, Ava woke from a nightmare. It took a few moments to recall where she was. Then she panicked, realizing the two ancient artifacts were sitting in the motorboat, concealed by nothing more than canvas. She couldn’t believe the risks they’d taken. Wandering bandits could easily steal the jars. The boys hadn’t obtained anyone’s permission to camp here. What if a farmer reported them? She and Paul might be arrested for smuggling antiquities, and if Simon’s hitmen found them . . .

She resolved to check on the jars. She sat up and reached for her clothes. They were gone. Nervous, she looked left and right but saw nothing. Ava glanced at Paul. He was snoring away in blissful ignorance. She gathered the sleeping bag around her and peered around the tent. Nothing!