The Cana Mystery (15 page)

That wasn’t a problem here. Paul saw the jars buried in the cave. He’d helped disinter them, but, Ava reasoned, Paul was no expert. Could he tell how long they’d been buried? What if someone buried the jars sixteen years ago, not sixteen hundred years ago? Ava closed her eyes, lost in thought.

The onyx Mercedes prowled into Rosetta just as the sun was setting, burnt orange on a cloudless horizon. Despite the windows’ tint, Lieutenant Barakah was momentarily blinded by the glare reflecting off the Nile.

A name floated back to him from across the years: Aker, god of sunset and sunrise. Aker’s ideogram was twin lions back-to-back, the sun hovering between them. Barakah couldn’t recall the lions’ names, but he knew they represented yesterday and today. No tomorrow. Interesting, he thought. At that moment, the car slowed to a stop. Sheik Ahmed commanded: “Find out what happened to the boat, then meet me at the Mahaly Mosque’s front steps in two hours.”

The lieutenant nodded and walked east to the riverfront. He located the moored ECG boat and requested permission to board. Barakah hailed the first officer and asked him how the Americans had escaped.

“They got away because we couldn’t fire on them. It’s all in my official report. Yesterday afternoon we spotted the renegade skiff heading north. We approached in a responsible manner, and we ordered the captain to power down. After he ignored our lawful command, we fired a warning burst. The skiff turned and fled south at maximum speed. Ordinarily, we would have attacked, destroying or disabling the craft, but as you know, Lieutenant, we were under strict orders not to damage the smugglers’ cargo. Accordingly, we couldn’t engage the fifty-caliber. We gave chase, but they outran us.”

“Their skiff was faster than your patrol boat?”

“Well, we were constrained by governmental regulations to operate in a safe and responsible manner.”

Meanwhile, Sheik Ahmed sat in a hospital room questioning the injured policeman.

“We intercepted the dangerous gang in the town square. Despite immense personal risk, I engaged them in direct combat and shot one of the escapees. It was a fatal wound to the chest. I may have injured others. They took the body.”

Sheik Ahmed smiled politely, thanked the police officer, and commended him for exemplary service. He dropped a wad of banknotes on the table for medical expenses and left. Privately, Ahmed was disgusted. “That ignorant, lazy, incompetent swine admits he was beaten senseless by an unarmed amateur. He’s a disgrace.” Then Ahmed reconsidered. Perhaps he’d underestimated the American. Could he be more than he seemed?

Barakah waited near the mosque at the appointed hour. When the Mercedes arrived, he climbed in and communicated to Ahmed all he’d learned.

“I tire of this game,” said the sheik.

Barakah nodded and then asked, “Where are we going now?”

“Alexandria.”

“Sir?”

“Obviously, the fugitives plan to leave Egypt by sea. Why else would they come this way? Finding the river blocked, they would continue over land to Alexandria. We will do the same.”

Chapter 10

10

A shout jolted Ava awake. She sat up, hands clutching cold porcelain in fear. Then Paul’s voice boomed in the adjoining room. He began laughing and talking excitedly. Soon, she heard him hang up the phone.

Ava stood up and toweled herself dry. Wrapping her long hair in another  towel, she put on one of the hotel’s luxurious Egyptian cotton robes. After almost slipping on the slick marble floor, she cracked open the door and peeked out. Paul was smiling. With the ivory telephone receiver wedged between his ear and shoulder, he appeared to be reading the room-service menu.

Ava cleared her throat. “What was that shouting?”

Looking up, he opened his mouth to answer. Then she heard a muffled voice from on the phone. Paul spoke into it. “Room service? Can you send us some dinner, please?”

Ava simmered with impatience. Noting her expression, Paul’s eyes widened. He spoke quickly into the phone.

“Yes, thanks. Can you just—okay, hold please.”

Cupping the phone in his palm, he stage-whispered, “Sefu’s alive! They got through to the hospital and he’s in stable condition.”

Ava’s shoulders relaxed and a smile blossomed. She crossed the room to Paul, sat next to him on the bed, and listened while he ordered two steak dinners and two bottles of an expensive claret. Grinning, Ava shook her head. “Nick will regret his generosity.”

“The hell with it!” Paul said. “We’re celebrating!”

Gabe stopped typing, stretched his arms, and took a deep breath. Several people had responded to his query. Despite his fears, no one had flamed him. No one had called him a fool or a moron. In fact, he’d received numerous sympathetic replies, but only one fellow hacker had offered actual assistance, and Gabe worried about him. He reread the IM from
DURMDVL:
“Let’s discuss your problem directly. 919-555-3253.”

DURMDVL
had posted on the crypto board for years, earning a reputation for taking no prisoners. Many suspected
DURMDVL
of launching the viral attacks against the rude noobs. From some posts, Gabe had the impression that
DURMDVL
frequently raided international corporate databases, leaked documents, and even snooped on governments. Of course, it was just a hypothesis: he had no proof. All he knew for sure was that
DURMDVL
lived somewhere on North America’s East Coast, spoke English fluently, wrote tight code, and possessed a razor-sharp sense of humor.

Gabe punched in the number. Before it rang, he noticed it was 3:08
A.M.
and hung up. That call would have to wait until later in the morning. In the meantime, he decided to eat. He rued the fact that every pizza joint was closed, especially Tommy’s. Leaning far back in his leather chair, he opened the mini-fridge:
nada
. Frustrated, he pushed away from the desk, rose, and checked the cabinet. Inside he found half a bag of granulated sugar, some expired pudding, and an ancient box of Pop-Tarts.

He sighed, sat again, and pulled on his shoes. CVS was open late. He could get ice cream or something. He walked out the door, then he did a quick about-face; he’d forgotten his phone. He couldn’t tolerate the idea of missing a call from Ava. It had been days since he received her text. Presumably she’d deciphered his message, alerting her to potential eavesdroppers. That’s why she hasn’t called since, Gabe told himself, refusing to consider other explanations.

He stepped outside and stopped again. He’d forgotten his wallet.

Savoring the cool evening breeze, Ava reclined on the balcony and let her bare feet dangle over the rail. She closed her eyes and listened to the surf caress the shore. There were other sounds in the air: the rhythmic creak of moored sailboats’ rigging, the cacophony of polylingual conversations along the corniche. Next to her Paul finished his steak and attacked the remnants of Ava’s. Wind gusted, almost extinguishing their candles. He looked up to find her watching him eat.

“Do you remember when we met?” she asked.

“When we met? Or do you mean the first time I saw you?”

“When was the first time you saw me?”

“Freshman year. You were running.”

“Why do you remember that?”

“I don’t know, but I know that the first time we talked you called me an idiot.”

“I did not!”

“Oh yes you did, after we discussed the game-show question in class. Don’t you remember?”

“I remember perfectly. It was the Monty Hall problem. I called you ignorant, not idiotic.”

“Oh, thanks,” he said. “That’s much nicer.”

She giggled. “There’s a difference.”

“What?”

“Ignorance can be cured. Idiocy, I fear, is permanent.”

Paul grunted, finished his drink, and reached for the bottle. Ava lifted her glass for a refill and watched as the wine refracted flickering candlelight. A halyard strummed against a mast. On the street below, frustrated drivers honked and cursed. Ava set down her wine, drew her knees up against her chest, and rested her chin on them.

“What happens now?”

Paul sighed, rubbing his eyelids. “Tomorrow I’ll find us a way out of the country.”

“What about the jars?”

Gazing across the ancient harbor, Paul thought for a minute. Then he shrugged. “Let’s roll them into the sea.”

“Ha, ha, ha. Any serious ideas?”

He shook his head. “We can’t go to the police. Did you see that guy smile when he shot Sefu?”

Ava nodded. “We could take them to the Bibliotheca . . .”

“No way. Sheik Ahmed’s got his hooks in the local authorities. If we turn over the jars, he’ll get them. I won’t let that happen, Ava. I won’t let those murderers win.”

“So, what then?”

“I’m meeting Nick at Monty’s Bar after his shift. Maybe he knows someone who can smuggle us out of Egypt.”

Ava’s posture stiffened. She was silent for a moment. Then she announced: “No. For centuries, Europeans have stolen Egypt’s priceless relics. I’m not going to participate in that crime. Looting antiquities is illegal and immoral.”

“I don’t want any loot! I’ll happily give the jars to the first institute or museum you choose. Once we get out of Egypt.”

“And go where? Libya? Yemen? Tunisia? Saudi Arabia? Where will they be safe from Simon?”

Paul sagged into his chair. Brilliant ideas weren’t his strong suit. He had no grand strategy. He knew only that, somehow, he must keep them safe. He clung to what Father Besserion had said: “Protect what you found.” He’d accepted that charge, and his heart told him the jars would never be secure in Egypt. Suddenly Paul had a brainstorm. The more he thought about it, the more he liked it. Smiling, he sat up and turned to Ava.

“You said the jars are priceless if they’re authentic, right?”

“Yes, but we can’t simply assume—”

“Hear me out, please. The jars are either real artifacts or worthless junk. If they’re worthless, no one cares if we take them.”

“Sure, but if they’re real—”

“If they’re real, then they’re Jesus’s property! I mean, the true lost jars of Cana should belong to Christ’s heir on earth, a.k.a. the Catholic Church!”

Ava opened her mouth to disagree, and then paused. It was a novel argument. If Jesus took the jars from Cana to Capernaum, presumably they belonged to him. Wouldn’t the pope have a claim to Christ’s property, regardless of where it was unearthed? Of course, the argument’s basis, which Paul assumed as fact, was a biblical account. Not everyone accepted that version of history. Even Ava, with her Catholic upbringing, regarded most Bible stories as, in Einstein’s words, “honorable, but primitive legends.” She had no idea how the World Court would rule on the subject.

“Let’s assume you’re right. What then?”

“I propose that it’s our legal and moral duty to transport the jars to a nearby Catholic country and deliver them to the appropriate bishop, archbishop, or whatever. While the cardinals are busy electing the new pope, history experts can determine the jars’ authenticity. Assuming they’re real, international lawyers can sort out who gets them. Maybe they belong in Egypt, maybe they go to Rome, but no matter how the court rules, we’ll be okay. We never claimed ownership or sought compensation. We just relied in good faith on our plausible, albeit unorthodox, legal interpretation.”

Ava smiled. “That’s very clever, Paul.”

His shoulders lifted, and for an instant joy sparkled in his eyes. Then he turned away and shrugged.

“Ah, well, even a blind squirrel finds acorns—”

“Anyway,” she said, “what should I wear?”

“What?”

“What should I wear to Monty’s? Nick burned my robe, and I presume the bikini is inappropriate.”

Paul grinned. “I’ll call the concierge.”

Sheik Ahmed and Lieutenant Barakah arrived at the police station just after ten at night
.
While his underling questioned the cops, Ahmed commandeered an office and opened the telephone directory. He found the number of the local newspaper, called, and asked for the managing editor. The receptionist put him on hold. As he waited, Barakah entered the room. Seeing the sheik on the phone, Barakah apologized and turned to leave. Ahmed shook his head and motioned for the lieutenant to sit. Then someone picked up.

“Who the hell is this?” demanded the prickly editor.

“This is Sheik Ahmed.”

The editor gasped and juggled the phone. Instantly his tone became obsequious. “Oh, Sheik! I’m so sorry. I had no idea! No one mentioned . . . I would never—”

“Apology accepted. Now listen carefully. I have breaking news that you’ll want to publish in tomorrow’s paper.”

Gabe exited Lowell House and turned left onto Mt. Auburn. It was an exceptionally foggy night. Wet, snow-free asphalt glistened, reflecting streetlights. Humming, Gabe crossed the empty street, stopped at an ATM, and slid his card into the slot. At that moment, he sensed someone watching. He’d been mugged once in South Boston. He knew robbers try to catch people at bank machines. Warily, he glanced back into the mist: No one there. With a sigh of relief, he withdrew eighty dollars. Outside the CVS, he nodded to the Champ, a homeless man who frequently sought refuge there.

“Hey, bro,” said the Champ. “Got any change?”

“Not yet,” Gabe replied, but I’ll hook you up in a sec.” He went into the store and proceeded directly to the frozen section, seeking ice cream: Vermonty Python. Then he stopped, shocked. The entire freezer was empty.

“Yo!” he yelled to the long-haired clerk. “What’s up with the ice cream?”

“Aw, dude! The freezer is totally wack. All that stuff melted.”

“Great.” Gabe sucked in a breath and pressed two fingers against the bridge of his nose. It wasn’t his day. Should he go home and eat Pop-Tarts? No, that sounded gross. As he scanned aisles of junk food, he noticed a bearded man across the street, watching him through the fog. “Odd,” Gabe thought. “He doesn’t look like a student. He’s not nearly drunk enough.”