The Cana Mystery (19 page)

Assuming DeMaj had used similar tactics to snoop on Ava,
DURMDVL
simply hacked into DeMaj’s computer division and used its monitoring program to access the satphone’s memory. Once inside, it was easy to locate the text message Gabe sent a few days ago, rewrite it (telling Ava to call from a landline, etc.), and alter its status from “saved” to “new.” It was perfect. From DeMaj’s perspective, no outsider had accessed the phone. No new messages were sent or received, but from Ava’s perspective, a new message appeared. She wouldn’t know or care that technically it was an edited version of an old message, and as long as DeMaj’s spies didn’t reread the satphone’s saved messages, they’d never see the altered version. Sure, it would be visible if they looked, but there was no reason to look. They’d long since downloaded and copied the saved-messages file, so they could view that data much faster by opening their in-house copy. Unless DeMaj’s spies took possession of Ava’s actual phone,
DURMDVL
reasoned, it was very unlikely they’d ever read the new text. Even if they did, all they’d get from it was a 919 phone number registered to a fictitious Panamanian limited partnership. If they tried to snoop that number, their network would acquire a virulent little file
DURMDVL
had nicknamed sno-krash.

Impressed, Gabe began typing a reply asking for technical specs. Then he stopped and wondered: How could
DURMDVL
have written such a long explanation so quickly? Seconds later, it hit him.
DURMDVL
was being polite! Anticipating (correctly) his forthcoming inquiry,
DURMDVL
had prepared a thorough response, but not wanting to bruise his ego,
DURMDVL
had waited to be asked before providing the details.

Gabe shook his head in disbelief. He’d met a lot of hackers. Most were very smart, some were even brilliant, but almost all were rabid egomaniacs. They lived to brag about sick hacks, and none was polite about it. For some reason,
DURMDVL
wanted to avoid hurting Gabe’s feelings. What kind of hacker would care about that?

The casino was full to capacity. Resplendent in his white tux and tie, Nick drifted from table to table, conferring with his pit bosses. Any other night he’d have been scrutinizing the action, ensuring that no player or dealer was cheating the house. In addition, his responsibilities included congratulating big winners, welcoming regulars, and issuing comps and perks to big spenders. It was an important job. Nick’s reputation for his quick wit and garrulous personality was a key reason that many whales gambled exclusively at this casino.

Tonight Nick was filled with none of his customary
joie de vivre.
Every few seconds his eyes drifted to the threatening men Ahmed had left behind, ostensibly waiting for Paul and Ava but actually watching Nick. The sheik believed Nick’s story. Therefore, Ahmed refrained from killing him on the spot. Yet he didn’t trust Nick completely. When Ahmed and his lieutenant departed to check the vessels’ passenger manifests, they left these uniformed thugs behind to guarantee that Nick stayed put.

Thinking of the manifests, Nick grinned. The sheik would find no mention of Paul and Ava on those. Even if Ahmed had the perspicacity to demand air-transport manifests, he’d still find nothing. Sinan’s flight plan listed no passengers, just cargo. Despite all the clever misdirection, though, eventually Ahmed would uncover the truth. “And when he does,” Nick thought, “I’m as good as dead.”

He skirted a blackjack table and congratulated a boisterous Italian on his sharp decision to split eights. The gambler made 18 and 17, the dealer busted, and the table erupted in cheers. While they celebrated, Nick watched Ahmed’s men. Moments before he’d sent Jill, a popular waitress, to offer them complimentary drinks. The leggy California blond made a small fortune in tips, bringing refreshments to the casino’s elite clientele. Bending low before Ahmed’s goons, she coyly asked what they’d like. For a moment the two men stared, mesmerized by her dećolletage. They mumbled apologies, explaining that they were forbidden to drink on duty. Flirting, the sexy waitress pouted and asked if they were allowed to drink coffee. The younger of the men smiled, stole a glance at her cleavage, and admitted that coffee would be okay. Then she knelt close to him and whispered that she could bring coffee cups filled with cognac or whiskey. He laughed thanked her for the generous offer but reluctantly insisted on actual coffee. Jill giggled, bounced to her feet, and promised that she’d be right back. After watching her sashay to the bar, the men looked toward the blackjack table.

Nick was long gone.

Chapter 11

11

Gabe put the finishing touches on his latest long e-mail to
DURMDVL
. He’d written effusively of his respect for
DURMDVL
’s inventive method of circumventing DeMaj security. He included the original code for an Internet spider he designed the previous year and recommended that they infect DeMaj’s network with this information-gathering program. Gabe stopped typing, took a deep breath, and reviewed his work. It was littered with typos and other errors. He rubbed his eyes. He was dead tired. Worse, he was out of cash and couldn’t afford caffeine. At the bottom of the e-mail he added another line: “Sorry for crazy typos. Need slppe. Out of money. Suggestions?”

DURMDVL
quickly wrote back, suggesting he go to the nearest hotel and rack out. “Negative. Can’t use a credit card or ATM. I think the bad guys are watching my accounts. If they broke into my room and penetrated my system, they can access all my info.”

DURMDVL
concurred with Gabe’s bleak assessment and recommended that he crash with a friend, someone trustworthy. Then
DURMDVL
asked a shocking question: “Don’t you have a girlfriend?”

Gabe’s immediate reaction was: “None of your damn business!” He was flabbergasted by
DURMDVL
’s lack of respect for his privacy. How was his relationship status relevant to the situation? Annoyed by the breach of protocol, anxiety churned inside him. Though he’d never admit it, Gabe was a hopeless romantic. He fantasized about love affairs, but in reality he had difficulty communicating with women. The objects of his affection never reciprocated his awkward advances. It wasn’t easy. He and these women had little in common. Sexy girls seemed to inhabit terra incognita. Gabe questioned: “Is it my fault they like dim-witted TV shows; read idiotic gossip mags; and listen to insipid pop?
DURMDVL
of all people should understand,” thought Gabe. “His tastes are even more rarified than mine.”

Eventually Gabe calmed down. He remembered the huge risks
DURMDVL
was taking on Ava’s behalf, and he decided everyone should be forgiven an occasional faux pas: “No GF,” he wrote. “I’m not conventionally handsome.”

He didn’t have long to wait for a response, and when it came, he was relieved to see that the topic had been dropped: “K. Whatever. Just crash w/a friend.”

Gabe’s mind sorted the possibilities. When he remembered that Jess lived nearby, he felt some embarrassment. He’d been uncomfortable around her ever since she’d declined his invitation to the Silver Kingdom Renaissance Faire, but he had to go somewhere. He hadn’t slept in almost two days. Plus, he rationalized, Jess deserved to know that Ava was okay. He shot a quick note to
DURMDVL
, logged off the computer, and headed for Jess’s apartment.

The alarm rang at six in the morning
.
Ava dressed, went downstairs, and bought the
Malta Independent
and the
New York Times.
After determining there were no malicious stories about them in the news, Ava obtained a telephone directory and looked up the Catholic archdiocese. She called the bishop’s office but heard an answering machine. Frustrated, Ava hung up. She ordered breakfast and returned to the room. Paul was still asleep. Waking him, she said, “I called Bishop Garagallo.”

Paul yawned and cleared this throat. “Super. What’s up with him?”

“I got the answering machine.”

“Did you leave a message?”

Ava stiffened. She wasn’t his cute little secretary. “Look, why don’t you call? Here’s the number. I’m taking a shower.” She went into the bathroom and let the door slam behind her. Paul grinned. He grabbed the remote, clicked on the TV, and found the news. The lead story concerned Pope Benedict, who’d waived the traditional fifteen-day waiting period to enable the cardinals to elect a new pontiff before Holy Week. Benedict was scheduled to hold his final public audience in St. Peter’s Square on Wednesday, when he would address tens of thousands.

In local news, the Labor Party had gained several seats in parliament, three workers were hospitalized after a construction accident in Bizazza Street, and rain was expected later that night. To Paul’s great relief, nobody mentioned two American murder suspects on the lam.

By eight o’clock Paul had dressed, left the hotel, and found a payphone. He called the archdiocese. The receptionist who answered  understood English. Paul asked to speak to Bishop Garagallo. “The bishop is not yet in. May I take a message?” the receptionist said.

“Yes, of course you may, but I must see him today.”

“Well, I’m not sure that’s possible. He’s very busy.”

“I have to see him because we want to make a seven-figure capital contribution to the Church.”

The woman paused, counting zeros. Pressing his advantage, Paul continued.

“It’s imperative that we negotiate the benefaction’s terms and conditions with the bishop today.”

“I’ll see what I can do. Would ten thirty be acceptable?”

Breakfast arrived: eggs, sausage, bacon, and toast, plus a steaming pot of coffee for Paul and a cup of hot tea for Ava. Ava finished showering and dried her hair. She left the bathroom to find Paul working the
New York Times
crossword puzzle.

“How’s it going?”

“Decent. We have an appointment with the bishop at ten thirty, but I’m stuck on an obscure clue.”

Ava was surprised and pleased. “How did you get the meeting?”

“Let’s say American ingenuity.”

Ava smiled and pointed to the crossword. “Lay it on me.”

“Stately seventeenth-century French dance. Six letters.”

“Hmmm. I’m not sure. It could be P-A-V-A-N-E or
M-I-N-U-E-T.”

Paul frowned, wadded up the paper, and dropped it in the trash.

Gabe knocked on Jess’s door. He heard movement inside and a sexy voice asked, “Who is it?” Gabe envisioned Jess peering through the peephole and seeing his distorted, haggard face. “Jess? It’s Ava’s friend, Gabe. Sorry to bother you, but it’s an emergency.”

Jess flung open the door. She was wearing a short satin bathrobe. Gabe felt dizzy.

“What’s the emergency?” Jess asked. “It’s Ava, yes? Is she all right? Tell me she’s all right!”

“Ava’s fine. We contacted her. She’s—” Gabe caught himself. He looked around suspiciously. Anyone could be listening. “Do you mind if I come inside?”

“Oh, of course. How rude of me. Please come in. Have a seat.” Jess took in his stained clothes and unshaved chin. He also stank. “You look terrible. Have you slept recently? May I offer you something to drink?”

“Sure,” replied Gabe, trying to keep his eyes on her face. “Got a Coke?”

She went into the compact kitchen and pulled a can from the fridge. Gabe sat on the comfortable sofa and watched her put on a kettle to boil. She brought his Coke and sat next to him.

“Will you tell me the whole story?”

Gabe nodded. “Yeah, okay, but it’s pretty long.” Involuntarily, he glanced down at her exposed thigh. “You might prefer to wear something more . . .”

Jess grinned. His face was crimson. She popped up from the sofa and went into her bedroom to change. Gabe couldn’t help but notice that she’d left the door ajar.

Jess called out, “Is Ava still in Malta?”

Gabe freaked. “What? How the hell did you know she went to Malta?”

“Her parents told me. They’re really worried. They called a friend with the State Department, or was it the DOJ? Anyway, they reported Ava missing, unofficially, of course. This morning they got word that Ava passed through immigration on Malta. They left a message on my voice mail.”

She emerged from her bedroom in a white silk outfit to find Gabe with his head in his hands.

“What’s wrong?”

“It’s . . .” He sighed. “It’s complicated, but if you know she’s in Malta, you’re probably not the only one.”

After breakfast Paul asked the concierge to call them a cab. The taxi sped to the bishop’s office. They arrived a few minutes early, went into the historic building, passed through extensive security, and gave their names to the grandmotherly receptionist. She invited them to wait on an antique settee. Moments later the receptionist’s phone buzzed. She answered, uttered a few words in Maltese, and hung up. Then she smiled at Paul.

“Someone will be with you shortly.”

Before long an assistant escorted them into an ornate private office where a surprisingly young man wearing a suit and tie sat behind an enormous ebony desk. He rose and greeted them in English.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” Ava said. “We were expecting Bishop Garagallo.”

The man laughed. “Please accept my sincere apologies. I’m Zeke, the bishop’s executive assistant. His Excellency had to attend to urgent matters that arose at the last minute. He’s sorry, but he won’t be able to meet with you today. He asked me to see you and provide any assistance or information you require. I hope you’ll understand. He’s a very busy man.”

Ava’s eyes narrowed. She detected an undercurrent of falsehood in his practiced courtesy.

“May I ask the nature of your business?”

Paul answered. “As I said on the phone, we’d like to make a substantial donation to the Church.”

“Well, that’s very admirable, but you don’t need to see the bishop to make a donation.”