The Cana Mystery (20 page)

Disliking his officious manner, Ava said, “It’s a donation of property, not money.”

“Is that so? What type of property?”

“Unique historical artifacts,” she said.

His eyes widened.

“Valuable?” he asked, leaning forward in his chair.

“Yes.”

“How valuable?”

Ava smiled. Now she had his undivided attention. “The exact figure may be difficult to determine. No objects like these have ever been auctioned. Lesser artifacts of similar age were projected to fetch at least two million dollars, until they were determined to be inauthentic.”

“And you believe yours are authentic?”

Ava and Paul exchanged a glance. She replied, “We think so, but we can’t be positive. It would be the owner’s duty to establish authenticity.”

Zeke drummed his fingers on the desk, then asked, “What do you expect in return?”

“Certain guarantees,” said Ava.

“Such as?”

“Should the items prove genuine, the Church must promise to display them to the public in an appropriate forum and make them available for study by the legitimate academic community. If the Church opts to sell the artifacts, which I doubt, it would convey them subject to identical terms.”

“And what else?”

Ava looked at him. “Pardon me?”

“What else do you want?”

“Nothing else.”

“No reward? No credit for the discovery?”

Ava was annoyed. Her look said, “What part of ‘Nothing else’ is confusing?”

Hoping to avert an argument, Paul jumped in. “We don’t seek any reward or compensation. We’d remain anonymous.”

The man was skeptical. “But that doesn’t make sense. Why would you do that? Why not sell the items to a museum or a university?”

Ava was fuming. “Look, we’re not here to answer your questions. We have our reasons and you have our offer. Tell your boss to take it or leave it, that is, if he can find time in his busy schedule to consider our proposal.”

Ava stood, took Paul’s hand, and led him out of the office.

Zeke jumped up from the desk and followed them into the hall. “Wait! Come back! Where are you staying? How can I reach you?”

Ava neither paused nor looked back.

On their way out of the building Paul detoured to the receptionist’s desk. He dug the Two Gods business card out of his wallet and handed it to her, saying, “We can be reached at this number. Ask for Paul.”

A moment later, the bishop’s assistant walked up and snatched the card from the receptionist’s hand. Ignoring her glare, he watched the Americans depart. Once he was sure they were gone, he returned to the office. He closed the door, unlocked his private cell phone, and punched in some numbers.

They arrived at the Two Gods just after noon. A jazz record played quietly on the jukebox: Sarah Vaughan singing “Lover Man.” While Paul spoke to O’Hagan, Ava found an empty booth. Paul brought over a plate of deep-fried
lampuki,
some anchovy-filled
pastizzi
(puff pastry), and two frothy mugs of Stella Artois. Being careful not to spill anything, he eased their lunch onto the carved wooden table. The look on Ava’s face revealed that she was still angry. Paul sat, sipped his beer, and waited. After a moment, she asked, “Has anyone called?”

“No. Looks like we have some time to kill.”

A few seconds passed. Then Ava exploded: “This is unbelievable! Do they think it’s a joke? We offer the Church a unique archaeological find, easily worth millions, and the bishop won’t even meet us? It’s unacceptable!”

“He probably does think it’s a joke. Or maybe he thinks it’s a scam.”

“But we didn’t ask for money!”

Paul took a drink from his mug and set it on the table. “What’s the matter?”

Ava reddened. “Are you kidding? I’m upset because the bishop won’t see us! We’re in mortal danger, and he’s off doing God knows what. I can’t believe he’d be so inconsiderate.”

“I’m sure he has a lot on his mind. Did you hear that Pope Benedict accelerated the conclave? We could have a new pope by St. Patrick’s Day.”

Ava rolled her eyes. “So what? The Catholic bureaucracy is hopelessly out of touch. The cardinals will just elect another stuffy European. The Church will never change!”

She was on the brink of tears. Paul reached across the table and took her trembling hand. Then, looking her in the eyes, he asked: “What’s really bothering you?”

She opened her mouth to argue, then paused. He was right. “Okay, I am upset about the bishop and the Church, but I’m really angry with myself. Given the chance to crack one of the world’s great mysteries, I struck out. Where’s the lost prophecy? Why can’t I solve the riddle?”

“Maybe there wasn’t a mystery to solve,” Paul said. “I’m not convinced that a hidden message exists. Would Jesus really make up a prophecy? That sounds more like something you’d get from a bogus psychic or a fortune-teller than from the Bible.”

“Are you kidding? A prophecy is something uttered by a prophet. Paul, the Bible is chock-full of prophets and prophecies. Tons of folks get zapped by the Holy Spirit and start predicting the future—often in verse. Read Luke 1:67, Deuteronomy 18:18, or Acts 3:22, ‘For Moses said, “The Lord your God will raise up for you a prophet like me from among your own people; you must listen to everything he tells you.”’ In John 13:38, Jesus himself prophesied that Peter would deny him three times before the cock crowed.”

Paul waved his white napkin in surrender. “Okay, okay, I concede. You don’t need to quote chapter and verse.”

She blushed. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to be rude. I’m just really frustrated.”

He waited, giving her a chance to explain.

Ava lowered her eyes and sipped from her mug. “I’ve been dissatisfied for a long time, okay? I’ve just been too proud—or maybe too scared—to face it. The honest-to-God truth is that I’m dreading graduation. I’ve worked like a dog to finish my doctorate, but why? I don’t want a life built around researching and debating linguistics. I’ll become another Professor von Igelfeld, hermetically sealed in an academic cloister. The moment I saw the jars, I sensed this was my path, my destiny. We can’t keep them, obviously, but when we surrender those artifacts, our journey ends. I’ll resume my mundane existence: books, lectures, maybe the occasional pub quiz, but no adventure.”

He shook his head. “No disrespect to Professor von Igelfeld, but you can do anything you want. Ava, each day offers a new adventure. With your abilities and talents you can go anywhere. What do you want to see tomorrow? Yonaguni? The Mountains of the Moon? There are no limits but those we accept. Sure, it can be risky, and sometimes it hurts, but that’s real life: a thrilling spin of the wheel.”

Ava smiled. She felt much better after hearing what Paul said. She made eye contact. He held a fist to his cheek, with his thumb to his ear and his pinky pointing to his lips: the universal sign for
telephone.

Paul walked to the bar and took the receiver. “Hello?”

A gravelly voice said, “This is Bishop Garagallo. Is this Paul?”

“Yes, Excellency. Thank you for calling. Did you get our message?”

“I did. May I ask a question?”

“Of course.”

“Are you the Americans who encountered some difficulty in Alexandria?”

Paul took a deep breath. “We are, but the newspaper accounts of our activities are dead wrong.”

“I believe you, but I’m sure you’ll understand that given the circumstances, a man in my position cannot meet publicly with . . . fugitives.”

Paul was glad the man hadn’t called them criminals
.
“Yes, Father. We understand. Nevertheless, we are eager to meet. What do you suggest?”

“Are you familiar with the Catacombs of St. Paul?”

“No.”

“They’re a complex of interconnected caves located in Rabat, on St. Agatha Street. The last tour begins at four thirty, but if you can meet me later, I’ll arrange for the gate to remain unlocked.”

“I’m sure we can find it, Excellency.”

“Good. Meet me in the chapel at eight. Bring the jars. Please come alone, and tell no one of our meeting.”

Paul returned to the table. Something about the telephone call bothered him, but he wasn’t sure what. He told Ava the bishop was willing to meet. She was elated. Then he asked, “I assume you’ve heard of these catacombs?”

“Of course. St. Paul’s Catacombs represent the earliest archaeological evidence of Christianity on Malta. They contain numerous tombs and important murals, the island’s only surviving evidence of late-Roman and early-medieval painting. It’s an important historical site as well as a tourist attraction.”

“Won’t it be too dark to see much at eight o’clock?” asked Paul as he tasted the fish.

“Paul, it’s a cave. It’s dark all the time.”

He laughed. “Right. I’ll bring a torch, then.”

Ahmed’s phone rang. He checked the caller ID and fear gripped him. It was the call he dreaded. He dismissed his entourage, closed the office door, and then picked up. “Master?”

“The Americans are in Malta. You must complete your mission. I cannot tolerate another delay. The girl is adept at solving puzzles. She may uncover the secret.”

Paul and Ava walked back to the hotel and prepared for an excursion into the catacombs. Ava obtained directions from the concierge while Paul purchased a small flashlight from the gift shop. They went upstairs to change. Ava donned khakis, a T-shirt, and running shoes. Looking for his blue jeans, Paul opened the closet. He paused. The two canvas-covered canisters were still hidden inside. Noting his posture, Ava asked, “What’s up?”

“Garagallo said to bring these to the meeting.”

“And?”

“And . . . I don’t think we should. They’re much safer up here. If the bishop accepts our deal, he can send someone to collect them. Or he can come himself. Either way, I don’t think we should haul them halfway across the island. It’s an unnecessary risk.”

“If you feel strongly, then I agree,” Ava said.

They caught a cab to Rabat, an ancient settlement several kilometers inland. The taxi dropped them in the parish square outside St. Paul’s Church. Less than one hundred meters down St. Agatha Street, they found the catacombs. The site was closed for the evening but, as promised, the gate was unlocked. The two Americans stepped inside. Paul turned on his flashlight. Its bright beam revealed the entrance to a sizable labyrinth. Steep steps led down into a central gallery from which passages branched off in several directions.

“Spooky!” said Paul.

Ava hit his arm. “Hush! Show some respect. These are tombs.”

“Sorry,” he whispered. Taking her hand, he guided her into the large chamber. Divided by a central pillar, the room opened into a bewildering series of tunnels. Immediately to their right, a wide corridor beckoned.

“Which way to the chapel?” Paul whispered. Ava shrugged. She had no idea.

“Guess we’ll find out.”

Paul ventured into the passage. After walking twenty-five meters, they entered a tall crypt with a raised plinth. Hewn from the natural rock were two circular tables and two semicircular benches. Ava whispered that the site must have been used for meals during the ancient festival of the dead. Then Paul stopped in his tracks. At the end of the chamber was an apse containing a variety of small amphorae and two large stone jars. Both were unsealed. Their heavy stone lids rested on an adjoining shelf. Eyes wide with wonder, Paul turned to Ava and in a hushed voice asked, “Are those what I think they are?”

His question confused her for a moment. Then Ava understood. Out of respect for the dead, she struggled to suppress her laughter. She took his wrist and redirected the flashlight’s beam to a sign near the apse. In several languages, it read:
EXAMPLES OF PERIOD STONEWORK AND CERAMICS.

“Honestly, you didn’t think those were the other lost jars, did you? They’re not even from the right century! Look at the carving style—”

“Whatever,” Paul said glumly. From his tone, Ava worried that she’d really insulted him. She was relieved when his usual smile reemerged.

They continued down the passage until they reached a dead end.

“Damn. Looks like we took a wrong turn,” Paul said. He led her back to the main chamber and played his flashlight over the wall signs. One indicated that the chapel was to their left. They followed the arrow and descended deeper into the catacombs. Down a few more steps was a wide room. Ava could see why it was called a chapel: A shadowy recess at its far end resembled an altar. Walking slowly in the dim light, she approached, drawing closer until a loud voice called out, “Did you come alone?”

Ava spun around. A tall, robed figure materialized out of the gloom. She tried to answer, but found she couldn’t. Paul spoke for her.

“Bishop Garagallo? Hi, nice to meet you. We came alone, as you requested.”

“Excellent. It’s nice to meet you, too. Now Paul, I told you to bring the jars. Where are they?”

In that instant, Paul realized what had been bothering him. They’d never said the artifacts were jars! Paul needed time to think. He stalled.

“The jars? Oh, they’re safe. They’re in a very safe place.”

“Where?”

Paul looked at Ava. She was embarrassed. His intuition told him something was very wrong. The bishop shouldn’t know about the jars. He couldn’t know. Unless. Paul hunted for a decent response. Then he heard Ava.

“I apologize, your Excellency. We left the jars—”

“In the other cavern,” Paul finished. “We left them over in the other cavern. You see, it’s my fault. I got us lost. We took a wrong turn, and, you know, those things can get very heavy. I can show you where they are. I’ll lead you to them. Come this way.”

Ava stared at him. She had no idea what he was doing, but she trusted him enough to play along. Paul turned and walked out of the chapel. Unsure of what to do, he tried to formulate a plan. Suddenly, he had an idea. When they reached the main chamber, he turned. “Watch your step, Father. You know Malta’s reputation for poisonous snakes.”

“What?” The bishop was confused. “Snakes? Certainly. I’ll watch out for them.”

Paul saw Ava stiffen. She knew. The real Maltese bishop would have caught the reference. She looked directly at Paul, fear written on her face. “Ava, you look a little cold. Why don’t you wait for us outside? The bishop and I can carry the jars—”