The Cana Mystery (21 page)

“No, I don’t think so.” From the folds of his robe, the man produced a pistol equipped with a silencer.

He pointed the gun at Ava. “Move away from the stairs. Stand next to him.” Ava was shaking. She backed into Paul. He looped his arm around her waist and pulled her close, but for once his touch didn’t calm her.

“You’re not Bishop Garagallo,” said Ava.

The man smiled.

“Look,” said Paul, “you can have the jars. We won’t make trouble. If you let her go, I’ll help you carry them out.”

The man smiled again. “First, show me the jars. Then we’ll negotiate.”

The three of them continued down the corridor until they came to the room with the stone tables and benches. Paul knew they’d both be killed as soon as the impostor had what he wanted. Playing for time, he tried to distract the man with chatter.

“So, why are you doing this? What’s in it for you?”

The assassin didn’t reply. Desperate, Paul began again, “It’s the money, right? Of course it is. You’re a professional. Can’t say I blame you. For a hundred million? Who wouldn’t?”

When the killer reacted to the figure, Paul knew he’d found his angle: greed. Somehow he must use that to his advantage. Praying the impostor wouldn’t read the sign, Paul strode directly to the apse and turned around. Standing next to the alcove, he pointed his flashlight at the stone examples and said, “Well, here they are. The famous lost jars of Cana.”

When the false bishop saw the two jars, he allowed himself a smug smile. His mission was almost complete. He raised the revolver and pointed it at Ava’s face. “Go stand next to him.” She complied. Grinning, the killer cocked the pistol.

This was it—now or never! “Of course, you don’t really need the jars once you’ve seen the message,” Paul said coolly.

The man paused. “What message?”

“Didn’t they tell you? That’s why the jars are so valuable. There’s a message hidden inside. It gives the location of a buried treasure worth hundreds of millions. We uncovered it.”

Paul pointed his light down into a jar. “See? It’s right here. You can read it.”

“Step away,” the killer ordered. Paul backed up against the shelf. With one hand, he kept the flashlight on the jars. With the other, behind his back, he groped for any object he could use as a club.

With his eyes focused on Paul’s face, the would-be bishop inched forward. Soon he stood directly in front of the apse. “See for yourself,” said Paul. “It’s written right there on the bottom, the treasure’s secret location.”

In the darkness Paul’s fingers closed around something made of heavy stone. He watched the man’s eyes. For the briefest moment, the man glanced down into the jar.

With reflexes honed by throwing out countless runners at first, Paul swung. The thick stone lid connected with the man’s skull, cracking it like a ripe pumpkin. Instantly, the killer went limp and dropped to the cave floor. Ava screamed. Paul dropped the bloody stone disk, grabbed Ava’s arm, and ran. He dragged her through the corridors and up the steps. As they neared the exit, Ava tripped.

She fell on top of a corpse. The dead woman’s uniform identified her as a tour guide. The gunshot wound in her forehead identified her killer as a professional. Ava scrambled on all fours, desperate to escape. The cavern floor was slick with blood. Ava gagged. She felt vomit rush up her throat. Then strong hands helped her stand. A firm voice urged her to move, to run. Paul kicked open the door, and the two bolted into the street. Picking a direction at random, he dragged Ava away from the catacombs.

“No, wait! That poor woman—”

“Ava, she’s dead, but her murderer might still be alive. He won’t miss us again. We have to go. Now!”

Chapter 12

12

A
NCONA,
I
TALY,
A
UGUST 14, 1464

Pope Pius II rested in the Episcopal Palace. His room offered a spectacular view of the harbor and of Monte Astagno, but the ailing pope preferred to admire St. Ciriaco Cathedral. Completed in 1189 on the site of an eighth-century church (and an even older temple of Venus), the Romanesque structure was patterned after a Greek cross. Built of gray stone, it featured a dodecagonal dome and a facade with Gothic elements. Pius II smiled, wondering if he’d be buried there.

“Holiness,” said Cardinal Jacopo, “the Venetians have arrived.” With difficulty, the pontiff lifted himself and turned his gaze toward the Adriatic. On the far horizon, he beheld at long last the sails of the Venetian fleet.

“Too late,” he whispered, laboring for breath. “Too late.”

Pius shut his eyes and fell back against his pillow. How had it come to this? Two years ago he’d been at the pinnacle of strength. Invigorated after deciphering the sacred prophecy, he’d undertaken an ambitious campaign to protect Christendom from the Turkish onslaught. Following his predecessors’ instructions, the pope composed an eloquent, respectful letter to Mehmed II that revealed the prophecy’s secrets and encouraged the sultan to convert to Christianity. When his invitation was ignored, Pius convened a congress of Christian princes at Mantua. He smiled, remembering that glorious day. His grand entrance to the convocation was like a triumphal procession. He stood at the dais and read the blessed prophecy to the assembled royals. Then Pius demanded a cessation of all internecine feuds and proclaimed a three-year crusade against the Ottomans. Spirits buoyed by the prophecy’s guarantee of victory, the rival princes unified against their common foe and pledged unanimous support for the pope’s bold strategy.

For a time it seemed the alliance formed at Mantua would succeed. Vlad Dracula led a successful resistance against Mehmed. The Wallachians attempted to assassinate the sultan. The prophecy predicted success. During the resulting turmoil the Turks would be vulnerable.

The prophecy was wrong, however: Mehmed survived the night attack. No longer convinced that victory was preordained, the fragile alliance shattered. Of course, aid promised by the duplicitous French king never materialized. Worse, France threatened Burgundy, forcing Duke Philip the Good to recall his support.

Despite suffering these setbacks and a bout of debilitating fever, the pope’s faith never wavered. On June 18, Pius personally assumed the cross. He departed Rome for Ancona to lead the crusade himself. Alas, the Venetian fleet was interminably delayed. Predictably, selfish factions within the crusading army used the postponement as an excuse to pursue other interests. Milan attempted to seize Genoa. Cynical Florence recalled her forces, hoping to acquire rich lands after the Turks and Venetians weakened each other. Without Florentine participation, the crusade would fail. Rather than sacrifice themselves for nothing, even Pius’s most loyal soldiers deserted. By the time the Venetian ships arrived, the dying pope had no army with which to fill them.

Cardinal Jacopo attended his beloved pontiff, mopping sweat from his fevered brow. All their efforts were doomed. Pius had staked everything on retaking Constantinople. His failure would cripple the enlightened, humanist faction within the Holy Church. Jacopo Piccolomini-Ammannati knew he’d never sit on St. Peter’s throne. Instead, the path had cleared for a weaker, less charismatic man’s ascendance. Jacopo dreaded that a subsequent pope would capitulate to Spanish pressure and resurrect the Inquisition. In despair, the gifted cardinal wondered, “Is Mehmed truly the Antichrist? Or, perhaps, are we?”

Ridding his mind of such inappropriate speculation, Jacopo focused on his immediate responsibilities. He raised a chalice to his master’s lips and whispered, “Please take some water, Holiness,” but the pope was dead.

E
GYPTIAN
C
OAST,
M
ARCH 2013

Nick’s jeep sped west on Highway 1. The convertible top was down. Nick wanted to leave Egypt that night, but he couldn’t go without paying Sinan. To Nick, a promise was sacred. From his years in business he’d learned that if people couldn’t rely on your word, you might as well pack it in. Besides, Sinan was a friend; he deserved a warning. Nick called the pilot and left a detailed voice mail explaining that Ahmed was checking passenger manifests at the harbor. “It’s only a matter of time before he figures it out,” Nick said. “I’m skipping until things cool. If you want your money, meet me at the Porto Marina Hotel in El Alamein. I’ll wait a day. After that, I’ll have to mail you a check.”

Nick should have known Sinan wouldn’t be the only one to hear the recording.

Paul and Ava ran through Rabat until they reached St. Paul’s Church. They cut across the parish square and continued north. Every time they passed an alley Ava’s heart stopped. What danger lurked there? The sheik? The police? Simon? Another assassin? Hand in hand they ran hard for an additional quarter mile. It was cathartic. The night air tasted sweet after the dank catacombs. The exercise cleared Ava’s head until, with effort, she could think rationally.

They paused to rest on a stone bench beneath a statue of two lovers embracing. After catching her breath, Ava said, “Paul, someone betrayed us, someone who knew we were in Malta.”

“Right, and it’s a short list. Sinan knows we’re here, but I’m confident he wasn’t the one. If he planned to sell us out, why fly us over from Egypt?”

Ava nodded, so Paul continued. “And we didn’t get pinched at immigration, so it wasn’t Gabe’s hacker friend.” Ava agreed with this assessment too. Then Paul asked, “Could it have been Clarkson?”

Ava’s expression hardened. “That’s ridiculous. I contacted him, not the other way around. What are the odds that the one person I call in Malta is an agent for Simon and Sheik Ahmed? Half a million to one? Clarkson has no idea why we’re here. We never discussed the jars. Plus, he’s a tenured university professor with a stellar academic reputation.”

“What difference does that make? Are tenured professors morally superior to us normal people?”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes,” she replied coldly. “I’m sure.”

“Then who do you think it was?”

“Could it have been Nick?”

Paul was hurt. He stood and glared at her. “No,” he said, and began walking toward Mdina.

Ava called after him. “Wait! Are you sure? How well do you know him?”

Without slowing, he shouted back, “He’d never rat us out.”

“Hey! Will you just listen? It’s not impossible. Think! He might have had no choice. What if they captured him? Tortured him? Injected him with drugs?”

Paul stopped. He took a deep breath and waited a few seconds. Then he faced Ava. “Okay, I admit it’s possible. Every person we mentioned might have been captured, tortured, or drugged. By that standard, everyone’s a suspect, but the assassin called us at the tavern. Nick couldn’t have known about that. The first we heard of Two Gods was from your pal Clarkson after we landed on Malta.”

Ava thought it over. He was right. She took his hand. “I’m sorry,” she said quietly.

Paul lifted her hand to his lips and gently kissed it. In a warm voice he said, “Nick’s a good friend. He wouldn’t betray us. I know it in my heart.”

Ava smiled. Then her mind buzzed with an idea. “Paul, you nailed it! The traitor was someone who knew to call us at the tavern. And the only place you gave out that number—” Her memory flashed back to the young man behind the huge black desk, the man who’s ears pricked up when she mentioned historical artifacts and kept asking how much they were worth.

Paul’s jaw set as he reached the same conclusion. He finished her sentence: “The only place I gave out that number was at the bishop’s office. I left it for his assistant.”

Fury radiated from his body like heat from a blast furnace. His fists tightened as he whispered, “That greedy little worm is going to pay.”

Gabe sat on Jess’s sofa, telling her all that had transpired since Ava called from Yemen. Hesitant at first, he gave only cursory details, but as Jess pressed for specifics, his explanation became increasingly elaborate. When he described helping Ava escape across the Red Sea, Jess hugged him and praised his cleverness. After that, he brimmed with confidence. His description of being chased by the bearded men took a few liberties with the truth: He neglected to mention falling on his face and implied that he’d evaded capture by stealth and cunning, but from the skeptical light dancing in Jess’s eyes, Gabe suspected he’d crossed the line between poetic license and balderdash. As he recounted his conversations with
DURMDVL
, he paused, remembering he needed to send an e-mail as soon as possible.

“Can I borrow your computer?” he asked.

“Sure.” She disappeared for a moment and then emerged from the bedroom carrying an old Dell Inspiron 1525 laptop. Gabe would have preferred something with a bit more firepower. Regardless, he booted it up and began programming the secure-communication protocol. He sent an encrypted message to
DURMDVL
, giving his current location, describing the limited computer hardware, and warning that others knew Ava was in Malta. He couldn’t think of any way to protect her, but Ava should at least be warned that the secret was out. When he finished typing, Gabe leaned back on the sofa, yawned, and fell asleep.