The Cana Mystery (24 page)

“We stole the lost jars of Cana. They’re in our hotel closet.”

Clarkson almost fell over. “
Sliem Għalik Marija
(Hail Mary),” he whispered.

While the two academics discussed the jars’ exalted status in archaeological history, Paul reread the newspaper report. He noted that investigators had found only one dead body in the catacombs, that of the female tour guide. The report made no mention of the impostor. This omission led Paul to an alarming conclusion: The killer had survived.

Chapter 13

13

Someone knocked. Gabe and Jess shared a look. Walking quietly, Gabe approached the door and peered out. It was a FedEx deliveryman, and he was loaded with packages. Suspicious, Gabe’s instinct was to leave the door locked. Then he remembered
DURMDVL
’s message to expect a delivery. He signed for the shipment, and the FedEx man left. When Gabe opened the boxes, he discovered they contained thousands of dollars’ worth of cutting-edge computer hardware and a new phone. Jess was floored.

“What is all this stuff? What’s it doing here?”

“I have no idea. I didn’t order it.”

Suddenly Gabe recalled his offhand remark to
DURMDVL
about needing a computer upgrade. This must be
DURMDVL
’s response. Wow, thought Gabe, the guy doesn’t mess around. Refusing to consider how
DURMDVL
had paid for the gear, Gabe concentrated instead on getting it unpacked.

“I have to go to class.”

“Okay, I’ll be here.”

By the time Jess returned from school, Gabe had taken over her den. Everywhere she looked an exotic computer component was humming or blinking. When he noticed her, Gabe said, “Hi, Jess. I set up everything in here. Hope you don’t mind.”

She sighed and forced a smile. “Of course not. How could I mind?”

With his attention focused on the computer screen, Gabe missed the sarcasm. “Great. Thanks, Jess. Oh, by the way, I finished off the rest of the Cokes. Looks like you’re out of soda.”

After hearing the details, Clarkson believed Ava’s story. He excused himself and hurried back to his office to contact Bishop Garagallo. As he passed Professor Fenech’s door, he recalled that his boss had seen him with the Americans. Clarkson swallowed. What would happen when Dominic realized they were murder suspects? Would he call the police? He turned to knock. Dominic was reasonable. If he spoke to him now, perhaps he could convince him of the truth. Then Clarkson realized it hardly mattered. Professor Xanthippe had seen the fugitives too. When that harpy connected the dots, she’d inform the authorities instantly. Time was of the essence.

He went directly to his office, closed the door, and turned the lock. A quick shuffle through his Rolodex produced a phone number for the archdiocese. He called and a polite receptionist answered. In rapid-fire Maltese, Clarkson asked to speak to Bishop Garagallo on a matter of utmost urgency. The receptionist apologized, saying the bishop was unavailable. “Where is he?” Clarkson barked.

“I’m very sorry, sir. I’m afraid I couldn’t say.” Then she confided, “It’s been an absolute madhouse here today. Everyone’s trying to follow the latest developments in Rome and then, on top of everything else, the bishop’s executive assistant never showed up for work. He’s gone missing. Personally, I’m not surprised. I always felt that young man was a little
wiċċ laskri
” (unstable).

“Anyway,” she continued, “I’ll give the bishop your message the instant he arrives.”

Realizing there was nothing more she could do, Clarkson said, “Thank you very much for your help. I appreciate it.
Sahha
.”

He hung up the phone and pondered his next move.

Paul and Ava returned to the computer lab. She tried to finish her research, but after the conversation with Clarkson, she was too angry. Paul read her mood. “Come on,” he said. “Let’s get some fresh air.”

After leaving the laboratory they crossed through the lobby, exited the building, and sat beneath a shady tree. Paul leaned against its gnarled trunk. Ava leaned against Paul.

When her words finally came, they were a torrent. She vented for a long time. Ava was both furious about and humiliated by the false allegations. Didn’t the media have a responsibility to print the truth? Didn’t they check their facts, research their claims? How could they be so irresponsible? She wanted to sue for libel.

Paul listened to her complaints without interrupting. When she wound down, he said: “It had to be Simon. With his money and influence, he can make them say whatever he wants. Besides, can you really blame the police for suspecting us? We were at the crime scene. Don’t you watch
CSI
? Our DNA must be all over those catacombs. You touched the body, for God’s sake.”

Ava shivered at the memory, and Paul moved quickly to change the subject. He asked, “Did you make progress translating the symbols?”

She sighed. It had been terribly frustrating. She might have identified the language, but she still couldn’t decipher the inscription. To Paul’s amusement, she sounded almost as upset about the unsolved puzzle as about the trumped-up murder charges.

“Don’t worry,” he reassured her, “it’ll come.”

“I’m glad one of us is confident.”

“I am.”

The sun had set. Now it was getting dark. By force of habit, Paul glanced at his wrist before asking, “What time do you think it is? Let’s go see if our new phone works.”

The world phone wasn’t fully charged, but it was operational. Leaving it plugged in, Ava dialed the 919 number from
DURMDVL
’s text. Her first call was aborted—the signal was too weak. After unplugging the phone, Ava climbed upstairs to the roof, hoping for better reception. She redialed, and this time the call went through. After the anonymous voice mail beeped, she keyed in 999.
DURMDVL
answered, authenticated Ava’s identity, and warned her that enemies might know they were in Malta.

“I’m afraid we learned that the hard way,” Ava replied. She recounted the previous evening’s unfortunate events. Horrified,
DURMDVL
urged them to leave Malta before another assassin materialized. As they discussed travel options, Ava had a brainstorm. Who better to crack a code than a hacker? With
DURMDVL
’s assistance, she’d be able to solve the mystery much faster. On the other hand, it might be unwise to trust a mysterious computer genius whom she’d never even met in person. Ava wavered. It was risky, but as Paul often said, life is risk.

Taking a deep breath, she decided: Circumstances justified a gamble. Crossing the Rubicon, Ava told
DURMDVL
about the jars and the golden disks. Fascinated,
DURMDVL
asked Ava to send photos. “Actually, we should forward them to Gabe,”
DURMDVL
said. “He’s a superlative code breaker, much better than I am. I respect his skills. Don’t tell him I said so, but he has a knack for creative, indirect thinking that just can’t be replicated.” Hearing
DURMDVL
express admiration for Gabe’s talents lifted Ava’s spirits. It was about time someone appreciated him! She agreed to send the photos as soon as possible. Then, with a smile, she said good-bye to  her new friend and hung up the phone. Rejuvenated, Ava walked back downstairs to the computer lab.

As they strolled along the canals, Simon said, “Nick, you have a reputation as an honorable man, one who appreciates directness. Therefore, I’ll just ask: Where are your friends?”

“Sorry to disappoint you, Mr. DeMaj, but I couldn’t say.”

“Call me Simon.”

“Okay, Simon. As I said, I don’t know where they went. At the moment, I’m more concerned about myself. It’s not easy to escape the long arms of Sheik Ahmed. I hear good things about McMurdo Station. Do you know if they have a casino?”

Simon stopped, turned to face Nick, and looked into his eyes. With an earnestness Nick knew was virtually impossible to fake, Simon said, “I know you’re bound by loyalty. You’re trying to protect your friends, but the situation has evolved. They’re in greater danger than you realize. It’s not hopeless. I can help them, but they won’t survive unless I find them first.”

“You’d help them?”

“I possess the means to rescue them and the resources to keep them safe.”

“Sure, but why would you? You know Sheik Ahmed. You understand what he’s capable of. Why endanger yourself?”

“I got Paul and Ava into this mess; it’s my responsibility to get them out. Plus, if Ahmed gets his hands on the artifacts, there will be hell to pay—for everyone.”

As they veered down the path back to the suite, Nick noticed the Egyptian boy waiting outside. Nick thought, “He’s probably packing heat, too. There’s no way I can take them both.” Needing time to think, he temporized: “Okay, Simon. You’ve got a deal. Just let me collect my belongings; then I’ll do what I can to help you.”

Simon nodded and allowed Nick to enter. The boy followed him inside, but Simon stayed in the doorway, watching. Nick tossed his suitcase onto the bed. He folded his Paul Stuart sports coat, button-down shirts, and khaki slacks with the precision of a department-
store clerk. Socks and underwear were rolled and stashed in zipper pockets; toiletries were assembled in a black dopp kit.

Then Nick stopped packing and smiled. Simon felt a pistol’s cold barrel press against his occipital lobe.

“Sinan!” yelled Nick. “It’s about damn time! Did you get lost, or what?”

Paul and Ava photographed each side of both disks using the world phone’s built-in camera. It was a basic device, but the pictures looked all right. After transmitting the images to
DURMDVL
, Paul noticed that the phone was running out of juice.

“We need to leave it plugged in overnight.”

He unhooked the charger and pocketed it, and they left the computer center. On the way to Clarkson’s office, Paul asked, “So how much do we tell the bishop?”

Ava thought, then: “Nothing at first. Let’s meet him, talk to him, and get a sense of his character. Remember that Zeke, his personal assistant, contacted the killer. I doubt the bishop was involved, but we can’t be sure. Even assuming that Garagallo’s innocent, having an untrustworthy employee in such an elevated position gives me reason to doubt his judgment.”

Paul nodded. Ava went on: “I’ll ask Clarkson to keep everything confidential for now. If after meeting Garagallo in person we decide he’s legit, we’ll hand over the jars.”

“And the disks?”

Ava ran her fingers across the worn, nondescript backpack that held the two priceless objects. She knew it wasn’t wise to keep them, but the disks were her discovery and she didn’t want to surrender them before finishing her analysis. “We won’t mention the disks until we’re sure we can trust the bishop,” she said.

When they reached the professor’s office, their conversation ceased. Ava knocked. Clarkson unlocked the door and welcomed them inside. The telephone rang a moment later. It was the bishop. The professor put Garagallo on speakerphone and made the full round of introductions. Everyone exchanged pleasantries. Then Ava gave a recap of what transpired in the catacombs, excluding any mention of the artifacts. Even over the phone, the bishop’s anger was unmistakable. After using surprisingly profane language to characterize his assistant’s conduct, Garagallo said, “I cannot begin to express the depth of my embarrassment and rage over this incident.”

“Thank you, Excellency,” Ava replied. “We know this wasn’t your doing.”

“Be that as it may, on behalf of myself, the archdiocese of Malta, and the Holy Church, I apologize for this act of betrayal and take full responsibility. I thank Almighty God that you both survived the attack. Please accept my word that the guilty parties will meet justice forthwith.”

The conversation was brief. Garagallo intended to call Chief Justice Silvio Camilleri, as well as John Rizzo, the commissioner of police. The bishop hoped to persuade them to shift the investigation’s focus from Paul and Ava to Zeke. The bishop continued, “In the meantime, I can extend a formal offer of sanctuary. I hope all three of you will honor me by dining in my home tonight. We’ll prepare a traditional Maltese feast.”

They accepted his invitation. Clarkson wrote down the bishop’s address in Valletta. Then they bade him farewell and prepared to leave.

Bishop Garagallo’s palatial home occupied an entire building in the city’s historic district. Ava estimated the residence to be at least two hundred and fifty years old, predating the island’s Napoleonic conquest. Before the professor could ring the bell the door opened and a handsome gentleman with gray hair and a dignified bearing greeted them. Ava saw intelligence in his eyes, and Clarkson’s smile of recognition reassured her that this man was the bishop, not another impostor.

Garagallo invited them to come inside and prepare for dinner in his guest rooms. Paul and Ava accepted gratefully. After receiving keys from the housekeeper, they climbed the stairs, unlocked the doors, and found two fully appointed suites. While Ava washed, Paul plugged in the phone charger. Shortly thereafter they descended the grand staircase. Spotting his American guests, Garagallo asked, “Won’t you join me for an aperitif in the sitting room?”

Surprised by the offer, Paul grinned. “I thought drinking was a sin.”

The bishop laughed. “No. Our Lord and Savior drank alcohol on many occasions. In fact, Christ’s first public miracle was turning water into wine at the Wedding of Cana. The Church teaches us to avoid intoxication because it is a form of gluttony and because it can lead to sin, but drinking is not forbidden.”

Each carrying a glass of sherry, they joined Professor Clarkson in the richly appointed sitting room. A cheery blaze crackled in the hearth, where a set of andirons, forged into miniature Dobermans, held the logs. Opposite the fire an interior wall was dominated by a striking fresco. Entranced, Ava said, “Raphael?”

“Yes. A reproduction, of course. It’s
The Meeting between Leo the Great and Attila.
Do you like it?”