The Cana Mystery (27 page)

“Are you sure?”

“Of course! The situation is under control. For heaven’s sake, we have first-class tickets on the next catamaran to Italy. How cool is that?”

When Sheik Ahmed heard the mobile phone, he smiled. He’d been eagerly anticipating this call. Finally, he had good news to report.

Before it could ring twice, Ahmed had answered. “Master?”

“Yes.”

“We have the jars. Shall I bring them to you personally?”

“No.”

To Ahmed’s surprise, the master did not sound pleased.

“The clever little
troia
is close to the secret. She must be exterminated immediately. Spare no expense. Utilize any resource. Stop at nothing. Kill her now.”

For perhaps the first time, Ahmed detected a human emotion in the master’s voice. He must be furious, thought the sheik, but then he reconsidered. Fury wasn’t quite right. He’d heard something more, something hidden underneath. Was it possible? Ahmed wondered: Was the master afraid?

Embarrassed that he’d teared up during the phone call, Gabe retreated into his work. After several hours he located and downloaded the software necessary to read the scans. While the parallel processing algorithms monopolized his available computing resources, Gabe decided to eat. He pondered a momentous decision: pizza or Thai? As he vacillated between the two enticing options, he checked his inbox. It contained an urgent e-mail from
DURMDVL
.

“We have a problem. I’ve been snooping on DeMaj Corp so that if it located our friends, I’d know. As of last night, none of our spiders had detected a single usage of the term Malta, Valletta, or bishop. We know someone found Ava (and sent the assassin), but nary a word about it was uttered or typed on the DeMaj network. That doesn’t scan. I’ve drawn 2 conclusions, both of which are scary. (A) Someone other than DeMaj sent the killer, meaning we’re facing an unexpected enemy. (B) The bad guys found her in Malta almost immediately. They set up an ambush in less than 24 hours. Therefore, they have already compromised her new phone, they have a spy in the Malta police, immigration/customs, or both.”

“If that’s true,” Gabe realized, “they’ll know Ava’s itinerary.”

Paul and Ava strolled down Pinto Road through Valleta, then checked in at the Sea Passenger Terminal. The catamaran wouldn’t depart for an hour, so they sat down on a bench to wait. Eventually Paul asked, “Would you explain something?”

“I’ll try.”

“How could ancient people have done all this stuff?”

“What stuff?”

“Well, for example, how could they make recordings? I understand it’s physically possible, but they didn’t have the necessary technology—”

“Ancient people had all kinds of technology. Thales of Miletus wrote about electrostatic phenomena in 550 BC. Heron of Alexandria invented a working steam engine in the first century.”

“A steam engine? Seriously?

“He called it an
aeolipile.
The basic principle is jet propulsion. Heat up water in a sealed metal cauldron. Water boils into steam. Steam shoots out from two jets, rotating a ball.”

“That’s awesome!”

Ava smiled. “Do you know about the Baghdad Battery?”

“Is it the Iraqi baseball team?”

She laughed despite herself. “No. Before World War II, archaeologists discovered terra-cotta jars buried near Baghdad. Some claim they date from the Parthian era. I think the Sassanid dynasty is more likely. Regardless, they’re at least fifteen hundred years old—and they’re basic electric batteries.”

“You mean like Duracell?”

“Pretty much. Each clay jar had a stopper. Sticking through it was an iron rod surrounded by a copper cylinder. Filled with vinegar or any other strong electrolytic solution, they produced electricity. Experts estimate each made about one volt. In 1980, Arthur C. Clarke built a reproduction, filled it with grape juice, and proved it could electroplate a statuette. The MythBusters determined it was plausible for ancient people to have used such batteries.”

“That’s so cool.”

Gradually, as Paul and Ava talked, the terminal filled with passengers. Representatives of many nationalities and ethnicities congregated around the gate. Soon the metal building reverberated with the babble of two hundred simultaneous conversations.

Efficient security personnel appeared and organized the crowd into three lines. First, an officer reviewed identification. Second, luggage was examined by customs agents, who offered to stow heavier bags belowdecks. Finally, a smiling steward tore tickets and welcomed passengers across the gangway.

Ava and Paul waited their turn, but when the officer saw Ava’s ID, he pulled them out of line and escorted them past security. In broken English, he explained that Police Commissioner Rizzo personally insisted the two Americans were to be shown every courtesy. Paul thanked the officer and helped Ava board.

Meanwhile, out on the waterfront, a diesel pump throbbed as it refueled the massive catamaran. The wharf bustled with activity. Growling, a forklift shuttled to and fro, lifting crates into the hold. Dockworkers rushed aluminum tubs of perishable food up a ramp and delivered them to the galley. Supervisors shouted instructions to burly men hefting innumerable cases of beer, liquor, wine, and soda to the ship’s four bars and passenger lounges.

Amid the chaos, no one noticed a tall Italian spiriting aboard an unregistered case and hiding it in the aft engine room.

Chapter 14

14

R
OME,
S
EPTEMBER 6, 1464

Mired in melancholy, Cardinal Jacopo Piccolomini-Ammannati attended the coronation of Pope Paul II. A vain, suspicious, and ineffectual man, Paul II was no elector’s first choice. Rather, the self-important Venetian represented a compromise between ideologically divergent factions. To secure support in the College of Cardinals, the new pope had signed a capitulation that, among other things, required him to continue Pius’s campaign against the Turks. Cardinal Jacopo was instrumental in obtaining this concession. He championed the cause not out of personal animus or ambition, but rather out of loyalty to a departed friend.

The forty-two-year-old cardinal had accomplished much in his career. He was ordained a bishop at thirty-eight. One year later he was named cardinal of Pavia. He’d served as secretary of briefs under Pope Calistus III and continued in that role until Pius II made him a member of the pontific household. Sadly, his meteoric rise would now stall. Jacopo suspected the new pope would break his political promises, arguing that preelection capitulations abridged a pope’s absolute authority. By disregarding these commitments, Paul II would ignite a feud within the Vatican, weakening the Church at an inopportune time. Fraught with internal division, Rome could never check the Ottoman advance. Pius’s steadfast allies, the valiant Knights of Rhodes, would continue to fight. But it was only a matter of time until the Turks invaded Italy. Worse, Spain might persuade the isolated pope to revive the execrable Inquisition. Jacopo’s humanist friends and cohorts, particularly de Volterra, Carvajal, and Roverella, feared that an anti-intellectual backlash could engulf all of Europe, strangling the nascent Renaissance in its crib and dragging Christendom back into darkness.

As soon as decorum allowed, Jacopo bade farewell to the assembled ministers, clerics, and plenipotentiaries. He had important duties to perform. On his deathbed Pius had ordered Jacopo to destroy the artifacts and the prophecy they contained. Jacopo had objected. The two men disagreed sharply on the topic. Jacopo believed the prophecy was simply mistranslated, by either accident or design. Pius thought otherwise. He insisted the prophecy was a demonic instrument, imbued with black sorcery that turned arrogant mortals away from God. To prove such speculations were illogical, Jacopo invoked the reasoning propounded by the brilliant Franciscan friar William of Ockham. Pius, however, would not be dissuaded. He ignored all arguments, endlessly repeating: “
A daemonibus docetur, de daemonibus docet, et ad daemones ducit.
” (It is taught by the demons, it teaches about the demons, and it leads to the demons.)

Though he opposed the pope’s decision, Cardinal Jacopo finally agreed to destroy the relics. To disobey the pontiff was an unthinkable sin, one that would expose his soul to eternal damnation. More important, Jacopo would never refuse his mentor’s last request.

It was vital to act quickly, before the new pope consolidated his authority. Piccolomini-Ammannati summoned his personal secretary. While Jacopo and his fellow cardinals were locked in the papal conclave, this aide collected every extant copy of the prophecy. These Jacopo would burn. Whispering to the young priest, he revealed the ancient jars’ hiding place and instructed him to throw them over the balcony. As the stunned academician turned to obey, the cardinal said, “Inside the cabinet, hidden below the jars, are two disks of pure gold. Melt them down.”

The young man’s eyes widened. “And what should I do with the gold?”

Jacopo smiled. “Cast it into coins. Distribute them to the poor to honor our generous new pope’s election.”

“Yes, Eminence.”

The secretary hurried to perform his assignment. He found the secret chamber, located the hidden jars, and dragged them onto the balcony. After inspecting the courtyard below to ensure that no one would be crushed, the young priest shoved the first jar over the edge. With an ear-splitting crack, it shattered. He wiped his hands on his cassock, then repeated the process with the second jar. That task complete, he searched the cabinet and uncovered the golden disks. For a moment he was awed by the glimmering objects, but he soon regained his composure and transported them to the goldsmith.

In exchange for a modest bribe, the artisan agreed to begin work immediately. He pumped the bellows, bringing his furnace to a white heat. Inside, the disks melted rapidly. Dripping with sweat, the goldsmith removed the assembly from the fire and poured refulgent metal into a cast. While they waited for it to harden, the smith offered the priest a cup of cool water. He smiled and drank. Suddenly, the door burst open. A gang of soldiers marched into the workshop, arrested the occupants on charges of conspiracy, and seized the gold as evidence.

At trial, few were surprised to learn that the evidence had mysteriously vanished. The missing treasure, as much as Jacopo’s able defense, persuaded the tribunal to dismiss the complaint.

Years later, after the death of Paul II, a group of cardinals inspected his treasure vault. They noted fifty-four silver shells filled with pearls; a collection of jewels, including several magnificent diamonds; and a cache of unfashioned gold worth at least three hundred thousand ducats. The origin of this gold remains unknown.

Though he mourned the lost artifacts, Jacopo maintained a fervent hope that the ancient secret endured. Hidden somewhere, probably in Africa, two jars still existed. The secret brotherhood would protect them. Jacopo whispered, “One alone shall be chaste. Only when two are gathered is the truth revealed.” As long as two jars survived, the prophecy would survive, and the coming evil might still be defeated.

M
ALTA,
M
ARCH 2013

Once clear of Valletta Harbor, the
MV Maria Dolores
throttled up its Rolls-Royce Kamewa 80 SII engines and put out to sea. Powered by six water jets, the sixty-eight-meter catamaran could make thirty-six knots running at ninety percent capacity. The Australian-built vessel’s 4.6-meter clearance height (in combination with T-foil and interceptor ride control) enabled safe, year-round operation, regardless of unpredictable Mediterranean conditions. Accordingly, the experienced captain wasn’t concerned by a wall of thunderclouds looming on the eastern horizon. Over the intercom he advised his passengers that the stormy forecast was no cause for alarm. The
Maria Dolores
was designed and built for rough weather. Heavy seas might slow their voyage to Sicily, but there was no danger.

Paul led Ava through the posh club-class lounge to the observation deck. They leaned against a painted metal rail and watched the evening sun dip behind Mount Sciberras. As Tommy Dorsey’s orchestra warbled through the tinny loudspeaker, Paul thought how perfectly a white cotton dress complemented Ava’s tanned skin. Her long hair danced in the maritime breeze, defying her efforts to tame it. With a smile, he asked, “Where are we headed?”

“Pozzallo.”

“Ah, yes. Of course. I believe that was the birthplace of the immortal Homer.”

She giggled. “No, just a quaint Sicilian fishing town. It has an excellent harbor, which made it an important fourteenth-century outpost. Now it’s the main port for Ragusa Province.” She paused, brow knitted in concentration. “Actually, it might be the only port in Ragusa Province . . .”

Amused, Paul watched Ava search her memory. After a few seconds, he said, “It’s okay. We can look it up later.”

“Don’t patronize me,” she said, then grinned.

“What should we do while we’re there?”