The Cana Mystery (30 page)

He heard Ava move. Her eyes fluttered opened.

“Paul?”

“I’m here.”

“Where are we?”

“Capri. You’re safe.”

She took his hand and smiled. Then Ava laughed.

“What’s funny?” he asked.

She pointed at the TV, then kept laughing until that segued into a hoarse coughing fit. On screen, a passionate, balding middle-
aged man addressed the crowd outside the G8 Summit. He shook his fist for the cameras and yelled into the microphone.

Ava croaked, “It’s Bagelton!”

“What?”

Before she could explain, Simon poked his head through the doorway. After apologizing for his odd behavior in the kitchen, he asked Ava how she felt.

She looked at the infamous billionaire. He had a distinctive way of speaking. His voice, refined by years of private schools, was a practiced and accomplished instrument of his will, but his accent was unusual. Like something from the past, a rough undercurrent persisted. Each word he spoke was gauged to convey his present emotion (in this case, curiosity), but Ava sensed that the speaker was a shell, almost like a disembodied intelligence.

“I feel fine, Mr. DeMaj. Thank you for rescuing us.”

“It was the least I could do. After all, it was my fault that you were in danger.”

Ava gave him an appraising look. He seemed amused by what seemed to be her suspicion.

“By way of apology, I’d like to treat you all to dinner at one of my favorite restaurants. Ava, I’ve taken the liberty of having some outfits delivered. I hope one of them is to your taste. Paul, the clothes you left behind in Yemen are hanging in your closet.”

Everyone showered and dressed. Afterward they convened in the parlor. Only Sinan and Ammon were absent—they’d hopped across the strait in
Zulfiqar
to visit the recuperating Sefu. DeMaj poured each guest a stiff cocktail and invited all to sit. A moment later, his companion de jour, the ravishing Mellania, made her entrance. Unprepared, Ava found herself gawking. She recognized the Slovakian from her ubiquitous
Vogue
covers. A few months ago Mellania’s career had taken a turn for the worse. Rumors of a serious drug habit had made tabloid headlines, prompting several designers to cancel modeling contracts. Shortly thereafter, the DeMaj spin machine launched into action. Mellania held a teary press conference at which she simultaneously denied the allegations and repented her sins. Afterward she spent six well-publicized days at an exclusive Malibu rehab center. Now in recovery, Mellania was supposedly hard at work writing her memoirs, for which she’d been promised a two-million-dollar advance.

Nick and Paul stood and introduced themselves. Polite conversation ensued, then Paul said, “Simon, this afternoon you seemed really upset about the lost artifacts. I’m glad your mood has improved.”

For a beat, no one spoke. Ava and Nick shared a worried look. Then DeMaj broke the silence.

“You’re right. I was upset. I apologize for my reaction. That was rude.”

Paul persisted. “But are you still angry?”

“I’m dismayed by the turn of events, but in the course of my long and interesting career, I’ve learned it’s no use crying over unfortunate circumstances. Instead, we must rise to meet each challenge and make the best of tough situations. What’s the quaint American saying? When life gives you lemons . . .”

“Make lemonade?”

“Precisely.”

Ava’s curiosity was piqued. “So you have a plan?”

“Indeed. I’ve spoken with the Maltese authorities and offered my assistance in the wake of the tragedy. We must determine the explosion’s cause and track down the criminals responsible. Thus, it’s crucial to examine and possibly raise the sunken catamaran. The Maltese have generously agreed to let me participate in the salvage effort. I’ve also contacted friends in Washington. I prevailed upon the director of the National Oceanographic and Atmospheric Administration to lend me a research vessel for the duration of the investigation. Are you familiar with the
Jason
ROV?”

Ava nodded.

“As we speak, it’s being refitted with a powerful magnetic scanner. I intend to scour the seabed for clues, as well as for two disks of high-density metal.”

Ava jumped to her feet. “But that’s fundamentally dishonest! We know who’s responsible for the bombing. It was Sheik Ahmed. You’re concealing the truth for personal gain.”

Simon’s expression was stern. “First of all, my dear, we don’t know it was Ahmed. He tops our suspect list, but I fear Sheik Ahmed may be just a lackey, in the service of someone even more dangerous. Of course, I don’t expect the enraged citizens of Malta to accept my word for it. The victims’ families deserve a thorough investigation, and I’m doing everything in my power to ensure that they get one. Prior to the inquest’s completion, I’ll contribute all I know about Ahmed’s possible connection to the attack.”

Ava rolled her eyes. “That doesn’t alter the fact that you’re withholding relevant information until it suits your purposes to reveal it.”

“Has it occurred to you what would happen if we disclosed the artifacts’ existence? Imagine the interminable delays as a horde of petty, self-interested bureaucrats bickered over who has the legal right to salvage.”

“Oh, I see. You believe it’s more efficient and beneficial for a self-interested capitalist to act unilaterally.”

“In this case, considering what’s at stake, I do.”

“And I can only imagine the exorbitant bribe you must have slipped NOAA to get its equipment.”

“Let’s just say the boss owed me a favor.”

“I’ll bet.”

“Ms. Fischer, I don’t claim to be a saint. Yes, I’m willing to break rules when necessary. Many times I’ve employed tactical misdirection, subterfuge, and other tricks to accomplish my objectives. I don’t shrink from doling out an occasional bribe or campaign contribution to the appropriate official, and I have conducted business with unscrupulous characters. This is the life I chose. I don’t apologize for it. Condemn me if you will, but before imposing judgment, shouldn’t you at least consider the people who benefit?”

“Who? Your stockholders?”

Simon laughed. “Yes, some have done very well by investing in my companies. For example, the funds that comprise the Harvard University endowment own a substantial portion of DeMaj preferred stock, but just now I was referring to the lesser-known beneficiaries. We pour hundreds of millions of dollars into the world’s most impoverished regions. By transacting business with dictators and corrupt regimes, I’ve materially improved the lives of thousands—tens of thousands—of actual human beings. Unlike some squeaky-clean, impotent charity, I have the connections, the power, the resources, and the respect to guarantee my money is put to good use. True, a fraction is siphoned off to pay bribes, fight lawsuits, and manufacture favorable public opinion, but the lion’s share generates jobs and creates infrastructure where none existed. We finance the construction of schools, hospitals, and libraries. We’re building five pollution-treatment facilities in North Africa. We’ve endowed university chairs in Egypt and Jordan and co-funded a massive desalination center in the Sudan. In Mozambique and Zimbabwe, we gave our customers and workers free inoculations against malaria, tuberculosis, pneumonia, and meningitis, and, perhaps most important, my projects provide Internet access to millions of destitute, disenfranchised people. Knowledge is power, Ava.”

“But in spite of all your noble efforts, many in Africa have a lower quality of life today than anyone had two hundred years ago.”

“True,” DeMaj conceded. “But is that different from South Asia in the sixties and seventies? Health outcomes are improving. Child mortality is down, and taken as a whole, the continent’s standard of living is up. Not everywhere, of course, not in Congo or Mali, but in Kenya and Ghana, personal incomes have grown dramatically.”

Flushed with emotion, she shot back, “At what cost? What does a man profit if he gains the world but loses his soul.”

DeMaj met her stare. “When you’re young and innocent, it’s easy to be critical. Because you’ve done nothing, you’ve done nothing wrong. Later, as you mature, you discover innocence was never an option. The key question isn’t ‘How many sins have I avoided?’ Instead, ask: ‘What have I created? What have I improved? How much good have I accomplished?’”

Ava was silent. Paul could see that Simon’s haymaker had connected. She teetered on the brink of surrender, then rallied: “I fear your argument proves too much. Without ethical principles or boundaries, all is permitted. If nothing matters except results, you can rationalize every criminal transgression and justify every selfish indulgence.”

Ava continued, confident now. “For example, what social good was accomplished when you bought this ostentatious villa and rented a washed-up supermodel?”

Simon stiffened. Nick almost spat out his scotch.

“Enough!” Paul said, taking Ava’s hand. “I’m starving. Let’s table this discussion until after dinner, okay?” Glancing at Simon, he asked, “By the way, where are we eating?”

DeMaj swallowed his anger and smiled. “Do you know the place where the lemon trees bloom?”

The chauffeur brought Simon’s gleaming silver Maybach 62 S from the garage. Paul, Ava, Simon, and Mellania rode in back; Nick sat up front with the driver. As the others socialized, Ava gazed out through the tinted glass. She was impressed by the island’s beauty and tranquillity, but Simon’s argument reverberated in her mind. Though she hated to admit it, DeMaj had a point. Notwithstanding all her talents and abilities and despite her world-class education, she’d accomplished nothing that actually mattered, nothing that improved people’s lives. As the sun dissolved into the horizon, she wondered if she’d chosen the right path.

Ava’s thoughts were interrupted by the already-intoxicated Mellania braying that everyone must have another drink. The car’s tiny wet bar featured a variety of miniature bottles. Giggling, the Slovakian bent over the seat, popped a piccolo of champagne, and filled two foaming glasses. Leering, she offered Paul a flute, allowing her arm to graze his chest as she moved. When he accepted, Ava felt a flicker in her abdomen. Nodding to the model, Paul said, “Thanks, Mel, but I prefer something less bubbly,” and with a conspiratorial wink, he handed the drink to Ava. She felt dizzy.

Minutes later the car arrived at Da Paolino, a restaurant on the Marina Grande known for its Caprese cuisine. The owner met Simon at the door and led them to a table on the patio within a grove of delightful lemon trees. Ava smiled, noting that several menu items incorporated fresh lemon. Music played in the kitchen. Edith Piaf sang and an accordion bellowed. When the wine arrived, Simon raised his glass.

“
Cento di questi giorni!
”

They drank the toast and began to eat. Ava started with a salad of sliced mozzarella, vine-ripened tomatoes, and basil. Sautéed ravioli stuffed with fresh
cacciotta
(a soft-textured, mild-flavored cheese) was her main course. Between bites, Ava looked at Paul. If his freshly shorn head made him self-conscious, it certainly didn’t inhibit his appetite. He demolished a titan’s portion of spicy
pirciati
(pasta with anchovies, lemon, onion, garlic, capers, black olives, basil, tomato, and pepper), a spinach salad, and three glasses of Sancerre.

When Simon had finished off his rigatoni with sautéed pumpkin flowers, he leaned back, smiled, and turned to Ava. “How was your supper, Ms. Fischer?”

“Marvelous, Mr. DeMaj. Thank you. You’re a generous host.”

“My pleasure.”

“As much as I’ve enjoyed this sumptuous meal, though, I can’t impose further on your hospitality. How soon can we leave your home?”

He took her question in stride.

“What’s the rush? Officially, you’re still considered lost at sea. You never had legal permission to enter Italy, so it might be tricky to depart. Furthermore, I believe the Egyptian government has taken an interest in your whereabouts.”

Paul met his eyes. “We’re innocent of those charges and you know it.”

“Of course, of course. It’s just a technicality. My lawyers are working diligently to resolve the situation. In the meantime, may I suggest you try to enjoy a brief vacation on Capri?”

Ava began to argue but then stopped. “I suppose we can tolerate a few days here.”

DeMaj smiled. “You like the island?”

“I agree with Emperor Tiberius’s opinion. It’s spectacular.”

“Yes, Tiberius loved Capri. He spent the final ten years of his reign enjoying its serenity. Did you know he founded the first archaeological museum here?”

She nodded.

“Of course, Tiberius wasn’t the only emperor to appreciate Capri’s delights.”

“Didn’t Augustus vacation here?”

“Yes. And Caligula. Each built a villa on the island.”

Nick laughed. “I’ve heard some crazy things about Caligula.”

Ava adroitly changed the subject. “Did you know,” she asked everyone at the table, “that Capri wasn’t always an island?”

“How’s that?” Paul said. “The strait must be five kilometers wide. Did the Romans build a giant causeway or something?”

Ava smiled. “No. According to Strabo, Capri was part of mainland Italy. When the sea level rose, it became an island.”

“Well, I think Strabo is full of it,” Paul joked.

“Yeah,” Mellania giggled, beaming at Paul across the table. “Me too.”

Ava’s face colored. Her lips thinned into an expression of disgust. Under the table she clenched her napkin and thought about strangling the empty-headed tramp.

“Regardless,” said Simon, watching Ava closely, “it’s an island now, and for that I’m thankful.”

She turned to look at him. “Yes, I’m sure you prefer it this way. Keeps out the proletariat.”

He lifted his hands in a supplicant’s gesture. “If Mother Nature saw fit to provide a moat, who am I to object?”

“Of course, it’s no impediment for the right kind of visitors, meaning those with private yachts.”

“I don’t own a yacht,
mademoiselle.
”

“Oh, right. I forgot. You don’t need one. You own a helicopter. Or do you have two?”