The Cana Mystery (6 page)

“You’re probably right, as usual. I’m just shocked he’d be willing to kill for that.”

She blanched. “You mean Simon killed those people? You got me mixed up with a murderer? Nice. I think you’d better tell me everything.”

“Okay,” said Paul. “But I didn’t mean to get you in trouble. I didn’t realize—”

“Just tell the story. You can apologize later.”

“Fair enough. As I said, when we landed at the excavation site, Simon was thrilled. We went into the cave, and the diggers led us to where they’d found the jars. It looked like a natural cave, except the air was bone dry. We could see the tops of two jars poking out of the sand. Simon was going crazy, telling everyone to be super careful. He offered the workers triple wages not to damage the jars, and he took hundreds of pictures. He wanted them dug up just so and taken to a clean room. That’s when he told me to call you.”

“Wait,” said Ava, puzzled. “Simon DeMaj asked for me?”

“Well, no, not specifically. Simon told me to hire the smartest person available, someone who knows everything about everything, who understands history and reads ancient languages. Someone who can solve an impossible riddle.”

“And you called me?”

“Of course,” he said. “You’re the smartest person I’ve ever met.”

Ava felt as though she would cry. She knew Paul wasn’t flattering her. In his direct way, he’d just stated his opinion, but his words constituted one of the nicest compliments she’d ever received. Embarrassment compelled her to change the subject.

“Speaking of phone calls, have you considered that DeMaj might track your GPS signal?”

“Yeah. That’s how you found me, isn’t it?”

She nodded, and Paul continued: “Yesterday, I gave my phone to some westbound Ababda nomads. I told them to call anyone they wanted. Why not? Simon gets the damn bill anyway.”

Ava chuckled. If they tried to find Paul that way, they’d end up tracking signals from all over the Aswan. She was ready to hear the rest of his narrative. “What happened after we talked?”

“I booked your ticket on my laptop and went back down into the cave. The workers and I spent the remainder of the evening digging with little brushes. We didn’t even stop for meals. That’s why I was so rushed when we spoke. Phones don’t work in the caves, and Simon insisted I supervise the excavation. He suspected some diggers were planning to steal the jars.”

“Were you using locals?”

“Hell, we didn’t know who we were using. More and more workers kept showing up, drawn by all the
gineih
Simon was doling out. He just hired everybody and told me to watch them. Eventually we finished digging. Once both jars were disinterred, Simon and I inspected them under a magnifying glass. He told me to look for words, letters, symbols, codes, numbers, anything written or etched.” Paul looked sharply at Ava. “What was he after?”

“I’ll tell you later,” she said. “Just finish the story.”

“We scrutinized the jars but found only a few bumps and chips—no symbols, no codes. Obviously, Simon was dissatisfied. We hauled the jars into a private tent and he ordered all the workers to leave. Once we were alone, I helped him unseal the jars. We used surgical instruments to remove the thick clay lids. We were so careful that it took hours. Finally, we got them open—”

“What was inside?” Ava asked, her eyes flashing with excitement. “Were there scrolls? Copper codices? Was there a message?”

“Damn. That’s exactly what Simon asked. You sound just like him. ‘Where’s the codex? Where’s the message?’ He was going ape.”

“Why?” she asked. “Did you break something? Were the jars damaged?”

“He was furious because the jars were empty. They stank a little, like old vinegar, but both were a hundred percent empty. There was no hidden message. Not inside a jar, not written on a jar. I guess somebody else found it first.”

They shared a spartan dinner. Afterward, Paul told her the story of the murders. He could barely keep the rage out of his voice.

“Who do you think they were?” he asked Ava.

“I’m not sure. You said they were locals. The Beja? Bedouins maybe? It sounds like they objected to Simon removing priceless artifacts from their homeland. It’s not uncommon. During the 2011 revolution students formed a human chain, using their bodies to protect artifacts displayed in the Egyptian Museum.”

Paul nodded. He confessed that he was perplexed by the situation. He’d been hiding at the monastery, getting his head together and pondering his options. He still wasn’t sure what to do, but he promised to keep her safe. After listening awhile, Ava spoke.

“Look, it’s okay to be scared. You’ll lose your job, maybe even be charged as an accomplice,” she said, “but we must contact the authorities.”

“Job? Oh, I’m not worried about my job,” he said, smiling for the first time. “I’m pretty sure I communicated my resignation loud and clear.”

Ava gave him a warm look. “I’m proud of you.”

Working for DeMaj was a dream gig: six-figure salary, first-class travel to exotic lands, meetings with world leaders and scientists. Just how someone with Paul’s modest academic credentials landed such a deluxe position mystified her.

“And I know you consider Simon a friend . . .”

“No,” Paul corrected her. “Not anymore.” He looked as serious as Ava had ever seen him. “Not after what happened to those boys.”

“That’s what I mean. We have to call the police.”

“The police? I don’t think that will help.”

“It’ll be okay, Paul. You can turn yourself in, testify against Simon. We’ll hire a good lawyer—”

“Oh, no. It’s not that. I’m not worried about getting arrested. I’m worried about getting shot! The cops all work for Simon. He’s in cahoots with Sheik Ahmed, the heroin kingpin who controls the chief of police. We can’t go to the cops, Ava. The cops did the killing.”

The monks opened an unused guest room to which Ava could retire. She located a washbowl and rinsed the ubiquitous sand from her face and hair. She attempted to call Gabe, but the satphone’s battery was dead. Sprawled on an ancient pallet, she tried to sleep, but her mind sizzled with the day’s events. She was sad about those poor boys and disappointed about the missing scrolls. She knew the jars were a historic find. The artifacts’ mere existence necessitated a major rewriting of history texts. Of course, she regarded tales of a sacred, unreadable prophecy as mere superstition, but, religious agnosticism notwithstanding, Ava couldn’t deny harboring enormous curiosity about a secret message connected to the biblical apostles. Lost in such thoughts, she faded into a fitful sleep.

Simon waited at the rendezvous site. Irate, he began to pace. He glanced at his Swiss watch. The glowing hands indicated that it was close to midnight, meaning the sheik was more than an hour late. Finally, Simon heard an engine. A Range Rover approached with its lights off, navigating by dim moonlight. It parked and the driver exited. He’d come alone.

“It’s about damn time,” DeMaj growled. He was unaccustomed to waiting for anything or anyone. This man worked for him. Simon had paid the sheik handsomely to influence the local authorities. “Your goons made a mess of my operation. Where have you been?”

Sheik Ahmed Qasim Hasan ignored the question. He pulled a cigarette from his case, lit it, and regarded Simon coldly. “Where are the jars?”

DeMaj was disconcerted. What did Ahmed care about the jars? Was he trying to blackmail him? Make a play for more money?

“I don’t have them,” Simon answered honestly. “I don’t know where they are now.”

The sheik nodded and dragged on his cigarette before flicking it into the sand. He exhaled slowly. “Then you are no longer useful.” He pulled a Ruger SR9 from his pocket, aimed, and shot Simon twice in the chest.

Ava woke to the sound of monks chanting in Coptic, as their predecessors had for fifteen centuries. She relished the rare opportunity to hear people speak the ancient tongue phonetically similar to that of the pharaohs. Minutes later, a novice delivered pita bread, dates, honeycomb, and a pot of delicious red tea. She savored the feast and, thoroughly rejuvenated, resolved to make the day productive. She and Paul would elude the crooked cops and report Simon’s crimes to the legitimate authorities. As she washed and dressed, Ava found herself singing: “When Israel was in Egypt’s land, let my people go . . .”

Later, she wandered up to the tower, invigorated by the cool air. It would grow warm in a few hours, but early mornings were lovely. She’d never been anywhere so quiet. In the traditional Coptic monastery, televisions and radios were forbidden. Visitors were required to switch off mobile phones. Guest rooms provided no electricity, only oil lamps, woodstoves, and candles. Ava longed to check her e-mail and charge the satphone, but otherwise she enjoyed the rare peace and stillness.

For a silent hour she watched the sun rise over rugged mountains. It amazed her that humans had lived here for thousands of years, maybe tens of thousands. The Israelites might have passed through this region centuries before Jesus’s birth. She visualized Charleton Heston as Moses, raising his arms to part the waters. From this high vantage point, Ava gazed into the distance and observed the vast Red Sea stretching from horizon to horizon, miles upon miles of water and waves. It seemed unthinkable that any force could divide it, but maybe someday Bob Ballard would find the pharaoh’s chariots preserved on the seabed. Who could say? People thought the
Iliad
was fiction until Schliemann found Troy.

She returned to her room. As she was pouring a second cup of hot karkade tea, Ava heard Paul’s voice echoing off the courtyard stones. She looked down from the balcony and saw him talking with a distinguished-looking monk. They were laughing and smiling like old pals. Paul might be a goofball, Ava thought, but he could charm anyone. He had an athlete’s grace and the self-confidence of a man to whom life had always been generous. She envied the ease with which Paul recruited friends. He would probably be comfortable introducing himself to presidents and prime ministers. Too bad he’d have nothing intelligent to say.

“So, as you can see,” Father Bessarion continued, gesturing expansively, “we have several beautiful gardens, a library with more than seventeen hundred handwritten manuscripts, a mill, a bakery, five historic churches . . .”

“Everything here looks pretty historic,” remarked Paul, earning an eye-roll from Ava. Although appreciative of the private tour, she was anxious to leave the monastery as soon as possible. They’d be found eventually. If Gabe could track Paul’s location, so could Simon DeMaj.

“Egypt’s monasteries are the oldest in the world,” the monk said. “It began with the Essenes, pious hermits who withdrew from society to pursue a contemplative life. You may know of them from the Dead Sea Scrolls. Many believe the Essenes influenced the development of early Christian monasteries in Egypt.”

“Really?” asked Ava, momentarily intrigued. “I thought the monasteries were built to escape—”

“Roman oppression?” Bessarion finished her question. “Yes, that’s also true.” Turning to Paul, he explained: “Julian the Apostate revoked the religious freedom granted by Emperor Constantine. The Romans began persecuting Egyptian Christians, seizing their homes and land.”

“
Cujus regio, ejus religio,
” Ava observed.

“Exactly
.
‘Whose rule, his religion,’” Bessarion said, looking at her with approval. “Many believers fled to monasteries for protection. That’s why most resemble fortresses. As you can see, ours was surrounded by a fortified wall. We still have a defensive tower.”

Ava studied the protective structures. She imagined the monestary under siege in ancient times.

“How long have you been here?” Paul asked.

“This monastery was founded by St. Anthony the Great in AD 356. In fact, his sacred tomb is very near here.”

“Awesome. You mean
the
St. Anthony?” asked Paul.

“Yes. You know of him?”

“I do,” Paul said, much to Ava’s surprise.

“Excellent,” said Father Bessarion. “Perhaps then you know that he founded monasticism, and that he was born here in Egypt, near Heracleopolis, in 251. He lived to be a hundred and five years old, perhaps even older.”

“We should all be so lucky,” Paul said.

“Be careful what you ask for. He was tormented his entire life by temptations from the devil,” replied the kindly monk, glancing at Ava meaningfully.

Paul smiled. “You know, it’s an odd coincidence. My mother taught me to pray to St. Anthony whenever something was lost. And now, just a few kilometers away from his grave, we found the lost—”

“Thank you, Father, for an interesting tour,” interrupted Ava, glaring daggers at Paul. “I know you have many responsibilities, and we wouldn’t want to monopolize your valuable time.”

“Don’t think of it, my child,” the monk said. “I’m happy to explain the history of this beautiful, holy site. And Paul, the St. Anthony your mother petitions when she’s lost something is a different St. Anthony, St. Anthony of Padua. Nevertheless,” he said, “I’m glad he helped you find what you needed.”

Simon had difficulty breathing under the desert sun. Blood flowed from his wounds. It dripped off his body and stained the ancient sand. DeMaj knew a lung was punctured. Delirious, he teetered on the brink of death. An hour passed. As he slipped into unconsciousness, shadows flickered across his field of vision. He saw his mother’s face, beautiful and young, before the years of poverty and hashish took their toll. In the distance a gentle voice spoke a language he almost recognized. Someone touched his hand. An angel? Beyond pain, Simon managed a small smile. “Who would have guessed,” he wondered, “that I would go to heaven?”

“Paul,” Ava said, “don’t mention the jars to anyone. You said yourself that DeMaj bribed the police. We don’t know who else he may have corrupted.”

“Oh, the monks are cool.”

She arched an eyebrow.

“No, really. The cops already came here once looking for me. Father Bessarion refused to answer questions or let them inside. The monks are the only ones I trust. Except you, I mean.”