The Cana Mystery

by David Beckett

  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.”

  “That’s good. I’m glad we can trust the monks, but it sounds as though we’re endangering them by staying. What’s your exit plan?”

  “I’ve given that some thought. We shouldn’t take the truck. It’s in terrible shape after my midnight drive. The suspension is shot, and I might have bent an axle. Plus, I bet Simon’s men are watching for it.”

  Ava nodded.

  “And obviously we can’t go on foot.”

  “I agree.”

  “So I think we should take the bus.”

  “Pardon me?”

  “Bessarion said a religious group will arrive this afternoon. They’ll pray at the monastery for a few hours and then return via bus to Cairo. We could buy seats on that bus.”

  “Won’t we be spotted?”

  “Maybe, but this morning I borrowed some traditional garb for us. We’ll get all wrapped up and cover our faces. They won’t expect us to be dressed like Coptic pilgrims. We just might slip through.”

  Ava thought it over. “I guess it’s worth a try,” she conceded. “We can’t stay here forever.”

  “Cool. We’ll chance it.” He grinned. “That leaves only one issue to resolve.”

  “Yes?”

  “What we do about the jars.”

  “The moment we hit Cairo, I’ll contact Dr. Zahi Hawass. He’s someone I trust. We met at Harvard years ago, although I’m sure he won’t remember. Anyway, we’ll report DeMaj for trafficking in stolen artifacts, not to mention murder.”

  “No, I mean what do we do with the jars? Do you think they’re safe here?”

  Ava inhaled deeply. Then she closed her eyes, exhaled slowly, and with great discipline kept her tone steady. “Paul, listen very carefully. Are you telling me that, right now, you’re in possession of the lost jars of Cana?”

  “Yes. I suppose so. I sort of borrowed them . . . temporarily. It was either that, or let Simon take them. That’s why I stole his truck. The jars were already loaded into super-high-tech, indestructible titanium canisters. When I saw those poor people get killed, I jumped in the truck and split.”

  “And you didn’t think to mention this last night?”

  “See, I didn’t tell you because even though you were exhausted, I knew you’d freak. You history nuts get worked up when anyone mentions the jars. I saw the way your eyes bugged out when I described examining them. You looked a little, I don’t know, hungry, but also excited—”

  “Paul,” Ava interrupted, “where are the jars now?”

  “I hid them in a cave. It’s less than three kilometers from here—”

  Ava insisted they go immediately.

  Sheik Ahmed sat in his bunker, thinking. He expected an important call. One of his bodyguards entered and handed him a special phone reserved for calls from the master. Ahmed then gestured for the guard to leave. He spoke into the phone and in a respectful voice he said in Arabic: “I am your servant, great one.”

  The master had no time for pleasantries. He required an update on the mission.

  “The Frenchman lost the jars. He paid with his life. My soldiers say his American aide stole them. He’s hiding with a woman. We will find them soon.”

  “Find them and kill them,” said the master.

  Chapter 5

  5

  Paul took Ava up a rocky trail into the mountains. They climbed for an hour, following the course of a dry streambed until they came to a wide ravine. The cave’s mouth adjoined the wadi, but two overhanging boulders shielded it from view, making the entrance almost invisible.

  “A decent hiding place,” Ava thought, although a careful search of the area would likely result in its detection. Paul hid the jars here three days ago. How long until Simon’s minions found them? Ava wiped her brow and watched Paul descend into the gulch, seemingly unencumbered by the thirty-six kilos of gear in his backpack. Secretly, she was grateful he’d insisted on carrying her equipment. She’d argued and called him sexist, but he had remained firm. When he reached up to help her down from the rocks, Ava smiled. Paul could be an obnoxious, unreconstructed paternalist, she thought, but he was helpful on a hike.

  He removed a gas lantern from his pack, lit it, and ventured into the cavern. Ava followed.

  “Check this out,” he said, playing the light over a smooth section of the cave’s interior. Ancient graffiti became visible. Ava could see words painted and carved into the surface. “Can you decipher it?” Paul said.

  She translated: “Here it overtook me . . . that I fell down for thirst. I was parched, my throat burned. I cried ‘This is the taste of death.’”

  “Creepy!”

  “Don’t joke, Paul. Someone might have died here.”

  “Nah. There’s a spring only five hundred meters away. I’m sure he was fine. Here they are!”

  He directed the light into the cave’s deepest recess. It reflected off something metallic.

  Ava gasped.

  Within his island stronghold, the master was confident. Over the course of many years, he’d learned that no complex plan conforms perfectly to expectations. To succeed, a commander must adapt to circumstances. Hence, Ahmed’s update presented no cause for alarm. Regardless of the unforeseen developments, the sheik would complete his mission soon, dashing the order’s last hope. He smiled, knowing victory was within reach.

  Roderigo noted his boss’s expression. “News from Egypt?”

  The master gestured ambivalently. “A few trivial inconveniences, but the plan continues as scheduled.”

  “Are you concerned about the woman? The translator?”

  “Not at all. Our agents report that she’s a bookish academic, mere prattle without practice. Ahmed will eliminate her, and our American cell will tie up the loose ends.”

  Hands on her hips, Ava circled the ultramodern titanium-and-acrylic canisters and scrutinized them from all angles. Paul helped Ava unpack her things and showed her how to release the artifacts from the protective canisters. He lifted the jars and described how he and Simon had carefully removed each lid and found the jars to be empty.

  Her eyes never left the artifacts. “Of course, I’ve every confidence in Simon’s mental acuity as well as that of his archaeological team,” she said. “Lord knows, they’
re the best brains money can buy. Still, I’m not sure it adds up.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “They look the way I expected them to look.”

  “And that’s bad?” asked Paul.

  “Yes, because they’re too . . . listen, in archaeology things don’t often turn out as expected. My mental picture of the jars comes from Tintoretto’s famous Wedding Feast at Cana. Have you seen it?”

  When Paul didn’t reply, Ava glanced up.

  “Surely you visited the Gardner Museum, back in Boston?”

  He rubbed his neck. “No, I never . . . wait. I saw that on television. There was a big art heist, right? Didn’t the crooks pretend to be cops?”

  “Yes. In the early nineties, criminals disguised as Boston police stole a Rembrandt, a Vermeer, a Manet. Thankfully, they missed the Tintoretto. It’s one of my favorites. Anyway, you said OSL testing proved that these jars have been buried under Egyptian sand for at least fourteen hundred years. If that’s true, how would Tintoretto know what to paint? I admit they’re not identical—these are closer to the barrel-shaped kratars from the Temple Mount—but Tintoretto’s depiction is correct in several key details.” She gestured toward the artifacts. “Notice the hollow trumpet bases and the simple rims. I’d say these jars were turned on a lathe and finished with a hammer and chisel.”

  She circled the jars again, crouched, then asked, “What would you estimate: thirty-two, thirty-four inches?”

  Before Paul could answer she went on: “Less than three feet anyway. That’s about how tall they look in the painting. But Tintoretto created Wedding Feast at Cana during the sixteenth century, long after these were buried. Was he incredibly lucky? Did he benefit from divine inspiration? No. It’s more likely that the DeMaj group scoured the world for a set of ancient stone jars that resembled the artist’s famous depiction and upon finding some incorrectly assumed that they’d found the lost jars of Cana. You follow?”