The Cana Mystery

by David Beckett

  “It may seem insignificant now, but in ancient times this was an important center for pilgrimage. It contains the grave site of Osiris, the Egyptian god of the afterlife.”

  “This place?” asked Paul doubtfully, eyeing ramshackle buildings and heaps of debris. “Says who?”

  “Says Herodotus. This was also the location of Neith’s temple.”

  “Who’s Neith?”

  “Neith was a hunting goddess and a creator. That’s unusual in the Egyptian pantheon because creation deities are generally male. Neith gave birth to Sobek, the crocodile god, who represents fertility, power, and the Nile. In the Late Period, Neith’s temple was famous for exquisite linen cloth. Priestesses wove flax into fine fabric. In fact, royal linen was semitransparent.”

  Paul flashed a wide smile. “So, back in the day, this town was full of hot chicks in transparent clothing worshipping a fertility god?”

  “Nice!” said Ammon.

  “Sexy!” said Sefu.

  Ava refused to dignify their behavior with a response.

  The boys felt this area was a great place to camp. Cautiously, they pushed a bit farther upriver to a secluded island featuring row after row of espaliered fruit trees. Once the boat was secure, Sefu waded ashore and hiked inland for additional supplies. Ammon opened the skiff’s hold and removed four bags of camping equipment. He tossed them onto the bank, where he and Paul began erecting tents. As they worked, Ava directed a flashlight about the orchard. She sought a private grove for a bathroom break. Watching carefully for crocodiles, asps, and other dangers, she excused herself. When she returned, she watched them complete the tent-raising and Ammon lit a campfire.

  Sefu arrived with a basket of fresh fruit, aish baladi (a bread), and roasted chicken. The four travelers enjoyed a hearty feast. Subsequently, they retired to the tents, having agreed to rise at dawn.

  After visiting the latrine, Paul walked back to camp under a canopy of brilliant stars. Backlit by firelight, Ava’s silhouette moved within their tent. She crawled into her sleeping bag and pulled it up to her chin. Paul entered, and, after stripping to his undershorts, changed the bandage on his leg. He noted with amusement that Ava’s eyes were squeezed shut. Grinning, Paul gathered their sweaty laundry, took it outside, and hung it close to the fire to dry. When he returned, he zipped the flap shut and locked the zipper. Paul wasn’t worried about crocs, but his time working on archaeological digs had taught him that Africa offered many creepy invaders to disturb slumber. He flopped down on his side of the tent.

  “Sorry if I snore.”

  “It didn’t bother me in Giza.”

  “Okay. Goodnight then.”

  “Goodnight.”

  Paul lay in darkness, listening. Above the river’s patient murmur, hosts of frogs, flies, and beetles pulsed, chirped, and trilled. The boys debated something in voices too muffled to understand while a distant cricket fiddled. Ava wriggled inside her sleeping bag. He thought she must be roasting in there. A quiet laugh passed his lips.

  “What’s so funny?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Then why are you laughing?”

  “I don’t know. Look, can I ask you something?”

  “Yes.”

  “You said Simon was after a secret message inside the jars. What if it’s still hidden in them?”

  “How do you mean?”

  “I’m not sure. Could the message be hidden in the stone?”

  Ava rolled onto her stomach. “Yeah, I wondered that too. That’s why he had you examine them so carefully. Simon suspected there might be a coded message carved on the surface, but we didn’t find anything.”

  “But what if it’s literally in the jars?”

  “Meaning?”

  “Maybe written on the inside. Sealed into the material somehow.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  Ava mulled over the possibilities. With her mirror and lantern, she’d examined the jars’ interiors and found no evidence of writing, etching, or carving. She wasn’t really surprised. An intelligent author would expect chemicals in the wine to ruin anything written on the inside. Furthermore, she doubted anything was embedded in the stone. That would have been quite difficult to accomplish without giving away the trick at a glance. Plus, she intuitively rejected the notion that shattering the jars was necessary to obtain the message. Would the apostles want such holy relics destroyed? No. There must be another solution. Pondering these questions, Ava dropped off to sleep.

  Sheik Ahmed arrived in El Wasta just before ten at night. When they recognized his Brabus Mercedes, the uniformed guardsmen saluted and opened the gate. The car entered the police compound and circled to the main building, where Lieutenant Barakah waited. After parking, Ahmed’s chauffeur jumped out and hurried to open the sheik’s door, but Barakah beat him to it. Ahmed turned off his phone, emerged from the car, and strode purposefully into the building. As he walked, Barakah provided his important guest with a summary of the evening’s progress.

  Ahmed interrupted: “Bottom line, did he talk?”

  “No, sir.”

  “He will.”

  The police lieutenant led Ahmed downstairs to the basement. He motioned to a guard, who pulled a string of keys from his pocket and unlocked the interrogation cell, or, as most guards called it, the confessional.

  Strapped to a wooden chair and bleeding was Captain Akhmim. After enduring hours of torture, he was unrecognizable as the felucca captain who’d taken Paul and Ava to Cairo. His lips were split, his eyes were swollen shut, and he was missing teeth. Interrogators had shaved Akhmim’s thick beard and broken several ribs.

  The sheik grabbed an aluminum chair and sat down close to the prisoner. He lit a cigarette and offered one to Akhmim, who refused it.

  “You are a proud man,” said Ahmed. “You are strong, and you follow the ancient ways. I have great respect for you.”

  Akhmim made no reply.

  “Yet by refusing to answer our questions, you protect my enemies. This will not be permitted.”

  Sheik Ahmed pulled his phone from his pocket. Involuntarily, Akhmim flinched, expecting a blow across the face.

  Ahmed dialed a number. His call was answered on the first ring.

  “Do you have them?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Put the boy on.”

  He turned to his captive and asked, “Would you like to speak to your son?”

  Akhmim shook with fear. “No!” he begged. “Please, no!”

  Ahmed smiled. “We have your wife and children. If you don’t tell me where to find the infidels, your children will die. I shall allow you to hear them die, one at a time, over this phone. Then, my men will entertain your wife. Do you understand?”

  Akhmim hung his head, his will broken.

  “I delivered the Americans to eastern Cairo,” he said quietly.

  “When?”

  “Yesterday. Sunset.”

  “Where are they now?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Ahmed shook his head. He raised the phone to his lips and said, “Kill the baby.”

  “No!” Akhmim screamed. “I swear on my life, I don’t know where they are. They took a speedboat to Giza. They mentioned going farther west, to Rasheed, maybe to Alexandria, but I don’t know!”

  “Speedboat?”

  “Two smugglers, mere boys, with a fast little boat, a white skiff painted with racing stripes. They took the Americans to Giza, maybe farther. That’s all I know. I swear on my family, that’s all I know!”

  Ahmed nodded thoughtfully, finished his cigarette, and said, “I believe you.” He lifted the Ruger SR9 from his pocket, pointed it at the prisoner’s head, and squeezed the trigger.

  Over the phone, he could hear Akhmim’s family screaming. Sheik Ahmed put the speaker close to his ear and listened to their terror.

  “Kill the family,” he told his aide. “All of them. Bury the bodies in the desert.”

  As he issued these orders, Lieutenant Barakah shrank
back. Ahmed noticed but kept silent.

  “As I suspected,” Ahmed thought. “Barakah is weak. He lacks the strength for what must be done. He is unfit to serve the master.”

  In the predawn light, Ava woke from a nightmare. It took a few moments to recall where she was. Then she panicked, realizing the two ancient artifacts were sitting in the motorboat, concealed by nothing more than canvas. She couldn’t believe the risks they’d taken. Wandering bandits could easily steal the jars. The boys hadn’t obtained anyone’s permission to camp here. What if a farmer reported them? She and Paul might be arrested for smuggling antiquities, and if Simon’s hitmen found them . . .

  She resolved to check on the jars. She sat up and reached for her clothes. They were gone. Nervous, she looked left and right but saw nothing. Ava glanced at Paul. He was snoring away in blissful ignorance. She gathered the sleeping bag around her and peered around the tent. Nothing!

  Just then, Paul stirred. He saw that Ava was up and assumed he’d overslept.

  “What time is it?” he said, yawning, and out of habit glanced at his wrist. “It doesn’t look like the sun’s up.”

  “Paul?”

  “Yes?”

  “Where are my clothes?”

  “They were damp and nasty, so I hung them by the fire to dry.”

  “I’d like to get dressed.”

  “Cool.”

  “Will you get them for me, please?”

  Paul was annoyed. He didn’t want to get up from his warm sleeping bag. Why had she awakened him so early? He still had time to sleep.

  “Get them yourself,” he muttered, covering his head with a blanket. “They’re right by the campfire.”

  Holding the sleeping bag tightly, Ava sat motionless, looked directly at him, and said nothing for several seconds.

  Then it dawned on him. He started to laugh. “Wait, are you buck naked under there?”

  Ava felt a wave of anger rise from her stomach. She suppressed the urge to punch him in the face.

  “Paul,” she said, slowly and deliberately, “Go . . . get . . . my . . . clothes.”

  He knew better than to argue. “I’ll be right back.”

  The black Mercedes sped north on Highway 21 toward Cairo. For several minutes the passengers rode in silence. Ahmed lit a cigarette and said, “You objected when I had our men kill the prisoner’s family, didn’t you Barakah?”

  “I follow your orders, sir. I always have.”

  “Indeed, but you avoid answering my question. Do you feel the decision to kill them was a mistake?”

  “I obey you in all things, and I never question your judgment.”

  Ahmed grew frustrated by his subordinate’s circumlocutions. He brightened the limo’s interior lights and looked pointedly at his underling.

  “Tell me, would you have killed them?”

  Barakah knew better than to lie. “No. The prisoner gave us the information we needed. I would have freed the woman and her children.”

  Ahmed nodded, satisfied to hear the truth. On the surface, Barakah was a decorated Central Security Force officer assigned to the Egyptian National Police. Secretly, he’d joined Ahmed’s organization and risen through the hierarchy. Intelligent, competent, and thorough, Barakah followed every order to the letter. But the sheik maintained reservations about this ostensibly dutiful soldier. Ahmed suspected that Barakah lacked the courage of his convictions. In the eternal struggle, a mind clouded by mercy and compassion was a severe liability.

  “If we allowed those children to live, they would have sworn a blood oath of vengeance against us and our cause. As adults, they would have fought tirelessly to defeat and kill us. A blood enemy is a true enemy, Barakah. A blood enemy cannot be bribed or dissuaded. He must be killed, exterminated. I choose to exterminate my enemies now, while I still can.”

  “But the woman? We could have left her.”

  Ahmed laughed. “Women are far more dangerous than men. To defeat a woman I must defeat not only her but also all her family. A woman’s father, husband, brothers, and sons will sacrifice their lives to avenge wrongs done to her. Her sisters and daughters will never forgive or forget. Women are cunning and patient, willing to achieve vengeance through stealth and treachery. Remember the story of Shamshoum [Sampson]. They can bewitch honest soldiers, fill our minds with poison and confusion. Women live to deceive. They will turn brother against brother, musahib. Never underestimate them.”

  At dawn the travelers packed up camp, refueled the skiff, and resumed their journey. Despite the uncomfortable robes, Paul and Ava were again disguised as pilgrims. As the boat navigated a bewildering variety of canals, forks, locks, and side streams, Ava wondered how the boys managed without getting lost. Could they possibly have the intricate route memorized? Then she noticed that from time to time Ammon consulted a small gray box mounted on the stern. Curious, she eased her way aft and found that it was a GPS navigation device, specifically a Lowrance LMS-520C, of which the boys were immensely proud. Sefu insisted on showing Ava all its functions. It featured a five-inch, 480-pixel display; could ascertain their exact position on a satellite map; could sound a channel’s depth up to ninety meters; and was waterproof. Before they left Cairo, Ammon had plotted their course and saved it into the device’s memory.

  Ava was impressed, but she knew such high-tech gadgets were expensive. The GPS must have run several hundred dollars. Was ferrying tourists around Cairo really that lucrative?

  Occasionally the boys reduced speed and traversed shallower zones invaded by the fetid species of alga they’d endured upriver. Near Shubra Khit they encountered a particularly thick bloom.

  “It reeks,” said Paul, disgusted. “This stuff is gross.”

  “Oh, it’s worse than gross. It’s ecotoxic,” Ava said.

  “It’s poisonous?”

  “To the planet. The Aswan Dam project, which formed Lake Nasser, caused all kinds of environmental damage. Not enough water flows down. Consequently, the valley soil gets too salty, requiring more artificial fertilizer. Fertilizer runoff creates huge algal blooms, which block sunlight, harbor bacteria, and kill the fish. Nutrient discharge into the Mediterranean has declined drastically, weakening offshore sardine and shrimp fisheries.”

  “So why don’t they release more water?”

  “It’s not that simple. The Nile runs through seven countries, and its waters are almost fully utilized. In Egypt alone the population has doubled since 1978, so more and more freshwater is consumed by people, tourists, and farms. The High Dam is particularly harmful because it blocks silt from passing. Without replenishing silt, alluvial soil degrades, fish starve, and the whole delta suffers.”

  “Okay, okay,” Paul said, holding up his hands to block the verbal onslaught. “I didn’t mean to uncork the Earth First! genie.”

  “Don’t trivialize this, Paul. People face a shortage of drinking water because plutocrats would rather irrigate golf courses. Egypt has an annual water deficit of twenty billion cubic meters. Myopic capitalists like your boss should be held responsible for the negative externalities their so-called investments create.”

  “Former boss,” Paul corrected. “I’m now a proud member of the unemployed proletariat.”

  She grinned. “Welcome to the revolution.”

  During the next hour they sped by several agricultural towns, including Mahalat Diyay, Diminkan, and Kafr Magar. Each one, Paul admitted, did not appear to have benefited from a capitalist economic bonanza. Poor farmers lived in mud-brick buildings with few modern amenities or conveniences. On the other hand, everyone appeared well fed.

  Around noon they passed under two major highway bridges. Ammon said the large urban center was called Disuq. Paul wondered aloud if any famous gods were buried there. Ava smiled and said that centuries ago Disuq was a capital of the Hyskos, an Asiatic people who invaded from the east.

  As they continued north, Ava could tell they were nearing the sea. The indigenous flora and fauna began to take on a marine character. In the l
arge settlements of Qabit, Fuwah, and Sandayoun, boatbuilding seemed to be an important industry. A tang of salty air carried the pungency of old pilings, rotting despite their creosote. She noted a variety of rusty seagoing vessels at anchor. This stage of the river was heavily involved with aquaculture, forcing the boys to navigate carefully lest they damage the hull on a subsurface fish farm. When they reached Mutabis, Ammon reduced speed.

  “We stop here,” Sefu said. “Ten minutes, okay?” He tied the skiff to a rickety pier. Ammon disembarked and disappeared into the crowd.

  “Ava, this might be a good place for a bathroom break,” Paul said. “Why don’t you scope it out?”

  Something about his manner made her wary. He’d been consistently overprotective. Now he was suggesting she go ashore alone? Nonchalantly, she hopped onto the pier and went into a restaurant. Then she doubled back to a window to surveil the boat. Her suspicion was confirmed when she spied Ammon toting a large cardboard box mummified in shipping tape. He stowed it in the skiff’s hold and smiled roguishly at Paul. Ava had guessed they’d been keeping a secret from her. Now she knew it.

  Furious, she stormed back to the pier. “What’s in the box?” she demanded.

  Paul’s eyes met hers. He shook his head and said, “Don’t get upset. Everything’s fine. The boys just need to deliver something to Cairo. We’ll be on our way in a minute.”

  Ava was less than satisfied by his explanation. Tears formed in her eyes. In a voice tight with anger and sadness, she announced:

  “No. I’m sorry, Paul. I’m getting off.”

  “Huh? Wait, you don’t understand!”

  “No, I’m sure I don’t. I don’t understand a thing about trafficking drugs except that I’m not getting involved. So, good luck, and I hope you all make a huge profit,” she said, now sobbing.

  “It’s not what you think!”

  “Oh really? What’s in the box then?”