The Christian said nothing. A guard slapped the prisoner’s face with a heavy gauntlet, drawing blood, but the captive stayed mute.
Mehmed said, “This conflict is pointless. Lead me to your master and present my terms. He will surrender with honor, convert to Islam, and be named a baron in my empire. Every warrior who lays down arms and converts will be spared. For your service, you will have three thousand coins and my gratitude.”
There was no response.
The sultan continued.
“Otherwise, my jailers will torture you to death. They are quite practiced in the art.”
The warrior met the sultan’s gaze. By way of reply, he spat. The guards fell upon the Christian with a flurry of blows, knocking him to the ground and fracturing bones.
“This fool prefers torture and death to mercy and wealth. Execute him.”
Mehmed’s guards dragged away the defiant Wallachian. Outwardly, the sultan acted as though such defiance was inconsequential. Secretly, he was impressed by the infidel’s resolve. “With a division of such soldiers,” he thought, “I could conquer the world.”
Disguised as a Janissary, the Wallachian commander, called the Impaler Prince by his enemies, walked freely about the Ottoman camp. He made a study of his foe. Vastly outnumbered, the Wallachians could never defeat the Turks in open combat. His only hope for victory was the path foretold by the pope’s prophecy: that he’d capture and kill Mehmed, ending the war. To accomplish this, he must find the sultan’s tent.
The camp was gigantic, bigger than most cities. The Turkish soldiers numbered more than one hundred thousand. After wandering for hours, Vlad Dracula came upon the most richly appointed tent he’d ever seen. Its exterior was covered in a dazzling geometric pattern of embroidered gold lace inlaid with precious stones. He circled the immense structure, and as a messenger entered, he stole a glimpse inside. What he saw amazed him: The sultan traveled with a harem! Nubile concubines twirled and gyrated, attired in priceless silks. Vlad inhaled the sharp aroma of incense and exotic spices. He marked the tent’s location, certain it was his quarry’s lair.
Some hours after sunset, Dracula launched his surprise attack. Wallachian trumpets blared and pitch torches blazed. The Turkish guards ran amok, lost in the thick smoke. Veterans of countless lightning raids, Vlad’s elite cavalry attacked from several directions at once, routing the terrified Ottoman sentries.
Through the ensuing turmoil and confusion, Dracula led a disciplined commando force to the grand tent. He abducted the two inhabitants at dagger point. After lashing each captive atop a fast steed, the Wallachian horsemen sped away at a gallop.
Only later would Vlad Dracula discover that although he’d captured two fabulously wealthy grand viziers, Ishak Pasha and Mahmud Pasha, Sultan Mehmed II had escaped.
EGYPT, FEBRUARY 2013
In a turbocharged helicopter, using a pair of Swiss night-vision binoculars, Simon scanned traffic on the busy highway below. Struggling to maintain a stationary position, the aircraft battled irregular and unpredictable winds. Occasionally a gust caused the chopper to lurch violently. Simon swore in French. His chest and shoulder ached where restraints bit into his wounds. Cairo’s best doctors had provided all kinds of pills, but Simon refused narcotics. He needed his mind to be razor sharp. All he’d worked for—even his immortal soul—hung in the balance.
“Mr. DeMaj, we have them!”
“Where?”
“Near Rosetta. They’re traveling with a team of local crooks.”
“Change course immediately. How far?”
“We can be there in a half hour.”
“Go.”
The smuggler’s van bounced along the pitted gravel road at a modest, inconspicuous pace. Garbed in heavy pilgrim robes and concealed under several layers of thick cloth, Ava was thankful the sun had set. The old van lacked air-conditioning, but mercifully the driver had left the rear windows ajar. From the smell, Ava guessed their route tracked an irrigation canal. They drove for ten minutes, then slowed and stopped. In an urgent whisper, the driver cautioned: “Checkpoint. Be silent.”
Ava felt sweat beading on her neck. In the pitch darkness, she couldn’t see Paul. Unconsciously, she reached for him. Sensing her fear, he grasped her hand and held it. A warming strength flowed into her. She relaxed, and her breathing became regular.
The driver rolled down his window and answered questions. The exchange sounded familiar, even jocular. Ava gathered that the driver knew the security team and that he’d undergone this interrogation before. She heard the glove compartment click open, yielding documents for inspection. Moments later, two raps on the van’s exterior signaled a decision. The engine coughed to life, and their journey continued.
They turned west on Route 58, a coastal artery running north of Lake Idku. A half hour later, Ava detected the Mediterranean’s briny aroma.
As the van reached Alexandria’s outskirts, the driver invited Paul and Ava to come out of hiding. Paul immediately opened a window, and the Americans filled their lungs with invigorating air. Borrowing the driver’s phone, Paul called Nick. As expected, Nick preferred to meet at a service entrance, located in an alley opposite the hotel’s grand facade.
Traffic increased as they entered the city proper. The van crossed over several bridges. Ava peered down into dimly lit canals and waterways lined with scows, barges, fishing boats, and cargo rafts. The scent of dried fish reminded her of crossing the Red Sea. Was that only five days ago?
The knowledgeable driver took an indirect path into downtown, avoiding traffic jams and checkpoints. After turning onto a broad avenue tracking the coast, they beheld a glorious vista: the luminous Qaitbey Citadel, bathed in colored lights for an opera performance. Ava leaned across Paul to obtain a better view.
“Isn’t it amazing?” she asked.
“Yeah,” he agreed, gazing across the harbor. “Beautiful scenery, nice weather. I see why Alexander built a castle here.”
Ava laughed. “The citadel isn’t that old. It was constructed by the Mamelukes in 1477 to defend against Ottoman Turks. During the reign of Sultan Qaitbey—”
“Never heard of him.”
“An interesting character. Ruled Egypt in the late 1400s. Although he was a dictator who imposed heavy taxes, his reign was recognized as among the best of that era. He seized power by force, but he actually cared for the people.”
“Cool. I dig his crib.”
Ava giggled. “You know, some of the stone for that crib was recycled from the Pharos Lighthouse. Note the huge red granite pillars in the northwest—mmph!”
Paul had put his hand over her mouth. “Can we save the history lesson for after supper?”
Ammon guided the skiff southward, fighting the current. He barred any thought of his brother’s injuries from entering his mind. Concern would induce recklessness. If he was caught or killed, he’d be no help to Sefu. Almost an hour had passed since he’d parted company with his friends in Mutubis. Despite Ammon’s youth, he was a highly disciplined captain. He longed to run at top speed, to get as far as possible from the enemy. Instead, he moved cautiously, restrained the engine, and maintained a quiet pace. He squinted in the dim light, striving to locate and dodge submerged obstacles. He knew he couldn’t ignite gas lanterns without risking detection. He was uncomfortable using even his tiny flashlight. Reasoning that the authorities would seek him there, he ignored the first settlement he encountered. After he’d traveled about fifteen kilometers, he heard an unusual sound. He piloted his boat toward the bank, tied it up under some fruit trees, and killed the motor.
The sound grew louder, and soon it was unmistakable. Ammon recognized the throbbing sonic profile of a turbocharged helicopter. Seconds later, a searchlight began sweeping the river. Ammon considered his options. He could flee. There was a large settlement less than three kilometers upriver. With luck he could be there in five minutes, but five minutes was too long. He’d be spotted and shot. Even if the bullets missed, the chopper pilot cou
ld simply radio ahead, calling a swarm of cops to his location.
The patrol was almost on top of him. He reached a decision: Rather than run, he would hide. He dislodged the portable GPS from the skiff, pressed SAVE to enter the boat’s coordinates, and loaded the device into his backpack. With a silent prayer, Ammon slipped onto the muddy shore and began to belly-crawl through the tangled underbrush.
The driver entered Saad Zagloul Square and parked in a narrow alley, away from prying eyes. He helped Paul unload the canisters and bags. Paul handed him some cash as well as Nick’s direct number. They shook hands, and the driver left.
“How much did you pay?” Ava asked.
“Five hundred for the ride, five hundred to keep quiet.”
“Do you think he will?”
“I’m not sure. Ammon told me the driver was trustworthy. I want to believe it.”
At the mention of Ammon’s name, Ava’s face darkened. Her mind raced back to poor Sefu, fighting for his life in God-knows-what hospital. Lost in this dismal thought, she was oblivious to the footfalls of a man approaching her from behind.
“You look like hell!” a voice boomed.
Ava almost jumped out of her shoes. She spun around to see a handsome man, blond hair en brosse, wearing a custom-tailored tuxedo. He looked Ava up and down.
“My apologies, mademoiselle. I was referring only to that fellow.”
“Don’t bother, Nick,” said Paul, grinning. “Ava hates men.”
“Just the stupid ones,” she retorted.
“Then how do you tolerate this knucklehead?” Nick said, clapping Paul on the shoulder.
“Shut up and help me with the luggage.”
“Whatever you say, Mr. Francona.”
Taking care not to soil Nick’s immaculate tux, the former ballplayers hefted the canisters onto a brass dolly and guided it through the hotel’s service entrance. Ava followed them into a bustling kitchen.
Once they were inside, Nick closed and locked the door. Pointing to their bloodstained cloaks, he said, “You can’t just stroll through the lobby like that. Someone will call the police.”
Ava and Paul shared a glance. Obviously they were eager to avoid that experience. They took off their pilgrim clothing and Nick tossed the tattered cloaks into the incinerator.
“Better?” Paul asked.
“Much better,” Nick answered, appraising Ava’s tiny running shorts and bikini top, which were too chilly for the cold night air. “You look like you just came in from the beach.”
She dug into her backpack, found an oversized T-shirt, and pulled it over her head.
“Can we see our room now?”
Nick led them upstairs to a beautiful suite. As the men rolled in the dolly and unloaded the canisters, Ava admired the antique furnishings. She pulled open the curtains and gasped at a panoramic view of Alexandria’s Great Harbor. Directly across the water glowed the Qaitbey Fortress. Far down the corniche to the east was the modern Bibliotheca, built in 2002. To the west, minarets towered above the El-Mursi Abul Abbas Mosque complex.
“Just dial zero for anything you desire, Ava. Champagne, wine, whiskey, you name it. I told the concierge to put your charges on my comps.”
“Thanks, Nick.”
“My pleasure, mademoiselle.”
“Yeah, thanks,” Paul said. He took Nick by the arm and led him from the room.
Once they were outside, Nick said, “Let me guess. Her father is in the Mafia. No, the CIA.”
“It’s not like that.”
“Sure. First you call out of the blue using a fake name. Now you show up covered in blood, with a half-dressed teenage sexpot, and I’m not supposed to ask questions?”
“She’s not a teenager. She’s our age.”
“Fine. Whatever. That hardly explains—”
“Nick, it’s complicated. We need somewhere to hide for a day or two, just long enough to figure out everything. I’m sorry about this.”
“Don’t get me fired, okay? I like this job.”
“Gracias. You’re a true friend. I owe you.”
“No kidding.” With a wink, Nick handed over the keys, then vanished into the elevator.
Gabe previewed his post for the umpteenth time, reworded it, and struggled to avoid sounding stupid or desperate. With his mouse, he guided the cursor over the PUBLISH button and then hesitated. He rarely contributed to this forum, certainly nothing like this. His post was an admission of weakness. He anticipated the responses. Someone would flame him, he just knew it. He detested being in this position, but Gabe needed help, his reputation as a great hacker notwithstanding. If anyone could help, it would be this site’s readers, who tolerated no poseurs. When posts were deemed stupid or insulting, consequences ensued. He knew of cases in which a devastating worm or virus had been inflicted on a newbie who violated protocol. For years Gabe had been a member of this insular community. He’d formed relationships of sorts with the regulars. Though he’d never met any face-to-face, he knew their tastes in music, movies, TV, books, and food. He understood their political philosophies (most were hard-core libertarians), and he’d learned to appreciate their savvy programming suggestions. After a final review, he transmitted his message.
Paul returned to the room, entered without knocking, and surprised Ava undressing for a bath.
“Sorry!” he said, retreating into the hallway. “I’ll give you some privacy.”
He turned to leave, then heard her voice.
“You can stay.”
“Come again?”
With a shy smile: “If you don’t mind, I’d like you to stay. Walking around the hotel, someone might identify you. And besides,” she said, lowering her eyes, “I’ll feel safer if I know you’re here.”
Paul was touched. Despite his stupid mistakes and all the trouble he’d caused, Ava still trusted him to protect her.
“Oh, okay. Sure. Of course I’ll stay.”
Ava shut the bathroom door. The antique porcelain tub was her favorite type, with little feet and an old-fashioned chain stopper. She filled the bath with piping-hot water, added aromatic salts, dropped her towel, and slipped inside. As the warmth loosened her muscles, Ava inhaled deeply and then forced all the air from her lungs. Most of her stress left with it. She reclined and for the first time in days shaved her legs. They were, she observed with satisfaction, now nicely tanned.
As Ava rested her head against the cool ceramic, her mind drifted, flowing from topic to topic until drawn back, inevitably, to the sacred relics and three unresolved questions: Where was the message? Were these the real jars? How could she be sure? Recalling the personal and professional embarrassment Dr. King suffered after presenting the dubious papyrus, Ava shivered. Counterfeit artifacts had ruined many a promising career. In 2004, authorities determined that an ivory pomegranate thought to have adorned King Solomon’s Temple was phony. Ava knew well the sagas of the so-called James Ossuary and the Tablet of Solomon (a.k.a. the Jehoash Inscription), two major finds that were exposed as frauds. According to police, they’d been manufactured in a master forger’s workshop, inscribed by an Egyptian craftsman, and sold through a well-known antiquities dealer. Those fakes had been sophisticated enough to fool many experts, including some at the Sorbonne. Forgers even found a way to subvert the carbon-dating process, adding bits of gold and ancient charcoal under the patina. In all three cases, archaeological provenance was lacking.
That wasn’t a problem here. Paul saw the jars buried in the cave. He’d helped disinter them, but, Ava reasoned, Paul was no expert. Could he tell how long they’d been buried? What if someone buried the jars sixteen years ago, not sixteen hundred years ago? Ava closed her eyes, lost in thought.
The onyx Mercedes prowled into Rosetta just as the sun was setting, burnt orange on a cloudless horizon. Despite the windows’ tint, Lieutenant Barakah was momentarily blinded by the glare reflecting off the Nile.
A name floated back to him from across the years: Aker, god of sunset and sunrise. Aker’s
ideogram was twin lions back-to-back, the sun hovering between them. Barakah couldn’t recall the lions’ names, but he knew they represented yesterday and today. No tomorrow. Interesting, he thought. At that moment, the car slowed to a stop. Sheik Ahmed commanded: “Find out what happened to the boat, then meet me at the Mahaly Mosque’s front steps in two hours.”
The lieutenant nodded and walked east to the riverfront. He located the moored ECG boat and requested permission to board. Barakah hailed the first officer and asked him how the Americans had escaped.
“They got away because we couldn’t fire on them. It’s all in my official report. Yesterday afternoon we spotted the renegade skiff heading north. We approached in a responsible manner, and we ordered the captain to power down. After he ignored our lawful command, we fired a warning burst. The skiff turned and fled south at maximum speed. Ordinarily, we would have attacked, destroying or disabling the craft, but as you know, Lieutenant, we were under strict orders not to damage the smugglers’ cargo. Accordingly, we couldn’t engage the fifty-caliber. We gave chase, but they outran us.”
“Their skiff was faster than your patrol boat?”
“Well, we were constrained by governmental regulations to operate in a safe and responsible manner.”
Meanwhile, Sheik Ahmed sat in a hospital room questioning the injured policeman.
“We intercepted the dangerous gang in the town square. Despite immense personal risk, I engaged them in direct combat and shot one of the escapees. It was a fatal wound to the chest. I may have injured others. They took the body.”
Sheik Ahmed smiled politely, thanked the police officer, and commended him for exemplary service. He dropped a wad of banknotes on the table for medical expenses and left. Privately, Ahmed was disgusted. “That ignorant, lazy, incompetent swine admits he was beaten senseless by an unarmed amateur. He’s a disgrace.” Then Ahmed reconsidered. Perhaps he’d underestimated the American. Could he be more than he seemed?
The Cana Mystery Page 11
