The Cana Mystery

by David Beckett

  “But we didn’t ask for money!”

  Paul took a drink from his mug and set it on the table. “What’s the matter?”

  Ava reddened. “Are you kidding? I’m upset because the bishop won’t see us! We’re in mortal danger, and he’s off doing God knows what. I can’t believe he’d be so inconsiderate.”

  “I’m sure he has a lot on his mind. Did you hear that Pope Benedict accelerated the conclave? We could have a new pope by St. Patrick’s Day.”

  Ava rolled her eyes. “So what? The Catholic bureaucracy is hopelessly out of touch. The cardinals will just elect another stuffy European. The Church will never change!”

  She was on the brink of tears. Paul reached across the table and took her trembling hand. Then, looking her in the eyes, he asked: “What’s really bothering you?”

  She opened her mouth to argue, then paused. He was right. “Okay, I am upset about the bishop and the Church, but I’m really angry with myself. Given the chance to crack one of the world’s great mysteries, I struck out. Where’s the lost prophecy? Why can’t I solve the riddle?”

  “Maybe there wasn’t a mystery to solve,” Paul said. “I’m not convinced that a hidden message exists. Would Jesus really make up a prophecy? That sounds more like something you’d get from a bogus psychic or a fortune-teller than from the Bible.”

  “Are you kidding? A prophecy is something uttered by a prophet. Paul, the Bible is chock-full of prophets and prophecies. Tons of folks get zapped by the Holy Spirit and start predicting the future—often in verse. Read Luke 1:67, Deuteronomy 18:18, or Acts 3:22, ‘For Moses said, “The Lord your God will raise up for you a prophet like me from among your own people; you must listen to everything he tells you.”’ In John 13:38, Jesus himself prophesied that Peter would deny him three times before the cock crowed.”

  Paul waved his white napkin in surrender. “Okay, okay, I concede. You don’t need to quote chapter and verse.”

  She blushed. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to be rude. I’m just really frustrated.”

  He waited, giving her a chance to explain.

  Ava lowered her eyes and sipped from her mug. “I’ve been dissatisfied for a long time, okay? I’ve just been too proud—or maybe too scared—to face it. The honest-to-God truth is that I’m dreading graduation. I’ve worked like a dog to finish my doctorate, but why? I don’t want a life built around researching and debating linguistics. I’ll become another Professor von Igelfeld, hermetically sealed in an academic cloister. The moment I saw the jars, I sensed this was my path, my destiny. We can’t keep them, obviously, but when we surrender those artifacts, our journey ends. I’ll resume my mundane existence: books, lectures, maybe the occasional pub quiz, but no adventure.”

  He shook his head. “No disrespect to Professor von Igelfeld, but you can do anything you want. Ava, each day offers a new adventure. With your abilities and talents you can go anywhere. What do you want to see tomorrow? Yonaguni? The Mountains of the Moon? There are no limits but those we accept. Sure, it can be risky, and sometimes it hurts, but that’s real life: a thrilling spin of the wheel.”

  Ava smiled. She felt much better after hearing what Paul said. She made eye contact. He held a fist to his cheek, with his thumb to his ear and his pinky pointing to his lips: the universal sign for telephone.

  Paul walked to the bar and took the receiver. “Hello?”

  A gravelly voice said, “This is Bishop Garagallo. Is this Paul?”

  “Yes, Excellency. Thank you for calling. Did you get our message?”

  “I did. May I ask a question?”

  “Of course.”

  “Are you the Americans who encountered some difficulty in Alexandria?”

  Paul took a deep breath. “We are, but the newspaper accounts of our activities are dead wrong.”

  “I believe you, but I’m sure you’ll understand that given the circumstances, a man in my position cannot meet publicly with . . . fugitives.”

  Paul was glad the man hadn’t called them criminals. “Yes, Father. We understand. Nevertheless, we are eager to meet. What do you suggest?”

  “Are you familiar with the Catacombs of St. Paul?”

  “No.”

  “They’re a complex of interconnected caves located in Rabat, on St. Agatha Street. The last tour begins at four thirty, but if you can meet me later, I’ll arrange for the gate to remain unlocked.”

  “I’m sure we can find it, Excellency.”

  “Good. Meet me in the chapel at eight. Bring the jars. Please come alone, and tell no one of our meeting.”

  Paul returned to the table. Something about the telephone call bothered him, but he wasn’t sure what. He told Ava the bishop was willing to meet. She was elated. Then he asked, “I assume you’ve heard of these catacombs?”

  “Of course. St. Paul’s Catacombs represent the earliest archaeological evidence of Christianity on Malta. They contain numerous tombs and important murals, the island’s only surviving evidence of late-Roman and early-medieval painting. It’s an important historical site as well as a tourist attraction.”

  “Won’t it be too dark to see much at eight o’clock?” asked Paul as he tasted the fish.

  “Paul, it’s a cave. It’s dark all the time.”

  He laughed. “Right. I’ll bring a torch, then.”

  Ahmed’s phone rang. He checked the caller ID and fear gripped him. It was the call he dreaded. He dismissed his entourage, closed the office door, and then picked up. “Master?”

  “The Americans are in Malta. You must complete your mission. I cannot tolerate another delay. The girl is adept at solving puzzles. She may uncover the secret.”

  Paul and Ava walked back to the hotel and prepared for an excursion into the catacombs. Ava obtained directions from the concierge while Paul purchased a small flashlight from the gift shop. They went upstairs to change. Ava donned khakis, a T-shirt, and running shoes. Looking for his blue jeans, Paul opened the closet. He paused. The two canvas-covered canisters were still hidden inside. Noting his posture, Ava asked, “What’s up?”

  “Garagallo said to bring these to the meeting.”

  “And?”

  “And . . . I don’t think we should. They’re much safer up here. If the bishop accepts our deal, he can send someone to collect them. Or he can come himself. Either way, I don’t think we should haul them halfway across the island. It’s an unnecessary risk.”

  “If you feel strongly, then I agree,” Ava said.

  They caught a cab to Rabat, an ancient settlement several kilometers inland. The taxi dropped them in the parish square outside St. Paul’s Church. Less than one hundred meters down St. Agatha Street, they found the catacombs. The site was closed for the evening but, as promised, the gate was unlocked. The two Americans stepped inside. Paul turned on his flashlight. Its bright beam revealed the entrance to a sizable labyrinth. Steep steps led down into a central gallery from which passages branched off in several directions.

  “Spooky!” said Paul.

  Ava hit his arm. “Hush! Show some respect. These are tombs.”

  “Sorry,” he whispered. Taking her hand, he guided her into the large chamber. Divided by a central pillar, the room opened into a bewildering series of tunnels. Immediately to their right, a wide corridor beckoned.

  “Which way to the chapel?” Paul whispered. Ava shrugged. She had no idea.

  “Guess we’ll find out.”

  Paul ventured into the passage. After walking twenty-five meters, they entered a tall crypt with a raised plinth. Hewn from the natural rock were two circular tables and two semicircular benches. Ava whispered that the site must have been used for meals during the ancient festival of the dead. Then Paul stopped in his tracks. At the end of the chamber was an apse containing a variety of small amphorae and two large stone jars. Both were unsealed. Their heavy stone lids rested on an adjoining shelf. Eyes wide with wonder, Paul turned to Ava and in a hushed voice asked, “Are those what I think they are?”

&nbs
p; His question confused her for a moment. Then Ava understood. Out of respect for the dead, she struggled to suppress her laughter. She took his wrist and redirected the flashlight’s beam to a sign near the apse. In several languages, it read: EXAMPLES OF PERIOD STONEWORK AND CERAMICS.

  “Honestly, you didn’t think those were the other lost jars, did you? They’re not even from the right century! Look at the carving style—”

  “Whatever,” Paul said glumly. From his tone, Ava worried that she’d really insulted him. She was relieved when his usual smile reemerged.

  They continued down the passage until they reached a dead end.

  “Damn. Looks like we took a wrong turn,” Paul said. He led her back to the main chamber and played his flashlight over the wall signs. One indicated that the chapel was to their left. They followed the arrow and descended deeper into the catacombs. Down a few more steps was a wide room. Ava could see why it was called a chapel: A shadowy recess at its far end resembled an altar. Walking slowly in the dim light, she approached, drawing closer until a loud voice called out, “Did you come alone?”

  Ava spun around. A tall, robed figure materialized out of the gloom. She tried to answer, but found she couldn’t. Paul spoke for her.

  “Bishop Garagallo? Hi, nice to meet you. We came alone, as you requested.”

  “Excellent. It’s nice to meet you, too. Now Paul, I told you to bring the jars. Where are they?”

  In that instant, Paul realized what had been bothering him. They’d never said the artifacts were jars! Paul needed time to think. He stalled.

  “The jars? Oh, they’re safe. They’re in a very safe place.”

  “Where?”

  Paul looked at Ava. She was embarrassed. His intuition told him something was very wrong. The bishop shouldn’t know about the jars. He couldn’t know. Unless. Paul hunted for a decent response. Then he heard Ava.

  “I apologize, your Excellency. We left the jars—”

  “In the other cavern,” Paul finished. “We left them over in the other cavern. You see, it’s my fault. I got us lost. We took a wrong turn, and, you know, those things can get very heavy. I can show you where they are. I’ll lead you to them. Come this way.”

  Ava stared at him. She had no idea what he was doing, but she trusted him enough to play along. Paul turned and walked out of the chapel. Unsure of what to do, he tried to formulate a plan. Suddenly, he had an idea. When they reached the main chamber, he turned. “Watch your step, Father. You know Malta’s reputation for poisonous snakes.”

  “What?” The bishop was confused. “Snakes? Certainly. I’ll watch out for them.”

  Paul saw Ava stiffen. She knew. The real Maltese bishop would have caught the reference. She looked directly at Paul, fear written on her face. “Ava, you look a little cold. Why don’t you wait for us outside? The bishop and I can carry the jars—”

  “No, I don’t think so.” From the folds of his robe, the man produced a pistol equipped with a silencer.

  He pointed the gun at Ava. “Move away from the stairs. Stand next to him.” Ava was shaking. She backed into Paul. He looped his arm around her waist and pulled her close, but for once his touch didn’t calm her.

  “You’re not Bishop Garagallo,” said Ava.

  The man smiled.

  “Look,” said Paul, “you can have the jars. We won’t make trouble. If you let her go, I’ll help you carry them out.”

  The man smiled again. “First, show me the jars. Then we’ll negotiate.”

  The three of them continued down the corridor until they came to the room with the stone tables and benches. Paul knew they’d both be killed as soon as the impostor had what he wanted. Playing for time, he tried to distract the man with chatter.

  “So, why are you doing this? What’s in it for you?”

  The assassin didn’t reply. Desperate, Paul began again, “It’s the money, right? Of course it is. You’re a professional. Can’t say I blame you. For a hundred million? Who wouldn’t?”

  When the killer reacted to the figure, Paul knew he’d found his angle: greed. Somehow he must use that to his advantage. Praying the impostor wouldn’t read the sign, Paul strode directly to the apse and turned around. Standing next to the alcove, he pointed his flashlight at the stone examples and said, “Well, here they are. The famous lost jars of Cana.”

  When the false bishop saw the two jars, he allowed himself a smug smile. His mission was almost complete. He raised the revolver and pointed it at Ava’s face. “Go stand next to him.” She complied. Grinning, the killer cocked the pistol.

  This was it—now or never! “Of course, you don’t really need the jars once you’ve seen the message,” Paul said coolly.

  The man paused. “What message?”

  “Didn’t they tell you? That’s why the jars are so valuable. There’s a message hidden inside. It gives the location of a buried treasure worth hundreds of millions. We uncovered it.”

  Paul pointed his light down into a jar. “See? It’s right here. You can read it.”

  “Step away,” the killer ordered. Paul backed up against the shelf. With one hand, he kept the flashlight on the jars. With the other, behind his back, he groped for any object he could use as a club.

  With his eyes focused on Paul’s face, the would-be bishop inched forward. Soon he stood directly in front of the apse. “See for yourself,” said Paul. “It’s written right there on the bottom, the treasure’s secret location.”

  In the darkness Paul’s fingers closed around something made of heavy stone. He watched the man’s eyes. For the briefest moment, the man glanced down into the jar.

  With reflexes honed by throwing out countless runners at first, Paul swung. The thick stone lid connected with the man’s skull, cracking it like a ripe pumpkin. Instantly, the killer went limp and dropped to the cave floor. Ava screamed. Paul dropped the bloody stone disk, grabbed Ava’s arm, and ran. He dragged her through the corridors and up the steps. As they neared the exit, Ava tripped.

  She fell on top of a corpse. The dead woman’s uniform identified her as a tour guide. The gunshot wound in her forehead identified her killer as a professional. Ava scrambled on all fours, desperate to escape. The cavern floor was slick with blood. Ava gagged. She felt vomit rush up her throat. Then strong hands helped her stand. A firm voice urged her to move, to run. Paul kicked open the door, and the two bolted into the street. Picking a direction at random, he dragged Ava away from the catacombs.

  “No, wait! That poor woman—”

  “Ava, she’s dead, but her murderer might still be alive. He won’t miss us again. We have to go. Now!”

  Chapter 12

  12

  ANCONA, ITALY,

  AUGUST 14, 1464

  Pope Pius II rested in the Episcopal Palace. His room offered a spectacular view of the harbor and of Monte Astagno, but the ailing pope preferred to admire St. Ciriaco Cathedral. Completed in 1189 on the site of an eighth-century church (and an even older temple of Venus), the Romanesque structure was patterned after a Greek cross. Built of gray stone, it featured a dodecagonal dome and a facade with Gothic elements. Pius II smiled, wondering if he’d be buried there.

  “Holiness,” said Cardinal Jacopo, “the Venetians have arrived.” With difficulty, the pontiff lifted himself and turned his gaze toward the Adriatic. On the far horizon, he beheld at long last the sails of the Venetian fleet.

  “Too late,” he whispered, laboring for breath. “Too late.”

  Pius shut his eyes and fell back against his pillow. How had it come to this? Two years ago he’d been at the pinnacle of strength. Invigorated after deciphering the sacred prophecy, he’d undertaken an ambitious campaign to protect Christendom from the Turkish onslaught. Following his predecessors’ instructions, the pope composed an eloquent, respectful letter to Mehmed II that revealed the prophecy’s secrets and encouraged the sultan to convert to Christianity. When his invitation was ignored, Pius convened a congress of Christian princes at Mantua. He smil
ed, remembering that glorious day. His grand entrance to the convocation was like a triumphal procession. He stood at the dais and read the blessed prophecy to the assembled royals. Then Pius demanded a cessation of all internecine feuds and proclaimed a three-year crusade against the Ottomans. Spirits buoyed by the prophecy’s guarantee of victory, the rival princes unified against their common foe and pledged unanimous support for the pope’s bold strategy.

  For a time it seemed the alliance formed at Mantua would succeed. Vlad Dracula led a successful resistance against Mehmed. The Wallachians attempted to assassinate the sultan. The prophecy predicted success. During the resulting turmoil the Turks would be vulnerable.

  The prophecy was wrong, however: Mehmed survived the night attack. No longer convinced that victory was preordained, the fragile alliance shattered. Of course, aid promised by the duplicitous French king never materialized. Worse, France threatened Burgundy, forcing Duke Philip the Good to recall his support.

  Despite suffering these setbacks and a bout of debilitating fever, the pope’s faith never wavered. On June 18, Pius personally assumed the cross. He departed Rome for Ancona to lead the crusade himself. Alas, the Venetian fleet was interminably delayed. Predictably, selfish factions within the crusading army used the postponement as an excuse to pursue other interests. Milan attempted to seize Genoa. Cynical Florence recalled her forces, hoping to acquire rich lands after the Turks and Venetians weakened each other. Without Florentine participation, the crusade would fail. Rather than sacrifice themselves for nothing, even Pius’s most loyal soldiers deserted. By the time the Venetian ships arrived, the dying pope had no army with which to fill them.

  Cardinal Jacopo attended his beloved pontiff, mopping sweat from his fevered brow. All their efforts were doomed. Pius had staked everything on retaking Constantinople. His failure would cripple the enlightened, humanist faction within the Holy Church. Jacopo Piccolomini-Ammannati knew he’d never sit on St. Peter’s throne. Instead, the path had cleared for a weaker, less charismatic man’s ascendance. Jacopo dreaded that a subsequent pope would capitulate to Spanish pressure and resurrect the Inquisition. In despair, the gifted cardinal wondered, “Is Mehmed truly the Antichrist? Or, perhaps, are we?”