Ridding his mind of such inappropriate speculation, Jacopo focused on his immediate responsibilities. He raised a chalice to his master’s lips and whispered, “Please take some water, Holiness,” but the pope was dead.
EGYPTIAN COAST,
MARCH 2013
Nick’s jeep sped west on Highway 1. The convertible top was down. Nick wanted to leave Egypt that night, but he couldn’t go without paying Sinan. To Nick, a promise was sacred. From his years in business he’d learned that if people couldn’t rely on your word, you might as well pack it in. Besides, Sinan was a friend; he deserved a warning. Nick called the pilot and left a detailed voice mail explaining that Ahmed was checking passenger manifests at the harbor. “It’s only a matter of time before he figures it out,” Nick said. “I’m skipping until things cool. If you want your money, meet me at the Porto Marina Hotel in El Alamein. I’ll wait a day. After that, I’ll have to mail you a check.”
Nick should have known Sinan wouldn’t be the only one to hear the recording.
Paul and Ava ran through Rabat until they reached St. Paul’s Church. They cut across the parish square and continued north. Every time they passed an alley Ava’s heart stopped. What danger lurked there? The sheik? The police? Simon? Another assassin? Hand in hand they ran hard for an additional quarter mile. It was cathartic. The night air tasted sweet after the dank catacombs. The exercise cleared Ava’s head until, with effort, she could think rationally.
They paused to rest on a stone bench beneath a statue of two lovers embracing. After catching her breath, Ava said, “Paul, someone betrayed us, someone who knew we were in Malta.”
“Right, and it’s a short list. Sinan knows we’re here, but I’m confident he wasn’t the one. If he planned to sell us out, why fly us over from Egypt?”
Ava nodded, so Paul continued. “And we didn’t get pinched at immigration, so it wasn’t Gabe’s hacker friend.” Ava agreed with this assessment too. Then Paul asked, “Could it have been Clarkson?”
Ava’s expression hardened. “That’s ridiculous. I contacted him, not the other way around. What are the odds that the one person I call in Malta is an agent for Simon and Sheik Ahmed? Half a million to one? Clarkson has no idea why we’re here. We never discussed the jars. Plus, he’s a tenured university professor with a stellar academic reputation.”
“What difference does that make? Are tenured professors morally superior to us normal people?”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes,” she replied coldly. “I’m sure.”
“Then who do you think it was?”
“Could it have been Nick?”
Paul was hurt. He stood and glared at her. “No,” he said, and began walking toward Mdina.
Ava called after him. “Wait! Are you sure? How well do you know him?”
Without slowing, he shouted back, “He’d never rat us out.”
“Hey! Will you just listen? It’s not impossible. Think! He might have had no choice. What if they captured him? Tortured him? Injected him with drugs?”
Paul stopped. He took a deep breath and waited a few seconds. Then he faced Ava. “Okay, I admit it’s possible. Every person we mentioned might have been captured, tortured, or drugged. By that standard, everyone’s a suspect, but the assassin called us at the tavern. Nick couldn’t have known about that. The first we heard of Two Gods was from your pal Clarkson after we landed on Malta.”
Ava thought it over. He was right. She took his hand. “I’m sorry,” she said quietly.
Paul lifted her hand to his lips and gently kissed it. In a warm voice he said, “Nick’s a good friend. He wouldn’t betray us. I know it in my heart.”
Ava smiled. Then her mind buzzed with an idea. “Paul, you nailed it! The traitor was someone who knew to call us at the tavern. And the only place you gave out that number—” Her memory flashed back to the young man behind the huge black desk, the man who’s ears pricked up when she mentioned historical artifacts and kept asking how much they were worth.
Paul’s jaw set as he reached the same conclusion. He finished her sentence: “The only place I gave out that number was at the bishop’s office. I left it for his assistant.”
Fury radiated from his body like heat from a blast furnace. His fists tightened as he whispered, “That greedy little worm is going to pay.”
Gabe sat on Jess’s sofa, telling her all that had transpired since Ava called from Yemen. Hesitant at first, he gave only cursory details, but as Jess pressed for specifics, his explanation became increasingly elaborate. When he described helping Ava escape across the Red Sea, Jess hugged him and praised his cleverness. After that, he brimmed with confidence. His description of being chased by the bearded men took a few liberties with the truth: He neglected to mention falling on his face and implied that he’d evaded capture by stealth and cunning, but from the skeptical light dancing in Jess’s eyes, Gabe suspected he’d crossed the line between poetic license and balderdash. As he recounted his conversations with DURMDVL, he paused, remembering he needed to send an e-mail as soon as possible.
“Can I borrow your computer?” he asked.
“Sure.” She disappeared for a moment and then emerged from the bedroom carrying an old Dell Inspiron 1525 laptop. Gabe would have preferred something with a bit more firepower. Regardless, he booted it up and began programming the secure-communication protocol. He sent an encrypted message to DURMDVL, giving his current location, describing the limited computer hardware, and warning that others knew Ava was in Malta. He couldn’t think of any way to protect her, but Ava should at least be warned that the secret was out. When he finished typing, Gabe leaned back on the sofa, yawned, and fell asleep.
On the way to El Alamein, Nick stopped at an ATM. His suite would be free of charge, but he’d need a little cash for extras. Before making a withdrawal, he decided to check his balance. He wanted to leave enough in the account to pay Sinan everything he was owed. He keyed in his PIN and hit the BALANCE INQUIRY button. Nick estimated he had about six grand saved, give or take a few hundred, but when he read the receipt, his eyes bulged in amazement. $76,427! “What the hell is going on?” he thought. Wasting no time, he withdrew the maximum allowed, hurried back to his jeep, and resumed his journey.
The Greek’s Gate is a vaulted tunnel that cuts through Mdina’s southern wall. As rain began to fall, Paul and Ava hurried through this dramatic stone archway and entered the noble city. By flickering lamplight they beheld conventual churches, medieval palaces and historic squares. Any other night Ava would have insisted they stop and appreciate the city’s intoxicating mix of Norman and Baroque architecture, especially the magnificent Palazzo Vilhena. Instead, they rushed through, suspicious of every shadow. Inguanez Street led them to Bacchus, a popular restaurant.
“Maybe we can get a taxi here,” Ava suggested.
“Good idea. Ask them to call one. I’ll check that no one followed us.” He started away.
“Paul!” He looked back. “Please be careful.”
He returned to her, squeezed her shoulder, and nodded. Then he darted across a narrow alley and disappeared from view. Ava walked downstairs into Bacchus and signaled to an attractive hostess. Her name tag said MARIA.
“Kif inti?” asked Maria, smiling.
“Ma nitkellimx tajjeb bil-Malti” (sorry, I don’t speak much Maltese). “Taxi?”
The hostess sensed that Ava was having a difficult evening. Probably fighting with the boyfriend, Maria thought. She switched to English and complimented Ava on her pronunciation. Maria explained that cars, except emergency vehicles, wedding limos, and hearses, were forbidden in Mdina, but she could call the taxi service and have a car wait just outside the gates.
Ava nodded, and Maria disappeared into the kitchen. When she returned, she said a cab was on its way. As Ava was thanking her, Paul appeared. His look communicated that he’d seen no one. Waving and saying “Sahha” to Maria, the couple left. As she watched t
hem go, Maria smiled and abandoned her initial assumption.
In St. Publius Square, a crew was busy dismantling the stage where musicians had performed an open-air concert. Warily, Ava and Paul crossed the piazza. They exited Mdina through the Notabile Gate, a massive arch festooned with elaborate sculptures and statues. After crossing a stone bridge, they spied their taxi waiting near the bus terminal.
Jogging through the first raindrops of an approaching thunderstorm, they got to the cab. The driver opened his window a crack. Paul gave him their hotel’s name and address. The cabbie nodded, unlocked the doors, and invited them to enter. After his two wet passengers slid into the backseat, he put the car in gear and headed east.
They rode in silence for several kilometers. Ava was antsy. She looked at Paul: Staring intently out the foggy window, he seemed lost in contemplation. He’s angry, she thought. He blames himself for everything.
In a pocket on the back of the front seat, Ava found a collection of brochures advertising island attractions. To kill time, she clicked on an interior light and began reading. One brochure described the Domus Romana, a Roman house from the first century discovered outside Mdina. The pamphlet provided a photo catalog of artifacts on display there: delicate amphorae, a beautiful Roman comb, coins, domestic utensils, richly ornamented columns, mosaics, statues, marble inscriptions, glass objects, and several stone jars identical to the ones in the catacombs. Seeing the jars, Ava went numb. She recalled how close they’d come to dying. If Paul hadn’t grabbed that stone lid and bashed the impostor over the head . . .
Thunder roared.
Ava sat up, rigid, mouth open in wonder. Stone. How could she have missed that? The lid was stone. The lids were always stone. Flat disks of stone. “Of course!” Her memory flashed back to Revelation 5:2: “And the mighty angel asked, ‘Who is worthy to break the seals and unlock the message?’”
Paul gazed out the window, oblivious to Ava. The storm had gained strength. Sheets of rain came drenching down. Ava grabbed his arm, demanding his attention.
“The jars were sealed when you found them, right?”
“Huh? What do—”
“Shut up and listen! In Egypt, you said the jars were sealed when you found them.” She stared at him expectantly.
“Right. Yes. They were.”
“And you helped Simon open them. Being super careful, you used surgical tools to unseal them, right?”
“Yes. We removed the lids. Hey! What’s the matter?” Ava was shaking, her hands balled into fists.
“Driver,” she yelled, “can’t you go any faster?”
The cabbie grunted. He pushed the accelerator, the engine roared, and the car hurtled down the ancient Roman road.
“Ava.” Paul took her shoulders and turned her body toward him. “What is it?”
“You said it yourself. Oh, why didn’t I listen?” She hugged him tightly, put her lips to his ear, and whispered, “What if the message is hidden in the jars? Literally in the jars.”
“But they’re empty.”
“No. They’ve never been empty.”
The moment they reached the hotel Ava shot out of the cab. She raced through the lobby, startling a bell captain. Paul paid the driver, added a generous tip, and followed her upstairs. He opened the hotel room door and found her struggling to drag a titanium canister out of the closet.
“Help me!” she ordered.
“Help you how?”
“Help me open it!” They lugged the canister into the center of the room and released the latch. Air hissed. Ava washed her hands and asked Paul to remove the artifact. He spread his feet, crouched, wrapped his arms around the stone jar’s lip, and hefted it clear. Hoping to facilitate her examination, he carried it directly under the light. To his surprise, Ava ignored the jar. Instead, she gently removed the disk-shaped clay lid. Holding the ancient seal under the light, she investigated both of its sides. Then she quivered. Paul saw her eyes widen in wonder.
“Look,” she whispered. He stood by her and directed his gaze down where she indicated. On the inside rim the clay was cracked where he and Simon had pried it open. Beneath the dull surface he noticed a metallic glint. Paul grinned. It looked like gold.
Gabe awoke in a dark, unfamiliar room. A disturbing image loomed above him. After a moment of panic, he recognized Picasso’s Guernica. With relief, Gabe realized he was still in Jess’s apartment. He turned on the lights and scanned the room for his hostess, but she was missing. Gabe grew nervous. Did the bearded men follow him here? Did they do something to her? His heart pounded. How could he have been so thoughtless? Wracked with guilt, he scoured the room in search of a telephone. He had to call the police . . .
Just then Jess arrived with several boxes of aromatic takeout labeled SPICE THAI RESTAURANT. She’d selected Pad Thai, dancing shrimp, mango curry with chicken, a seaweed salad, and two gigantic boba teas. Ordinarily Gabe wasn’t keen to experiment with new cuisines, but overcome with relief that Jess was all right, he scooped a heaping spoonful of each dish onto a plate. Thirty minutes later, all the food was gone and Gabe had a new favorite restaurant.
They checked e-mail. DURMDVL had replied, promising to contact Ava and convey Gabe’s warning. In addition, the e-mail went on, Gabe and Jess should expect some FedEx deliveries. Jess asked, “What’s that about?”
Gabe had no idea.
To create a workspace, Ava and Paul covered the hotel table with their white cotton bedsheet. Atop it sat an art deco lamp with its hot bulb exposed. Next to the lamp was the disk of ancient clay. Ava bent over the artifact, studying it. Soon she set about widening the crack delicately, using a sharp, silver-plated letter opener. After two hours she’d made little progress. Frustrated, Ava glanced over at Paul, who was reclining on the naked mattress, struggling to stay awake. She sighed and returned to her explorations, when suddenly she noticed something interesting.
“Hey!” she said. “Come look at this.”
He rolled off the mattress, joined her at the table, and examined her work. Ava had widened the crack, but only slightly.
“Great job!” he said, trying to sound supportive.
“No,” she replied, exasperated. “Look at this.” Her letter opener pointed to a smudge on the sheet. Paul raised his eyebrows quizzically. He couldn’t imagine how that mattered, but she was the expert. “Do you need me to fetch a clean bedsheet?”
Ava laughed. “No, silly. I’m trying to show you something.” With a cloth napkin, she wiped some perspiration from her brow. She daubed the artifact with the cloth and showed Paul the results. Except for a little dust and dirt, the napkin was still basically clean. Then she held the wet cloth against the seal’s underside. When she removed it, the cloth was stained the clay’s dark color.
“Huh!” said Paul. Then he frowned. “What’s the difference?”
“The exterior is glazed, kiln-fired clay. It’s waterproof, but for some reason the inside isn’t. I wonder . . .”
She lifted the artifact and walked to the bathtub. Ava closed the drain, turned on the faucet, and slid the lid under the running water. Reddish clay melted away to reveal a dazzling golden disk about eighteen centimeters in diameter. With a gentle tug, Ava freed the shimmering metal from the drab exterior that had concealed it for so many centuries.
Paul was awestruck. He shook his head, “Amazing,” he whispered.
“Yes,” she said, “it really is.”
“I was talking about you.”
Too nervous to sleep, Zeke sat up late, flipping his TV from channel to channel. It was difficult to find anything to watch. At this hour, most stations ran nothing but infomercials that badgered him to buy exercise equipment. Eventually he chanced upon an actual program, a black-and-white movie. Humphrey Bogart was saying, “I hope they don’t hang you, precious, by that sweet neck.”
The phone rang. He jumped up.
“Hello?”
A raspy voice commanded: “We need to meet.”
“Now?”
; “Yes.”
“Wait!” the bishop’s assistant said. “Are they dead? Did you get the jars?”
“Not over the phone. Come to the parking garage behind your office. I have your reward.”
The garage was dark and empty. Just a few zones were illuminated by security lights. Zeke had to suppress a shudder when the tall Italian stepped out of the gloom and set a heavy silver attaché case on the pavement. In his gravelly voice, the man whispered, “This is for you.”
The younger man’s body tingled with excitement. He visualized opening the case and counting the banknotes. He’d been promised more money than he could earn in thirty years working for the Church. The Italian seemed to be waiting for him to make a move. Nodding, Zeke stepped forward and smiled obsequiously. “I’m happy to be of service,” he said. “Of course, now that our business is concluded, I think it’s best that we never meet or speak again.”
Even muffled by a silencer, the gunshots echoed in the vacant concrete building. The first bullet pierced Zeke’s skinny neck. The second shattered his jaw. In agony, he fell to the wet pavement and rolled onto his back, gasping.
Roderigo advanced until he loomed over his target, covering the dying man with shadow. He raised his weapon and fired again.
“We won’t.”
Together, Paul and Ava opened the second titanium canister and withdrew the lid. To her delight, it too contained a golden disk. The artifacts were almost identical, although their markings weren’t perfectly matched. Ava set them side by side on the table. Then she collapsed onto the bed.
The Cana Mystery Page 17
