The Cana Mystery

by David Beckett

  “Anyway,” she continued, “I’ll give the bishop your message the instant he arrives.”

  Realizing there was nothing more she could do, Clarkson said, “Thank you very much for your help. I appreciate it. Sahha.”

  He hung up the phone and pondered his next move.

  Paul and Ava returned to the computer lab. She tried to finish her research, but after the conversation with Clarkson, she was too angry. Paul read her mood. “Come on,” he said. “Let’s get some fresh air.”

  After leaving the laboratory they crossed through the lobby, exited the building, and sat beneath a shady tree. Paul leaned against its gnarled trunk. Ava leaned against Paul.

  When her words finally came, they were a torrent. She vented for a long time. Ava was both furious about and humiliated by the false allegations. Didn’t the media have a responsibility to print the truth? Didn’t they check their facts, research their claims? How could they be so irresponsible? She wanted to sue for libel.

  Paul listened to her complaints without interrupting. When she wound down, he said: “It had to be Simon. With his money and influence, he can make them say whatever he wants. Besides, can you really blame the police for suspecting us? We were at the crime scene. Don’t you watch CSI? Our DNA must be all over those catacombs. You touched the body, for God’s sake.”

  Ava shivered at the memory, and Paul moved quickly to change the subject. He asked, “Did you make progress translating the symbols?”

  She sighed. It had been terribly frustrating. She might have identified the language, but she still couldn’t decipher the inscription. To Paul’s amusement, she sounded almost as upset about the unsolved puzzle as about the trumped-up murder charges.

  “Don’t worry,” he reassured her, “it’ll come.”

  “I’m glad one of us is confident.”

  “I am.”

  The sun had set. Now it was getting dark. By force of habit, Paul glanced at his wrist before asking, “What time do you think it is? Let’s go see if our new phone works.”

  The world phone wasn’t fully charged, but it was operational. Leaving it plugged in, Ava dialed the 919 number from DURMDVL’s text. Her first call was aborted—the signal was too weak. After unplugging the phone, Ava climbed upstairs to the roof, hoping for better reception. She redialed, and this time the call went through. After the anonymous voice mail beeped, she keyed in 999. DURMDVL answered, authenticated Ava’s identity, and warned her that enemies might know they were in Malta.

  “I’m afraid we learned that the hard way,” Ava replied. She recounted the previous evening’s unfortunate events. Horrified, DURMDVL urged them to leave Malta before another assassin materialized. As they discussed travel options, Ava had a brainstorm. Who better to crack a code than a hacker? With DURMDVL’s assistance, she’d be able to solve the mystery much faster. On the other hand, it might be unwise to trust a mysterious computer genius whom she’d never even met in person. Ava wavered. It was risky, but as Paul often said, life is risk.

  Taking a deep breath, she decided: Circumstances justified a gamble. Crossing the Rubicon, Ava told DURMDVL about the jars and the golden disks. Fascinated, DURMDVL asked Ava to send photos. “Actually, we should forward them to Gabe,” DURMDVL said. “He’s a superlative code breaker, much better than I am. I respect his skills. Don’t tell him I said so, but he has a knack for creative, indirect thinking that just can’t be replicated.” Hearing DURMDVL express admiration for Gabe’s talents lifted Ava’s spirits. It was about time someone appreciated him! She agreed to send the photos as soon as possible. Then, with a smile, she said good-bye to her new friend and hung up the phone. Rejuvenated, Ava walked back downstairs to the computer lab.

  As they strolled along the canals, Simon said, “Nick, you have a reputation as an honorable man, one who appreciates directness. Therefore, I’ll just ask: Where are your friends?”

  “Sorry to disappoint you, Mr. DeMaj, but I couldn’t say.”

  “Call me Simon.”

  “Okay, Simon. As I said, I don’t know where they went. At the moment, I’m more concerned about myself. It’s not easy to escape the long arms of Sheik Ahmed. I hear good things about McMurdo Station. Do you know if they have a casino?”

  Simon stopped, turned to face Nick, and looked into his eyes. With an earnestness Nick knew was virtually impossible to fake, Simon said, “I know you’re bound by loyalty. You’re trying to protect your friends, but the situation has evolved. They’re in greater danger than you realize. It’s not hopeless. I can help them, but they won’t survive unless I find them first.”

  “You’d help them?”

  “I possess the means to rescue them and the resources to keep them safe.”

  “Sure, but why would you? You know Sheik Ahmed. You understand what he’s capable of. Why endanger yourself?”

  “I got Paul and Ava into this mess; it’s my responsibility to get them out. Plus, if Ahmed gets his hands on the artifacts, there will be hell to pay—for everyone.”

  As they veered down the path back to the suite, Nick noticed the Egyptian boy waiting outside. Nick thought, “He’s probably packing heat, too. There’s no way I can take them both.” Needing time to think, he temporized: “Okay, Simon. You’ve got a deal. Just let me collect my belongings; then I’ll do what I can to help you.”

  Simon nodded and allowed Nick to enter. The boy followed him inside, but Simon stayed in the doorway, watching. Nick tossed his suitcase onto the bed. He folded his Paul Stuart sports coat, button-down shirts, and khaki slacks with the precision of a department-

  store clerk. Socks and underwear were rolled and stashed in zipper pockets; toiletries were assembled in a black dopp kit.

  Then Nick stopped packing and smiled. Simon felt a pistol’s cold barrel press against his occipital lobe.

  “Sinan!” yelled Nick. “It’s about damn time! Did you get lost, or what?”

  Paul and Ava photographed each side of both disks using the world phone’s built-in camera. It was a basic device, but the pictures looked all right. After transmitting the images to DURMDVL, Paul noticed that the phone was running out of juice.

  “We need to leave it plugged in overnight.”

  He unhooked the charger and pocketed it, and they left the computer center. On the way to Clarkson’s office, Paul asked, “So how much do we tell the bishop?”

  Ava thought, then: “Nothing at first. Let’s meet him, talk to him, and get a sense of his character. Remember that Zeke, his personal assistant, contacted the killer. I doubt the bishop was involved, but we can’t be sure. Even assuming that Garagallo’s innocent, having an untrustworthy employee in such an elevated position gives me reason to doubt his judgment.”

  Paul nodded. Ava went on: “I’ll ask Clarkson to keep everything confidential for now. If after meeting Garagallo in person we decide he’s legit, we’ll hand over the jars.”

  “And the disks?”

  Ava ran her fingers across the worn, nondescript backpack that held the two priceless objects. She knew it wasn’t wise to keep them, but the disks were her discovery and she didn’t want to surrender them before finishing her analysis. “We won’t mention the disks until we’re sure we can trust the bishop,” she said.

  When they reached the professor’s office, their conversation ceased. Ava knocked. Clarkson unlocked the door and welcomed them inside. The telephone rang a moment later. It was the bishop. The professor put Garagallo on speakerphone and made the full round of introductions. Everyone exchanged pleasantries. Then Ava gave a recap of what transpired in the catacombs, excluding any mention of the artifacts. Even over the phone, the bishop’s anger was unmistakable. After using surprisingly profane language to characterize his assistant’s conduct, Garagallo said, “I cannot begin to express the depth of my embarrassment and rage over this incident.”

  “Thank you, Excellency,” Ava replied. “We know this wasn’t your doing.”

  “Be that as it may, on behalf of myself, the archdi
ocese of Malta, and the Holy Church, I apologize for this act of betrayal and take full responsibility. I thank Almighty God that you both survived the attack. Please accept my word that the guilty parties will meet justice forthwith.”

  The conversation was brief. Garagallo intended to call Chief Justice Silvio Camilleri, as well as John Rizzo, the commissioner of police. The bishop hoped to persuade them to shift the investigation’s focus from Paul and Ava to Zeke. The bishop continued, “In the meantime, I can extend a formal offer of sanctuary. I hope all three of you will honor me by dining in my home tonight. We’ll prepare a traditional Maltese feast.”

  They accepted his invitation. Clarkson wrote down the bishop’s address in Valletta. Then they bade him farewell and prepared to leave.

  Bishop Garagallo’s palatial home occupied an entire building in the city’s historic district. Ava estimated the residence to be at least two hundred and fifty years old, predating the island’s Napoleonic conquest. Before the professor could ring the bell the door opened and a handsome gentleman with gray hair and a dignified bearing greeted them. Ava saw intelligence in his eyes, and Clarkson’s smile of recognition reassured her that this man was the bishop, not another impostor.

  Garagallo invited them to come inside and prepare for dinner in his guest rooms. Paul and Ava accepted gratefully. After receiving keys from the housekeeper, they climbed the stairs, unlocked the doors, and found two fully appointed suites. While Ava washed, Paul plugged in the phone charger. Shortly thereafter they descended the grand staircase. Spotting his American guests, Garagallo asked, “Won’t you join me for an aperitif in the sitting room?”

  Surprised by the offer, Paul grinned. “I thought drinking was a sin.”

  The bishop laughed. “No. Our Lord and Savior drank alcohol on many occasions. In fact, Christ’s first public miracle was turning water into wine at the Wedding of Cana. The Church teaches us to avoid intoxication because it is a form of gluttony and because it can lead to sin, but drinking is not forbidden.”

  Each carrying a glass of sherry, they joined Professor Clarkson in the richly appointed sitting room. A cheery blaze crackled in the hearth, where a set of andirons, forged into miniature Dobermans, held the logs. Opposite the fire an interior wall was dominated by a striking fresco. Entranced, Ava said, “Raphael?”

  “Yes. A reproduction, of course. It’s The Meeting between Leo the Great and Attila. Do you like it?”

  Ava nodded.

  “I’m very pleased. It’s one of my favorites.”

  Paul examined the wall painting. “Is that Attila?”

  “Yes. Why do you ask?”

  “I don’t know. I guess I expected Attila the Hun to look more demonic or monstrous. Wasn’t he called the Antichrist?”

  “Attila was known as the flagellum dei, or Scourge of God. He was a powerful warrior. Countless thousands were slain at his command, but are you familiar with the particular scene Raphael has portrayed?”

  Paul wasn’t.

  Garagallo explained: “In AD 452, Attila invaded Italy and threatened Rome. Flavius Aetius’s army was vanquished; thus, no earthly power could prevent a Hunnic conquest of the Eternal City.”

  He approached the painting and pointed to a regal figure astride a white horse. “Pope Leo the Great, shown here with Consul Avienus and Prefect Trigetius, rode out to meet Attila in Lombardy, near the city of Mantua.”

  He glanced at Ava. “My dear, you are a classicist, yes? Do you know Mantua?”

  “Yes, Excellency. The birthplace of the immortal Virgil.”

  The bishop smiled. “Correct. Mantua is also mentioned in Romeo and Juliet. It’s where Romeo was sent after he killed Tybalt Capulet. May I refresh your glass?”

  Startled, Paul looked up. He’d downed his tiny measure of Spanish sherry in one gulp.

  “Sure. Thank you. It’s delicious,” he commented, trying to ignore Ava’s disapproval. Smiling, Garagallo lifted an antique crystal decanter and refilled Paul’s drink, then continued the story.

  “The two leaders met privately in Attila’s tent on the banks of the Mincio. When they emerged, Attila surprised the world by vowing to withdraw from Italy in peace. The Scourge of God never attacked Rome.”

  “Wow. Really?” asked Paul. “Pope Leo must have been a persuasive guy.”

  Clarkson spoke up. “Of course, not everyone believes that account. There are a host of theories regarding Attila’s decision to spare Rome. His forces were greatly weakened after the Battle of Châlons. Some historians allege he was bribed. Some believe the Hunnic army was wracked with infectious diseases. Still others argue that Attila’s men had grown so rich from plunder that they already possessed more gold than they could carry.”

  Ava interrupted. “But I sense our host favors a different explanation.”

  “Correct again,” said Bishop Garagallo. Turning to Paul, he asked, “Do you see the figures suspended above Pope Leo?”

  Paul nodded.

  “Those are St. Peter and St. Paul. What do they carry?”

  Paul studied the fresco. “Swords. Is that significant?”

  “I find it quite significant. According to Leo’s biography, during the meeting Attila received a vision of Peter and Paul dressed in priestly robes and armed with flaming swords.”

  Clarkson interrupted. “Flaming swords? I’m sorry, but no one buys that fanciful chronicle. It’s clearly an allegory, not meant to be taken literally.”

  “Precisely,” the bishop said. “Swords represent special knowledge, truth, or the Word. For example, Ephesians 6:17 states:

  ‘[T]he sword of the Spirit is the word of God.’ Raphael uses swords to symbolize that although Pope Leo carried no weapons, he was armed with truth.”

  Clarkson grunted. “You make too much of it. Gibbon himself called this tale a pious fable.”

  “Indeed,” said the bishop, “but I believe this fable is rooted in fact.”

  Further argument was suspended by the butler’s announcement that dinner was served. The party moved from the sitting room to the formal dining room, decorated with another Raphael fresco, The Coronation of Charlemagne. Atop a polished African mahogany table, to ravenous Paul’s great joy, sat the first course of what promised to be a feast. Garagallo’s cook had prepared stuffed octopus in a piquant tomato sauce; fenek (rabbit) simmered as a casserole in wine; bragoli (parcels of chopped eggs, bread crumbs, and herbs wrapped in thin sheets of beef braised in gravy); and a crisp roasted hen served on a bed of sliced potatoes, eggplant, onions, and garlic. The symphony of flavors was intoxicating.

  Between courses the good-natured historical debate resumed. Professor Clarkson and Bishop Garagallo defended their positions like master fencers, each seeming to enjoy the cerebral combat. Before long Ava joined the fray. “Didn’t St. Prosper of Aquitaine describe the encounter between Attila and Leo?”

  “Indeed,” said the bishop. Begging their pardon, he rose and retrieved an ancient illuminated text from a bookshelf. Opening it to a page marked by a golden tassel, he read: “‘Our most blessed Pope Leo, trusting in the help of God, who never fails the righteous in their trials, undertook the task. And the outcome was just as foreseen. When Attila received the embassy, he was so overwhelmed by the high priest’s words that he promised peace and ordered his army to give up warfare.’”

  “What does he mean when he says the outcome was ‘foreseen’?” Ava asked.

  “That’s an excellent question, my dear,” replied Garagallo, smiling. “I wondered the same thing for years, and then I unlocked the secret. Do you recall the allegorical biography’s mention of flaming swords?”

  She nodded.

  “What do flaming swords represent?”

  “As you said, a sword represents truth and flames represent the Holy Spirit. Thus, a flaming sword symbolizes a miraculous truth, or God’s truth.”

  “Precisely. The pope came to that historic meeting armed with miraculous truth. Specifically, he carried a sacred prophecy. It foretold that if At
tila showed mercy and withdrew from Italy, Leo would crown Attila’s heir the rightful Roman emperor. Attila spared Rome because he believed the pope’s prophecy.”

  For several minutes they ate in silence, pondering the bishop’s words. Then Paul spoke up. “So did it come true? Did Attila’s heir become emperor?”

  “Not right away. Attila’s greedy sons squabbled over his legacy. Divided, they were defeated and killed by the combined might of the Ostrogoths and the Gepids, but one of his daughters married the Gepid king Adaric. A child of that marriage, the beautiful Princess Austrigusa, married King Waccho of the Lombards. Waccho and Austrigusa are considered ancestors of—”

  Ava gasped. Her eyes shot up to the fresco. Then she finished his sentence: “Charlemagne, emperor crowned in Rome by Pope Leo III.”

  Garagallo beamed.

  Unwilling to surrender the field, Clarkson persisted. “That’s a fine story, and I hate to be so cynical, but if the prophecy dissuaded Attila from attacking Rome, why didn’t it protect the city from the Vandals in 455?”

  “According to legend, the scroll on which the prophecy was written caught fire when it was read aloud. Such pyrotechnics likely had a marvelous effect on Attila, but regardless of whether it was a miracle or a parlor trick, the prophecy was consumed.”

  Looking up from his rabbit, Paul asked, “Couldn’t they just print another copy?”

  “Apparently not. The prophecy was said to come from a holy relic. Historical sources are in conflict here. Some say the relic was possessed by the Roman emperor Valentinian III; others say it was divided so that Pope Leo and Emperor Valentinian each held a piece. In any case, when the emperor was assassinated by Petronius Maximus, at least part of the relic was lost.”