The Cana Mystery

by David Beckett

  Finally, Simon spoke. “Paul, I understand what you must be feeling. I know why you’re angry, but think carefully. What exactly did you see that night in the desert?”

  “You yelled and the gunmen fired on those poor people.”

  “Correct,” Simon agreed. “But what did I yell?”

  Paul searched his memory “I don’t know,” he admitted. “You spoke Arabic.”

  DeMaj nodded. “Yes. In Arabic, I demanded that the seven men leave my camp.” Recalling that moment, a somber expression crossed his face. “I thought they planned to steal the jars. I realize now they were only trying to protect them.”

  He swallowed, then continued, “They refused, and I became irate. I yelled. I threatened to have them arrested and . . . worse.” A note of sorrow entered his voice. “I made several threats, but I swear on my mother’s grave that I never gave the order to fire. When the guards started shooting, I was as surprised as you were.”

  Paul regarded his former boss carefully. Simon was an accomplished diplomat. He could dissemble with great skill when necessary, but he had never lied to Paul. Furthermore, Simon revered the memory of his mother. In all the time Paul had worked for him, DeMaj never invoked her name in vain. Paul began to think he might have been mistaken. Then he realized: If Simon didn’t order the guards to shoot, Paul shouldn’t have taken the jars, and all the horrible things that had happened since then were his fault. His shoulders sagged.

  Simon read his thoughts. “No, Paul, what you did was right. After you left, I learned Ahmed had been playing me the whole time. He’d ordered his men to kill everyone, including us, rather than lose the jars. If you hadn’t acted as you did, they would have won.”

  As he spoke, Simon unbuttoned his shirt and revealed two ugly bullet wounds. “Later that night, Ahmed shot me. He left me in the desert to die.”

  Confused, Paul rubbed his scalp, wondering if all he’d just seen and heard was an elaborate con. Was he hallucinating? Had he been drugged? To hell with it, he decided. Hallucinations or not, his friends trusted DeMaj and Paul trusted his friends. Nick, Sinan, and Ammon were good people. Each in his own way was smart, cagey, and perceptive. If all three believed Simon’s story, it was probably true. Paul exhaled. “Okay. Where are we?”

  “Capri. This is my villa.”

  “Where’s Ava? Is she safe?”

  “Yes. She’s sedated. I flew a doctor, one of the best in Europe, here from Rome. He treated Ava last night and recommended she rest for a while. Her body endured a terrible shock. It was a close call.”

  Nick walked over to Paul and and clapped him on the shoulder. “Your lady will be fine, hermano. She’s just sleeping.”

  Paul locked eyes with Ammon. “And Sefu?”

  The Egyptian smiled. “Very good! He has many new girlfriends.”

  Paul was mystified. Nick laughed. “Look, it’s complex. Why don’t we explain over lunch?”

  At the mention of food, Paul’s stomach rumbled. He’d eaten nothing since dinner with the bishop and was beyond ravenous. The group proceeded down into the villa’s kitchen.

  Designed for no-nonsense cooking, the room contrasted sharply with the household’s ornate aesthetic. A central island supporting an enormous hooded grill dominated the cooking area. Stainless-steel appliances glinted below cedar cabinets. When they entered, Simon’s chef opened the brick oven, releasing a combination of aromas. He withdrew a sizzling cast-iron tray of pasta ‘ncasciata, over which Paul salivated. Nick watched in amazement as his friend devoured two servings of the baked macaroni casserole filled with ground beef, eggplant, mortadella, salami, hard-boiled eggs, tomato, basil, and grated pecorino. As they ate, Paul’s friends brought him up to speed on all that had transpired since they’d parted company. Ammon described how DeMaj had found him crawling through the riverbank muck, attempting to escape the corrupt authorities. Simon revealed that the cops knew Sefu’s location and offered Ammon a choice: Fly to the hospital and rescue Sefu or remain in the mud and try to avoid capture. Although he suspected a trap, Ammon opted to fly. Simon had kept his promise to help Sefu, thereby earning Ammon’s trust.

  “Where’s Sefu?”

  Nick grinned. “He’s recuperating on the mainland. It’s an exclusive clinic, frequented by models and actresses who want confidential lipo, nose jobs, and . . . enhancements.”

  As Paul laughed, a tattered baseball cap appeared on the table.

  “Shokran,” said Ammon, solemnly.

  Paul nodded at the earnest young Egyptian. For a moment, neither spoke. Then Paul smiled, accepted the woefully threadbare hat, and slapped it atop his shaved head. Everyone resumed eating. Between bites, Nick told them how Simon and Ammon had tracked him down in Egypt and convinced him that Ahmed was the true threat. Over dinner, DeMaj had persuaded Nick and Sinan that joining forces against the sheik vastly increased their collective odds. Suddenly, Nick fell silent. A moment passed before Paul realized he was the only person still eating. The others were staring past him. He turned to look. There, framed in the doorway, stood Ava.

  In a rapturous instant, all of Paul’s doubts and pain vanished. His heart pounded in his chest and his jaw tightened. Ava shivered. Jumping from his chair, Paul rushed to her. As he neared her, she began to sob. They embraced. Tears ran down her cheeks. Holding her fragile body against his chest, Paul whispered, “Ava, I’m so sorry. I didn’t know what else to do. I know you’re upset. I know how much they meant to you, to archaeology, to history. I’m really, really sorry. I just couldn’t think of anything—”

  She pressed a finger against his lips, imploring him to hush. Shaking her head, Ava tried to speak, but the words caught in her throat.

  Then DeMaj stepped in. “Why are you apologizing?”

  Paul weighed his options. At this point he couldn’t see a reason to keep the disks’ whereabouts secret. He was fairly certain that, thanks to him, the sacred artifacts were lost forever. Of course, if anyone could retrieve the disks from the sea, it was DeMaj. Perhaps Simon wanted the disks for himself. Maybe he’d sell them on the black market. Neither outcome, though, would be worse than the current situation. Then Paul looked down at the woman in his arms. No matter what else happened, Ava was alive. Simon had helped save her. For that single act, even a thousand golden disks were an insufficient reward. Paul lifted his head.

  “I lost the artifacts.”

  “What artifacts? The jars? You lost the jars?”

  “No. Ava solved the puzzle. Inside the jars she found two gold disks inscribed with symbols and ancient writing, but I lost them in the storm. They were in my backpack, and it sank to the bottom. I’m sorry.”

  Paul was devastated by Simon’s reaction. He’d seen his boss in some tight spots, but Simon had overcome every problem and adversary. Now DeMaj’s face turned pale. His usual ferocious gaze seemed infected by despair. After several seconds, he spoke in a whisper.

  “We’re doomed.”

  DeMaj turned and walked listlessly from the kitchen. Then Ava collapsed.

  Nick helped Paul carry Ava back to her room. After they laid her on the bed and covered her legs with blankets, Paul asked, “What was that? Why did Simon freak out?”

  “He believes in the legend of the lost jars. He says we need them to fight the Antichrist.”

  Paul made a face.

  “Hey, you asked, I answered, okay? You know him better than I do, but I’ll tell you this: It’s no bluff. DeMaj takes the concept of Armageddon seriously.

  Paul shook his head. “Wow. I never pegged him as religious. In fact, I thought he was an atheist.”

  “Apparently, he made some kind of Damascene conversion out in the desert.”

  Nick left, but Paul stayed with Ava. He clicked on the TV and set it to mute. After zapping through a dozen stations, he settled on Bloomberg News. The NASDAQ was way down, but the dollar was up versus the euro. The Red Sox had begun spring training. Outside the G8 Summit, in La Maddalena, activists gathered to demonstrate. Carrying signs that
demanded TAX THE RICH! MAKE THEM PAY! hundreds of protesters had marched through the city, occupied a central piazza, and erected a stage. A free concert was planned under banners proclaiming: PUTTING PEOPLE BEFORE PROFIT.

  He heard Ava move. Her eyes fluttered opened.

  “Paul?”

  “I’m here.”

  “Where are we?”

  “Capri. You’re safe.”

  She took his hand and smiled. Then Ava laughed.

  “What’s funny?” he asked.

  She pointed at the TV, then kept laughing until that segued into a hoarse coughing fit. On screen, a passionate, balding middle-

  aged man addressed the crowd outside the G8 Summit. He shook his fist for the cameras and yelled into the microphone.

  Ava croaked, “It’s Bagelton!”

  “What?”

  Before she could explain, Simon poked his head through the doorway. After apologizing for his odd behavior in the kitchen, he asked Ava how she felt.

  She looked at the infamous billionaire. He had a distinctive way of speaking. His voice, refined by years of private schools, was a practiced and accomplished instrument of his will, but his accent was unusual. Like something from the past, a rough undercurrent persisted. Each word he spoke was gauged to convey his present emotion (in this case, curiosity), but Ava sensed that the speaker was a shell, almost like a disembodied intelligence.

  “I feel fine, Mr. DeMaj. Thank you for rescuing us.”

  “It was the least I could do. After all, it was my fault that you were in danger.”

  Ava gave him an appraising look. He seemed amused by what seemed to be her suspicion.

  “By way of apology, I’d like to treat you all to dinner at one of my favorite restaurants. Ava, I’ve taken the liberty of having some outfits delivered. I hope one of them is to your taste. Paul, the clothes you left behind in Yemen are hanging in your closet.”

  Everyone showered and dressed. Afterward they convened in the parlor. Only Sinan and Ammon were absent—they’d hopped across the strait in Zulfiqar to visit the recuperating Sefu. DeMaj poured each guest a stiff cocktail and invited all to sit. A moment later, his companion de jour, the ravishing Mellania, made her entrance. Unprepared, Ava found herself gawking. She recognized the Slovakian from her ubiquitous Vogue covers. A few months ago Mellania’s career had taken a turn for the worse. Rumors of a serious drug habit had made tabloid headlines, prompting several designers to cancel modeling contracts. Shortly thereafter, the DeMaj spin machine launched into action. Mellania held a teary press conference at which she simultaneously denied the allegations and repented her sins. Afterward she spent six well-publicized days at an exclusive Malibu rehab center. Now in recovery, Mellania was supposedly hard at work writing her memoirs, for which she’d been promised a two-million-dollar advance.

  Nick and Paul stood and introduced themselves. Polite conversation ensued, then Paul said, “Simon, this afternoon you seemed really upset about the lost artifacts. I’m glad your mood has improved.”

  For a beat, no one spoke. Ava and Nick shared a worried look. Then DeMaj broke the silence.

  “You’re right. I was upset. I apologize for my reaction. That was rude.”

  Paul persisted. “But are you still angry?”

  “I’m dismayed by the turn of events, but in the course of my long and interesting career, I’ve learned it’s no use crying over unfortunate circumstances. Instead, we must rise to meet each challenge and make the best of tough situations. What’s the quaint American saying? When life gives you lemons . . .”

  “Make lemonade?”

  “Precisely.”

  Ava’s curiosity was piqued. “So you have a plan?”

  “Indeed. I’ve spoken with the Maltese authorities and offered my assistance in the wake of the tragedy. We must determine the explosion’s cause and track down the criminals responsible. Thus, it’s crucial to examine and possibly raise the sunken catamaran. The Maltese have generously agreed to let me participate in the salvage effort. I’ve also contacted friends in Washington. I prevailed upon the director of the National Oceanographic and Atmospheric Administration to lend me a research vessel for the duration of the investigation. Are you familiar with the Jason ROV?”

  Ava nodded.

  “As we speak, it’s being refitted with a powerful magnetic scanner. I intend to scour the seabed for clues, as well as for two disks of high-density metal.”

  Ava jumped to her feet. “But that’s fundamentally dishonest! We know who’s responsible for the bombing. It was Sheik Ahmed. You’re concealing the truth for personal gain.”

  Simon’s expression was stern. “First of all, my dear, we don’t know it was Ahmed. He tops our suspect list, but I fear Sheik Ahmed may be just a lackey, in the service of someone even more dangerous. Of course, I don’t expect the enraged citizens of Malta to accept my word for it. The victims’ families deserve a thorough investigation, and I’m doing everything in my power to ensure that they get one. Prior to the inquest’s completion, I’ll contribute all I know about Ahmed’s possible connection to the attack.”

  Ava rolled her eyes. “That doesn’t alter the fact that you’re withholding relevant information until it suits your purposes to reveal it.”

  “Has it occurred to you what would happen if we disclosed the artifacts’ existence? Imagine the interminable delays as a horde of petty, self-interested bureaucrats bickered over who has the legal right to salvage.”

  “Oh, I see. You believe it’s more efficient and beneficial for a self-interested capitalist to act unilaterally.”

  “In this case, considering what’s at stake, I do.”

  “And I can only imagine the exorbitant bribe you must have slipped NOAA to get its equipment.”

  “Let’s just say the boss owed me a favor.”

  “I’ll bet.”

  “Ms. Fischer, I don’t claim to be a saint. Yes, I’m willing to break rules when necessary. Many times I’ve employed tactical misdirection, subterfuge, and other tricks to accomplish my objectives. I don’t shrink from doling out an occasional bribe or campaign contribution to the appropriate official, and I have conducted business with unscrupulous characters. This is the life I chose. I don’t apologize for it. Condemn me if you will, but before imposing judgment, shouldn’t you at least consider the people who benefit?”

  “Who? Your stockholders?”

  Simon laughed. “Yes, some have done very well by investing in my companies. For example, the funds that comprise the Harvard University endowment own a substantial portion of DeMaj preferred stock, but just now I was referring to the lesser-known beneficiaries. We pour hundreds of millions of dollars into the world’s most impoverished regions. By transacting business with dictators and corrupt regimes, I’ve materially improved the lives of thousands—tens of thousands—of actual human beings. Unlike some squeaky-clean, impotent charity, I have the connections, the power, the resources, and the respect to guarantee my money is put to good use. True, a fraction is siphoned off to pay bribes, fight lawsuits, and manufacture favorable public opinion, but the lion’s share generates jobs and creates infrastructure where none existed. We finance the construction of schools, hospitals, and libraries. We’re building five pollution-treatment facilities in North Africa. We’ve endowed university chairs in Egypt and Jordan and co-funded a massive desalination center in the Sudan. In Mozambique and Zimbabwe, we gave our customers and workers free inoculations against malaria, tuberculosis, pneumonia, and meningitis, and, perhaps most important, my projects provide Internet access to millions of destitute, disenfranchised people. Knowledge is power, Ava.”

  “But in spite of all your noble efforts, many in Africa have a lower quality of life today than anyone had two hundred years ago.”

  “True,” DeMaj conceded. “But is that different from South Asia in the sixties and seventies? Health outcomes are improving. Child mortality is down, and taken as a whole, the continent’s standard of living is up. Not everywhere,
of course, not in Congo or Mali, but in Kenya and Ghana, personal incomes have grown dramatically.”

  Flushed with emotion, she shot back, “At what cost? What does a man profit if he gains the world but loses his soul.”

  DeMaj met her stare. “When you’re young and innocent, it’s easy to be critical. Because you’ve done nothing, you’ve done nothing wrong. Later, as you mature, you discover innocence was never an option. The key question isn’t ‘How many sins have I avoided?’ Instead, ask: ‘What have I created? What have I improved? How much good have I accomplished?’”

  Ava was silent. Paul could see that Simon’s haymaker had connected. She teetered on the brink of surrender, then rallied: “I fear your argument proves too much. Without ethical principles or boundaries, all is permitted. If nothing matters except results, you can rationalize every criminal transgression and justify every selfish indulgence.”

  Ava continued, confident now. “For example, what social good was accomplished when you bought this ostentatious villa and rented a washed-up supermodel?”

  Simon stiffened. Nick almost spat out his scotch.

  “Enough!” Paul said, taking Ava’s hand. “I’m starving. Let’s table this discussion until after dinner, okay?” Glancing at Simon, he asked, “By the way, where are we eating?”

  DeMaj swallowed his anger and smiled. “Do you know the place where the lemon trees bloom?”

  The chauffeur brought Simon’s gleaming silver Maybach 62 S from the garage. Paul, Ava, Simon, and Mellania rode in back; Nick sat up front with the driver. As the others socialized, Ava gazed out through the tinted glass. She was impressed by the island’s beauty and tranquillity, but Simon’s argument reverberated in her mind. Though she hated to admit it, DeMaj had a point. Notwithstanding all her talents and abilities and despite her world-class education, she’d accomplished nothing that actually mattered, nothing that improved people’s lives. As the sun dissolved into the horizon, she wondered if she’d chosen the right path.