The Cana Mystery

by David Beckett

  “Is that La Maddalena?” she asked.

  “No. That’s Isola Caprera. La Maddalena is a bit farther.”

  Paul nodded. “So once we get there, how do we proclaim the prophecy? Just shout it from the nearest street corner?”

  Simon shrugged. “We’ll deal with that when we get there.”

  Ava’s eyes sparkled. “I’ve got an idea.”

  She opened her phone, attached the digital scrambler, and called DURMDVL. “I need a favor. Can you get me an unlisted phone number, and pronto?”

  “Sure.”

  “Find the private cell-phone number for Dr. Ron Bagelton.”

  Just a few seconds passed and they had the number. Ava thanked DURMDVL, then hung up and dialed. After several rings a man answered. Ava recognized his voice. She put the call on speaker. Then, taking a deep breath, she began.

  “Professor Bagelton? My name is Ava Fischer. I caught your lecture at Harvard and I saw you speak at the G8 protest yesterday.” She bit her lip, forcing herself to continue. “You’re a brilliant man and a mesmerizing passionate speaker.”

  “Why, thank you, my dear. Thank you very much indeed, but I’m afraid you have me at a disadvantage. How did you—”

  “I’m a huge fan of your work. Your creative scholarship is amazing.”

  She could actually hear him smile as he replied, “That’s very kind of you to say.”

  Encouraged, Ava pressed on. “So would you do me a favor? I’m in the area, and it’s urgent that I make an announcement at this morning’s protest. I’m sure a man of your importance can get my brief statement broadcast over the loudspeakers.”

  “Well, I—”

  “It’ll be very quick and—” she put some huskiness into her voice—“I’ll be incredibly grateful.”

  Paul made a face.

  Bagelton didn’t reply immediately, but when he did, she knew he wasn’t convinced.

  “Yes, that sounds like an interesting proposal, but I’m sorry to disappoint you. Unfortunately, I don’t wield quite the influence you presume. On the other hand, I do know all the members of the organizing committee. I’d be happy to speak with them on your behalf. Perhaps we should discuss your urgent needs over dinner?”

  Ava rolled her eyes in frustration. She was about to hang up when Simon spoke up. “May I try?” She handed him the phone. “Professor, this is Simon DeMaj.”

  Bagelton gasped. “Mr. DeMaj, it’s an honor. To what do I—”

  Simon cut him off. “Ms. Fischer is traveling with me. I enthusiastically support this project, and I want her announcement to air live from the protest. It should be easy to arrange. Now, Dr. Bagelton, you probably know my reputation. I control a great deal of money, and I’m not afraid to spend it. If I get what I want, I’ll endow a generous archaeological research foundation, with you and Ms. Fischer codirectors.”

  The professor was silent for several seconds, then: “By ‘generous,’ what exactly do you—”

  “Shall we say five million? No, make it six. I’ll pledge six million to underwrite your invaluable historical research. Naturally, you’ll exercise complete discretion over the funds’ disbursal. My lawyers can write up the formal proposal this afternoon.”

  Even over the phone they could hear Bagelton suck in a breath. He coughed, then cleared his throat. “Yes, that is quite generous. No question about it. Thank you, sir. I don’t know what to say. I’m honored.”

  “Splendid. Just remember, the endowment is conditional on Ava speaking at today’s demonstration. Is that clear?”

  “Oh yes sir. Crystal clear. Just let me—”

  “No need to explain. I know you can handle it. We’ll call back in—” he glanced at his watch—“fifteen minutes to confirm. Don’t let us down. We’re counting on you.”

  Grinning, DeMaj hung up and returned the phone to Ava. “Paul, see if you can get in touch with Kevin in Houston,” he said. “Have him draft the necessary documents.”

  Paul laughed. “Wait, were you serious? Six million?”

  “Of course. If it gets Ava on the air, it’s money well spent.”

  After watching the attack squadron depart, Don VeMeli boarded his helicopter. He carried only one item of luggage: an expensive silver attaché case. His pilot powered up the chopper’s engines. The aircraft lifted off the ground, circled the camp, and began its journey south. Out the port-side window, VeMeli looked at the quaint seaside village of La Maddalena. Soon, he knew, it would be a smoking ruin. No, he corrected himself—not a ruin, a radioactive testament to his strength. Of course, for the first few years no one could know he was the bombing’s architect. Appropriate enemies would be blamed, causing the world’s so-called free nations to scream for vengeance. Don VeMeli’s minions within the Gruppo Garibaldi and similar organizations worldwide had been anticipating such an attack for years. After the atomic detonation they’d be validated and lionized by the public for issuing warnings. The master’s handpicked candidates were perfectly positioned to capitalize on the attack, vastly increasing his global power and influence. The subsequent world war would generate even greater opportunities for expansion. Someday, Don VeMeli dreamed, when his hypocritical and sanctimonious enemies groveled beneath his merciless boot, he’d reveal the truth. He was certain that future historians would perceive the wisdom, even the necessity, of his action. They’d call him a great leader endowed with matchless courage and vision. Someday, the world would thank him.

  In fifteen minutes they called back Bagelton and received mixed news: He’d convinced the committee to broadcast Ava’s message, but the sound system wasn’t sophisticated enough to patch through a mobile signal. Frustration evident in his voice, Simon said, “No problem. I’ll bring her to you. Where’s the main stage?”

  “Piazza Umberto.”

  “How do we find it?”

  “On Via Garibaldi,” the professor said, “between the port and City Hall.”

  “Roger that. We won’t have any problems.”

  “Sorry to contradict, boss,” said Paul. He tapped the radar display. Its flashing screen indicated several helicopters nearby. One had shifted to an intercept course.

  Simon swore. “We’ve been spotted.”

  He lowered his visor, rolled his shoulders, inhaled, and took a firm grim on the controls. He turned north, reduced speed, and scanned the horizon. “I’ve got him!” he said. “AW129 Mongoose.”

  “Dangerous?”

  “Lethal, but in this fight he’s limited to his twenty-millimeter cannon. Missiles won’t lock on us.”

  Now they were passing over Caprera. Keeping the sun to his back, DeMaj descended until they flew between treetops. As the incoming Mongoose tried to match his altitude, Simon increased velocity and performed a series of banks and turns, using the terrain to his advantage. The Comanche’s advanced engines and streamlined airframe gave it a significant speed edge over the attacker. The outclassed Mongoose simply couldn’t bring its gun to bear. Unfortunately, at that moment three more helicopters joined the pursuit.

  “Hold on!”

  Throttle maxed, DeMaj altered course. He charged directly at the choppers, assuming an attack posture. The Italians reacted instinctively, banking to avoid his line of fire. Then Simon pitched into an almost vertical climb. Squeezing every drop of power from the Comanche’s twin turbos, the aircraft shot up twenty meters, hopping right over the attackers. Paul watched in shock as three sets of deadly blades passed harmlessly below them.

  The Italians, taken aback by the exotic maneuver, faded into the distance. With a satisfied smile, DeMaj executed a snap turn that left Paul holding on to his safety harness for dear life. Moments later, they topped a rocky escarpment and beheld La Maddalena.

  “We don’t have much time,” Simon cautioned. “Find Piazza Umberto.”

  They tracked Via Garibaldi, a busy coastal thoroughfare lined with shops, restaurants, and bars. As they neared the marina, Ava gave a shout. “There!” she said.

  She pointed to a crowde
d piazza dotted with palm trees. DeMaj slowed, circled tightly, and landed near a rickety wooden structure festooned with political banners. Paul saw numerous placards emblazoned with the slogans OCCUPY THE SUMMIT and JOBS NOT BOMBS. A large contingent from the Stop the War Coalition was in attendance, as were many Friends of the Earth. Surprised activists scattered as the helicopter came in to land.

  While Paul disconnected the safety harness, DeMaj looked over at Ava. He gestured toward the protesters’ makeshift stage and its mismatched microphones.

  “You know what to do?”

  Holding her notebook tight, she said yes, but her quavering voice betrayed her fear. Meeting Ava’s eyes, Simon smiled. “Don’t be afraid. Trust fate.”

  Then something caught his attention. Approaching rapidly from the southeast were the four Italian choppers.

  “Go!” he shouted. “I’ll distract them!”

  Paul jumped out, helped Ava down, and slammed the door. Crouching, the Americans ran through a maelstrom of stinging sand and dust. When they cleared the prop wash, Paul gave Simon the signal. Raising a hand in farewell, DeMaj increased his vertical thrust and rocketed skyward.

  The master’s phone rang. It was Roderigo. “DeMaj eluded the squadron,” he said. “He’s trying to land at Piazza Umberto.”

  “What? How is that possible?”

  “Their helicopter is invisible to radar. Plus, he’s a superb pilot, much better than anticipated.” Don VeMeli heard another man in the background. Roderigo continued, “Apparently, they’ve touched down. A woman is exiting the helicopter.”

  Don VeMeli grabbed his pilot’s arm. “Reverse course immediately. Head north, toward Piazza Umberto. I’ll finish her myself.” The pilot nodded.

  Roderigo asked, “Master, are you sure that’s wise? You’ll be exposed. Hundreds will witness the killing.”

  “Obey your orders and leave the rest to me.” Smiling, Don VeMeli glanced down at his attaché case. Unbeknownst to even his closest staff, it contained a powerful shortwave radio transmitter. Once his chopper cleared the area, a simple keystroke would eradicate every living creature within twenty kilometers of the city. The only witnesses to his crime would be piles of irradiated ash.

  Speeding past two security guards, Paul and Ava rushed up a flight of stairs and emerged onto the wooden stage, where they surprised four elaborately costumed musicians.

  “Who the hell are you?” the guitarist demanded.

  “Security!” yelled the drummer.

  Just then Bagelton arrived. When he saw Ava, a spark of recognition showed in his eyes. He addressed the band: “Guys, guys, these two are the performers I told you about. The committee invited them to make a brief statement. Why don’t you take five and get some grappa?”

  Regarding Ava with interest, the vocalist smiled. “So, baby, what’s your gig?”

  Before she erupted, Paul stepped in.

  “It’s an avant-garde piece. Spoken word.”

  The musician nodded in approval.

  Ava ventured toward the stage, but the bass player blocked her path.

  “Wait!” he said, breath reeking of marijuana. “What are your politics? This is a grassroots gathering, not a platform for corporate shills.”

  Her mind raced. “We’re trying to prevent global warming,” she said.

  “And promote nuclear disarmament,” Paul said.

  Appeased, the musician moved aside. “Fight the power!”

  Once Ava’s path was clear, Paul positioned himself atop the stairwell to prevent anyone from interfering with her performance. He appropriated a microphone stand, inverted it, and balanced it on his shoulder. With a heavy club, recently shaved head, and grim expression, Paul presented an intimidating figure.

  Ava took a breath, then marched across the platform to the microphones. Nervous, she tapped one. It was active. Standing alone, center stage, she felt utterly exposed. Seconds passed. The crowd, distracted for a moment by her dramatic entrance, began to grow restless. Someone whistled. Others murmured. Sound techs flashed her the thumbs-up, urging her to speak. Ava’s throat constricted. Her heart pounded. She stole a backward glance. The musicians were loitering nearby, smoking and passing a bottle. Bagelton’s face betrayed equal parts greed and curiosity. And there, standing guard, was loyal Paul. His warm eyes met hers, and he smiled. All her fears vanished. At that moment, Ava realized she was hopelessly in love.

  She opened her notebook, cleared her throat, and began to speak.

  Simon remembered his mother. He was four and she was teaching him to read. He saw her long, elegant finger glide across the yellowed pages of a paperback filched from the used bookstore. When prompted, he tried to pronounce the magical words. She helped him sound out the most difficult. Together they consumed all types of books, but he loved adventure tales the most: The Song of Roland, The Death of Arthur, Robinson Crusoe, Huckleberry Finn; Dumas, Stevenson, Kipling, Tolkien, H. G. Wells, Jules Verne. Often, his exhausted mother fell asleep before a story’s conclusion, leaving her precocious son to finish it alone. As she dozed, he would read each word aloud, sure she was dreaming about the characters and desperate to know each story’s end.

  Simon took this precious memory, locked it back deep within his heart, and refocused his mind on the present. His cockpit radio was tuned to a live broadcast from the protest. Over the air Ava’s confident voice began to proclaim the prophecy. He smiled: such a brave, brilliant young woman. He coaxed the Comanche into a steep bank, flew low behind a granite hillock, hovered, and scanned the radar. Four blinking icons represented the Italian helicopters he’d eluded. The Comanche’s advanced tactical avionics provided a detailed description of each Mongoose’s position, bearing, speed, and weapon status. His adversaries had separated into a standard military search pattern. DeMaj calculated he had forty seconds, perhaps a minute, until they pinpointed his location.

  Then, a fifth icon appeared. It wasn’t searching for him; rather, it was flying directly toward Ava, and it was armed with a heat-seeking missile.

  “Fire!” Don VeMeli shouted at his subordinates. “Why don’t you fire?”

  “A moment longer,” said the copilot. “It’s difficult to attain missile lock on such a weak heat source. These weapons were designed for antitank combat.”

  At starboard, the sun was a disk of burnished gold. Wincing from the glare, the master shielded his eyes. “I don’t care if it locks. Precision is unnecessary. Destroy the whole stage.”

  “Sir, you don’t understand. If the missile won’t lock, it won’t arm. It wouldn’t detonate.”

  Don VeMeli bristled with rage. “Imbecile! Use the guns then. Do whatever it takes!”

  “Right away, sir.” Flicking a switch, the pilot aborted the missile launch, swooped down into cannon range, and reduced speed. Below them, a young woman was shouting strange words into a microphone. As the helicopter maneuvered for a clear shot, Don VeMeli whispered, “We have you now.”

  Then the copilot screamed. Don VeMeli looked east, and for a second saw his doom.

  Almost silent, invisible to radar, and hidden by the brilliant sun, DeMaj had advanced with impunity. Achieving tactical surprise, he flashed out of the morning sky and bore down upon his target. One final time he urged the Comanche’s engines to maximum thrust and then attacked his enemy’s flank, rushing forward like a divine wind. He hoped his mother would be proud. With a joyful heart, he looked forward to seeing her again. Just before impact, he caught the devil’s eye. Smiling, Simon whispered, “Shah mat.”

  Paul moved the instant he saw the helicopter. It was painted military green and was fully armed. As it circled, Paul dropped his makeshift club and rushed forward. He didn’t dive. He didn’t jump. He ran directly at Ava and tackled her from behind. The impact knocked her off her feet, scattering her papers. Paul and Ava flew three rows into the crowd, where a cluster of astonished protesters broke their fall. Despite the collision, Paul heard no complaint, because at that moment, the sky exploded from a massive detona
tion. He felt searing heat on his back. If a piece of shrapnel found them, it would be fatal. Keeping Ava’s body underneath him, he held his breath, clasped his hands, and prayed.

  Chapter 18

  18

  The helicopter’s impact had created an enormous fireball, and the flaming debris demolished the makeshift stage. Like a bonfire, it blazed for hours. Several protesters were injured, hit by shrapnel or doused with burning gasoline. Many more were hurt in the rush to escape, as terrified activists and concertgoers stampeded away from the flames. A young boy’s shoulder was shattered. An Italian girl, trampled by the hysterical crowd, required surgery and a middle-

  aged man from California suffered a stroke. Nevertheless, not a single bystander died. The press dubbed it the “miracle at La Maddalena,” and Ava couldn’t really disagree.

  Despite this good fortune, the Italian government remained embarrassed by the incident, which became a political hot potato. Galeazzo Grandi and the reactionaries blamed “foreign elements” and “outside agitators.” In a press conference, Grandi stressed Simon’s North African roots and his connections to the Arab world. Other right-wing politicians lamented that military security had been hamstrung by bleeding-heart peaceniks and civil libertarians; the Left characterized the episode as “yet another example of capitalist oligarchs stifling political speech and repressing the right to free assembly.” Newspaper editorialists demanded greater restrictions of citizens’ ability to purchase military hardware.

  Paul and Ava were detained by the U.S. Secret Service. Held for a week and denied access to legal counsel, they were questioned separately at first, then jointly. Ava was furious about the gross infringement of her constitutional rights. Paul was so thankful to see Ava alive that he would have signed any confession they offered.