The Cana Mystery (12 page)

Just then, Paul stirred. He saw that Ava was up and assumed he’d overslept.

“What time is it?” he said, yawning, and out of habit glanced at his wrist. “It doesn’t look like the sun’s up.”

“Paul?”

“Yes?”

“Where are my clothes?”

“They were damp and nasty, so I hung them by the fire to dry.”

“I’d like to get dressed.”

“Cool.”

“Will you get them for me, please?”

Paul was annoyed. He didn’t want to get up from his warm sleeping bag. Why had she awakened him so early? He still had time to sleep.

“Get them yourself,” he muttered, covering his head with a blanket. “They’re right by the campfire.”

Holding the sleeping bag tightly, Ava sat motionless, looked directly at him, and said nothing for several seconds.

Then it dawned on him. He started to laugh. “Wait, are you buck naked under there?”

Ava felt a wave of anger rise from her stomach. She suppressed the urge to punch him in the face.

“Paul,” she said, slowly and deliberately, “Go . . . get . . . my . . . clothes.”

He knew better than to argue. “I’ll be right back.”

The black Mercedes sped north on Highway 21 toward Cairo. For several minutes the passengers rode in silence. Ahmed lit a cigarette and said, “You objected when I had our men kill the prisoner’s family, didn’t you Barakah?”

“I follow your orders, sir. I always have.”

“Indeed, but you avoid answering my question. Do you feel the decision to kill them was a mistake?”

“I obey you in all things, and I never question your judgment.”

Ahmed grew frustrated by his subordinate’s circumlocutions. He brightened the limo’s interior lights and looked pointedly at his underling.

“Tell me, would you have killed them?”

Barakah knew better than to lie. “No. The prisoner gave us the information we needed. I would have freed the woman and her children.”

Ahmed nodded, satisfied to hear the truth. On the surface, Barakah was a decorated Central Security Force officer assigned to the Egyptian National Police. Secretly, he’d joined Ahmed’s organization and risen through the hierarchy. Intelligent, competent, and thorough, Barakah followed every order to the letter. But the sheik maintained reservations about this ostensibly dutiful soldier. Ahmed suspected that Barakah lacked the courage of his convictions. In the eternal struggle, a mind clouded by mercy and compassion was a severe liability.

“If we allowed those children to live, they would have sworn a blood oath of vengeance against us and our cause. As adults, they would have fought tirelessly to defeat and kill us. A blood enemy is a true enemy, Barakah. A blood enemy cannot be bribed or dissuaded. He must be killed, exterminated. I choose to exterminate my enemies now, while I still can.”

“But the woman? We could have left her.”

Ahmed laughed. “Women are far more dangerous than men. To defeat a woman I must defeat not only her but also all her family. A woman’s father, husband, brothers, and sons will sacrifice their lives to avenge wrongs done to her. Her sisters and daughters will never forgive or forget. Women are cunning and patient, willing to achieve vengeance through stealth and treachery. Remember the story of Shamshoum [Sampson]. They can bewitch honest soldiers, fill our minds with poison and confusion. Women live to deceive. They will turn brother against brother,
musahib.
Never underestimate them.”

At dawn the travelers packed up camp, refueled the skiff, and resumed their journey. Despite the uncomfortable robes, Paul and Ava were again disguised as pilgrims. As the boat navigated a bewildering variety of canals, forks, locks, and side streams, Ava wondered how the boys managed without getting lost. Could they possibly have the intricate route memorized? Then she noticed that from time to time Ammon consulted a small gray box mounted on the stern. Curious, she eased her way aft and found that it was a GPS navigation device, specifically a Lowrance LMS-520C, of which the boys were immensely proud. Sefu insisted on showing Ava all its functions. It featured a five-inch, 480-pixel display; could ascertain their exact position on a satellite map; could sound a channel’s depth up to ninety meters; and was waterproof. Before they left Cairo, Ammon had plotted their course and saved it into the device’s memory.

Ava was impressed, but she knew such high-tech gadgets were expensive. The GPS must have run several hundred dollars. Was ferrying tourists around Cairo really that lucrative?

Occasionally the boys reduced speed and traversed shallower zones invaded by the fetid species of alga they’d endured upriver. Near Shubra Khit they encountered a particularly thick bloom.

“It reeks,” said Paul, disgusted. “This stuff is gross.”

“Oh, it’s worse than gross. It’s ecotoxic,” Ava said.

“It’s poisonous?”

“To the planet. The Aswan Dam project, which formed Lake Nasser, caused all kinds of environmental damage. Not enough water flows down. Consequently, the valley soil gets too salty, requiring more artificial fertilizer. Fertilizer runoff creates huge algal blooms, which block sunlight, harbor bacteria, and kill the fish. Nutrient discharge into the Mediterranean has declined drastically, weakening offshore sardine and shrimp fisheries.”

“So why don’t they release more water?”

“It’s not that simple. The Nile runs through seven countries, and its waters are almost fully utilized. In Egypt alone the population has doubled since 1978, so more and more freshwater is consumed by people, tourists, and farms. The High Dam is particularly harmful because it blocks silt from passing. Without replenishing silt, alluvial soil degrades, fish starve, and the whole delta suffers.”

“Okay, okay,” Paul said, holding up his hands to block the verbal onslaught. “I didn’t mean to uncork the Earth First! genie.”

“Don’t trivialize this, Paul. People face a shortage of drinking water because plutocrats would rather irrigate golf courses. Egypt has an annual water deficit of twenty billion cubic meters. Myopic capitalists like your boss should be held responsible for the negative externalities their so-called investments create.”

“Former boss,” Paul corrected. “I’m now a proud member of the unemployed proletariat.”

She grinned. “Welcome to the revolution.”

During the next hour they sped by several agricultural towns, including Mahalat Diyay, Diminkan, and Kafr Magar. Each one, Paul admitted, did not appear to have benefited from a capitalist economic bonanza. Poor farmers lived in mud-brick buildings with few modern amenities or conveniences. On the other hand, everyone appeared well fed.

Around noon they passed under two major highway bridges. Ammon said the large urban center was called Disuq. Paul wondered aloud if any famous gods were buried there. Ava smiled and said that centuries ago Disuq was a capital of the Hyskos, an Asiatic people who invaded from the east.

As they continued north, Ava could tell they were nearing the sea. The indigenous flora and fauna began to take on a marine character. In the large settlements of Qabit, Fuwah, and Sandayoun, boatbuilding seemed to be an important industry. A tang of salty air carried the pungency of old pilings, rotting despite their creosote. She noted a variety of rusty seagoing vessels at anchor. This stage of the river was heavily involved with aquaculture, forcing the boys to navigate carefully lest they damage the hull on a subsurface fish farm. When they reached Mutabis, Ammon reduced speed.

“We stop here,” Sefu said. “Ten minutes, okay?” He tied the skiff to a rickety pier. Ammon disembarked and disappeared into the crowd.

“Ava, this might be a good place for a bathroom break,” Paul said.  “Why don’t you scope it out?”

Something about his manner made her wary. He’d been consistently overprotective. Now he was suggesting she go ashore alone? Nonchalantly, she hopped onto the pier and went into a restaurant. Then she doubled back to a window to surveil the boat. Her suspicion was confirmed when she spied Ammon toting a large cardboard box mummified in shipping tape. He stowed it in the skiff’s hold and smiled roguishly at Paul. Ava had guessed they’d been keeping a secret from her. Now she knew it.

Furious, she stormed back to the pier. “What’s in the box?” she demanded.

Paul’s eyes met hers. He shook his head and said, “Don’t get upset. Everything’s fine. The boys just need to deliver something to Cairo. We’ll be on our way in a minute.”

Ava was less than satisfied by his explanation. Tears formed in her eyes. In a voice tight with anger and sadness, she announced:

“No. I’m sorry, Paul. I’m getting off.”

“Huh? Wait, you don’t understand!”

“No, I’m sure I don’t. I don’t understand a thing about trafficking drugs except that I’m not getting involved. So, good luck, and I hope you all make a huge profit,” she said, now sobbing.

“It’s not what you think!”

“Oh really? What’s in the box then?”

He glanced at Ammon and Sefu. His look asked, “Can I?” They shrugged, clearly displeased by the situation. Paul beckoned Ava aboard. Reluctantly, she complied. Ava doubted Paul would actually kidnap her, but if he was mixed up in drugs, nothing was certain.

He crouched, removed the box from the hold, and, using his knife, cut through the thick transparent tape. With considerable effort, he ripped open a flap and dozens of
Victoria’s Secret
catalogs spilled onto the deck, along with old issues of
Maxim, Vibe, Details,
and
Playboy.
The boys leaped down and began stuffing glossy magazines back into the hold, looking over their shoulders to ensure that no one had seen.

“What the hell?” Ava asked, baffled.

“Pornography is forbidden by the Qur’an and by Egyptian law. So naturally the black market for racy magazines, VHS tapes, DVDs, and whatever else is thriving. It’s incredibly profitable to smuggle. Back home, people give away this stuff. In Cairo, dealers sell these magazines for six bucks apiece.”

“Isn’t it easier to download your filth from the Internet?”

“You’d think so, but since the Arab Spring, the authorities have cracked down. At Internet cafés users sign a form swearing they won’t access or download pornography. Private accounts are monitored and spot-checked by government censors. They even tried to ban YouTube, and if you break the law, you go to jail. Egyptian jail! Plus, most Egyptians aren’t hooked up to the Internet. They can’t download images or watch streaming video.”

“But, I mean,
Victoria’s Secret
? That’s illegal?”

“Have you seen the pictures? It would have been illegal in Boston in the fifties.”

Simon dialed the number for his Yemen headquarters. The receptionist answered.

“Connect me to crypto,” he ordered.

From his tone, she knew better than to speak. She directed his call to the computer center’s cryptologic unit, where the twenty-three-year-old manager picked up.

“Hello?”

He sounded as though he had food in his mouth.

“Fritz, I have Mr. DeMaj holding for you.”

“Huh! What does he want? I mean, put him through, please.”

“Where are they?” Simon demanded.

“Sir?”

“Our fugitives. I told you to drop everything and find them. So, where are they?”

“We know they’re in Egypt.”

Simon took a deep breath. Silently, he counted to three, allowing his frustration to dissipate sufficiently for the conversation to continue. Even so, a measure of anger leaked into his voice.

“Fritz, I know they’re in Egypt. I’m the one who told you they’re in Egypt. It’s a big country. I need you to be more specific.”

“Yes, sir. We tracked Paul’s phone. It was a dead end. Apparently, he gave it to a desert nomad. Ava’s phone hasn’t been used since she left Boston.”

“Credit cards?”

“We’re watching them. Bank accounts too. Nothing since the hit on Kamaran. They must be paying for everything in cash and using aliases.”

Simon had expected as much. Paul was hardly a master spy, but he’d worked for DeMaj long enough to learn some basic espionage.

“Have we picked them up on security video?”

“No. I think we can safely conclude they’re avoiding airports, train stations—any form of mass transit. We’re listening to the Egyptian military and police. They don’t have anything either.”

“What about text messages, e-mail?”

“We can read their mail, but we’re having trouble tracing the device. It might be piggybacking a signal over the national net, relayed off a LEO satellite. The transmitter doesn’t use standard GPS, and the software is hardened against reverse-search protocols. It’s actually a pretty cool hack—”

“Find them,” Simon interrupted, “and call the moment you do.”

Chapter 8

8

At four o’clock they reached Rosetta, which Ava insisted on calling Rasheed. Near the harbor dilapidated brick buildings had been colonized by squatters and repurposed into a vibrant, open-air market. While Ammon tended to the boat and Sefu went to purchase gasoline, Ava found a rest room and Paul found a payphone. Since ditching his mobile phone, he couldn’t remember any numbers, so he attempted to call information. This proved an exercise in futility, because the operator couldn’t understand a word he said. Eventually he relented and conscripted Ava. She pretended to be aggravated, but she was secretly pleased that he needed her help. It took her about ten seconds to obtain the number for the Hotel Salaam in Alexandria, plus the operator offered to connect her directly. She smiled at Paul. “For whom shall I ask?”

“Is it ringing? Just give me the damn phone.”

“Hotel Salaam,” the receptionist said.

“
Bonjour
,” said Paul, with the worst French accent Ava had ever heard. “
Je voudrais parler à Monsieur Nick
.”

“
Qui
?”

“Nick. Mr. Nick.
Señor
Nico.
Il est Americain
.”

“
Ah, oui. Monsieur Nick
,” the receptionist repeated. “
Un moment, s’il vous plaît
.”