The Cana Mystery (17 page)

“I show you calling from Egypt. Where do you need to go?”

“Malta.”

“Are you still traveling with the same guy?”

“Yes.”

“Give me his SSN.”

“Paul, what’s your Social Security number?”

After he gave it to her, and Ava relayed it over the phone, for several minutes Ava heard only a keyboard’s clicks.

“Okay, I just dropped some awesome kung fu. You shouldn’t have trouble with customs and immigration. Just go through the diplomatic line. Now, how do you plan to get there?”

“Charter a plane.”

“That should work, but you’ll need some real money. How can I get it to you?”

“We have a friend here. You could transfer to him, and he could give us cash.”

“Perfect. Give me his name. There’s no time to avoid saying it.”

Ava learned Nick’s full name from Paul. They didn’t have his SSN, but Paul knew his birth date and former address. For
DURMDVL
, that was plenty.

Two minutes passed. “It’s done. Nick’s bank account will get a nice fat deposit.”

“Thank you. We’ll repay you the moment we—”

“Forget it. Now, whatever happens, don’t call again from your current location. Get yourselves to Malta and keep your heads down. In a few days we’ll contact you. Until then you’re on your own.”

Early the next morning Paul heard a discrete rap on the hotel room door. When he unlocked it, Nick entered carrying a newspaper.

“You want the good news first or the bad news?”

“Good news first,
por favor.
”

“I found a pilot to fly you to Valletta. I swore you weren’t smuggling drugs or weapons and luckily he believed me. Sinan may ask more questions when we get there. Just be as honest as possible. He’s got no love for the local authorities and he doesn’t mind breaking some rules, but he hates liars.”

“What’s the bad news?”

“This.”

Nick dropped the newspaper on the coffee table. On the front page were pictures of Paul and Ava. Underneath the photos, a headline in Arabic exclaimed: “American Fugitives Wanted for Murder.”

“Holy Mother of God!” cried Ava. She grabbed the paper and began reading. The story claimed Paul had killed the seven men at Simon’s dig and maimed a police officer in Rosetta. The two Americans were armed, dangerous, and attempting to flee the country with priceless historical artifacts. A sizable reward had been offered for information leading to their capture.

Paul exclaimed, “Nick, it’s not true! We didn’t kill those people. We didn’t kill anyone! I did punch a cop—but only after he shot our friend. You’ve got to believe me!”

“I do, but it hardly matters. If you don’t skip town, someone will see you and try to collect that reward.”

Ava packed their bags. Meanwhile, Paul lugged the canisters out the door, down to the elevator, through the service exit, and into Nick’s ’79 Jeep Renegade. Driving fast and taking shortcuts, Nick zipped his passengers through the waking city. Ava’s wet hair dried quickly in the breeze. To keep it under control, she tied a scarf around her head. To conceal her identity, she added sunglasses.

When Nick stopped at an intersection, a delicious aroma engulfed the jeep. Hungrily, Paul observed several traditionally garbed Egyptian women setting freshly baked pita loaves atop garden walls to cool. His stomach rumbled.

When the jeep reached Alexandria’s industrial waterfront, a friendly security guard waved Nick into harbor parking.

“I thought you found us a pilot. Aren’t we going to the airport?”

Nick pointed out a pontoon plane tied to a capstan. “This is an airport,” he said.

He drove up next to the pier and parked. On a dock, an impatient foreman yelled instructions to his crew. Ava inhaled a lungful of harsh diesel fumes blended with the reek of desiccating barnacles and the ozone scent of melted solder. Looking closely at the seaplane, she noticed Arabic characters printed on its fuselage. Ava spoke the name aloud: “
Zulfiqar.
”

“You read Arabic?” an enormous man asked, startling her. At six foot five, with a full beard and dark, weathered skin, he presented an intimidating figure. Nick introduced his American friends to their pilot, Sinan. When Ava saw his kind eyes, she liked him instantly. About the same age as her father, he possessed the aura of one who loved life but had known unlimited sorrow. Ava greeted him in his native tongue and thanked him for accepting them as passengers. Sinan bowed slightly and smiled.

When Nick apologized for the short notice, the pilot shrugged and said, “
Mektoub
.”
Zulfiqar
was Sinan’s plane, a sparkling Cessna Caravan 675 powered by a PT6A-114A Pratt and Whitney engine. It was built to seat eight, counting the pilot, but Sinan had removed some seats to create space for an additional sixty-gallon fuel tank.

As they unloaded the jeep, Sinan asked his passengers, “How much do you weigh?”

Paul replied, “Two hundred ten pounds, maybe two fifteen.” Sinan nodded. Then the three men looked at Ava. She was mortified.

“How is that relevant?” she asked.

“Fully fueled, my available load is about fifteen hundred pounds,” Sinan said. He pointed to the canisters. “Your mysterious cargo is a little heavier than normal suitcases. If I don’t calculate the weight correctly, we could crash.”

Ava told the men to weigh everything else first, add it up, and tell her what remained. Then she’d let them know if she exceeded the limit.

After they confirmed that the cargo load was not too heavy, Sinan asked Nick about money. Nick handed him a roll of hundreds, saying, “Here’s four thousand dollars. I guarantee the balance when you return.”

Sinan nodded and began loading the plane.

Paul pulled Nick aside and whispered, “How much is this costing you?”

“Eight thousand total. A bargain under the circumstances.”

Paul winced. “Nick, I don’t have much cash left, and I don’t even have a credit card.”

“That figures.”

“We’re having money transferred to your bank account,” said Ava.

Paul offered to contribute his cash, but Nick waved him away, saying, “Just hold on to that. You’ll need it in Malta. Pay me back once you two are safe and everything has blown over. I know you’re good for it.”

Handing Paul a slip of paper, he said, “This is a decent hotel. Nice rooms, but they burn their steaks.”

Paul was deeply moved. “I don’t know what to say, Nicky. Thank you so much.”

“
De nada
.”

The two friends embraced. Paul said, “I won’t forget this.”

“You’d better not,” said Nick, grinning. “I’m thinking World Series tickets might be an appropriate token of your appreciation.”

“Done.”

Once Paul and Ava were aboard the seaplane, Sinan yelled, “Prop clear!” and hit the throttle. The Pratt and Whitney engine whined, shuddered, and roared to life. Moments later, the plane taxied into the center of the bay. When Sinan radioed the harbormaster for permission to take off, Ava tensed, but the tower cleared Sinan with no questions. Paul wondered if Nick had bribed the officials.

A freshening wind kicked up a small chop upon the sea, bluer now as the sky cleared. Sinan increased speed, and
Zulfiqar
began skipping across the water. The interval between skips grew until finally they were airborne. They circled over Alexandria, gaining altitude. When they reached ten thousand feet, Sinan leveled off, increased speed to a hundred and eighty knots, and set a westerly course for Malta.

Ava dozed off after they’d been in the air for about an hour. Noticing that she was asleep, Sinan turned to Paul and said, “You have trouble with Ahmed.”

It was phrased as a statement, but the pilot seemed to expect a response.

“Yes. He’s our enemy.”

With a curt nod, Sinan agreed. “Good. I have sworn vengeance against him and his accursed master.”

“His master?” asked Paul, nervously wondering if the enormous pilot knew of his connections to DeMaj.

Ignoring the question, Sinan probed: “Why is Ahmed your enemy?”

“His thugs tried to kill us, several times. They shot our friend Sefu, a teenager who—”

Paul stopped. The pilot’s face was ashen. A tempest of fury roiled behind the pilot’s eyes. It was some time before he spoke again. Finally, in a cold voice, Sinan said, “Ahmed is an abomination. He has killed many innocents, many children. He belongs to the devil.”

Five hours later, the pontoon plane breached a bank of clouds and the rocky isle of Malta burst into view. Sinan radioed traffic control, received clearance, and began his final approach. Before landing in the grand harbor, they beheld a stunning view: The very deep blue of the sea and sky contrasted sharply with the white and green of Valletta. Olive trees reached all the way down from Mt. Sciberras to the magnificent natural anchorage. Murmuring a prayer to Allah, Sinan executed a textbook water landing.

They rounded the bay and tied up near a customs office. Happy passengers were disembarking from a cruise ship while officials scrambled to keep them in the proper lines. Sinan exited the plane and began negotiating with dockworkers to purchase gasoline. After a few minutes, a young customs agent knocked on the cockpit window. He looked bored. Sinan said,
“Bongu!”
and provided the requisite documentation. The man glanced at the papers, gave the passengers and cargo a cursory inspection, and entered a mark on a computerized notepad. He pointed to a building and said something unintelligible to Paul. Then he handed Sinan a printed receipt and a set of colored decals. Shaking the young officer’s hand, Sinan said, “
Grazzi
.”
The agent smiled, nodded once, and returned to his station.

“That was easy,” Paul observed.

“We have an understanding,” said Sinan.

“You know him?”

“His boss, the customs supervisor, is an old friend. He knows I never allow drugs, guns, or explosives on my plane, but he understands that my passengers are particularly concerned about privacy and prefer to avoid waiting in line.”

Sinan helped Paul transfer cargo from the plane onto a rolling cart. They affixed a colored decal to each item, signifying that it had been searched and okayed by the authorities.

“What now?” asked Ava.

“Inside that building is the immigration and passport checkpoint. Show them your identification and this receipt for your bags.”

“Thank you, Sinan. You’re a lifesaver. We’re in your debt.”

He shook his head. “No debt. Your enemy is my enemy. Your friend is my friend. We struck a fair bargain. I just kept up my end.”

He waved good-bye to the Americans and began refueling
Zulfiqar.

Nick wasn’t surprised when, just before noon, Sheik Ahmed and his entourage entered the casino. Rather than delay the inevitable, he took the initiative. Approaching them, Nick opened his arms in greeting.

“Great Sheik, it’s an honor that someone of your magnitude should grace this humble establishment. How can we make your visit more enjoyable?”

Ahmed smiled. He thought, “Here, finally, is one with style and courage. He knows I shall likely torture and kill him, yet he greets fate with a smile, not childish tears.”

The two men traveled in the same circles. Many of the sheik’s contacts and business partners were Nick’s upper-crust patrons. They had mutual acquaintances in the Egyptian government and military. Nick’s reputation in the industry was sterling. Cairo’s aristocrats considered him a reliable businessman who remained strictly neutral in matters of politics and religion. Watching the American carefully, Ahmed replied, “Regrettably, we’ve come for business, not pleasure.”

Nick nodded. Ever since reading the morning newspaper he had known this moment would come. The sheik had informants throughout the city. Little that happened in Alexandria could be kept secret from him.

“Let’s retire to my office. I shall endeavor to answer your questions in private.”

He led the sheik’s party away from the gaming tables, down a long hallway, and toward his door. Nick was determined not to show weakness. He knew every minute he delayed Ahmed increased Paul and Ava’s odds of escaping. Yet he must not appear to be stalling. That path led quickly to a brutal death. He focused his mind and drew upon much experience playing high-stakes poker. Despite his fear, he maintained a tranquil facade. Taking keys from his pocket, Nick unlocked the office and casually invited the sheik to enter. Ahmed motioned for Barakah to accompany them. The rest of his cadre stood guard outside the door.

Nick waited for his dangerous guests to sit. Then he asked: “Gentlemen, how may I be of service?”

Barakah answered, “Last night, two Americans came to Alexandria. We have reason to believe you know their location.”

Nick paused to think, buying precious seconds. He knew any lie might begin the process of torture unto death. Ahmed surely possessed many details already, garnered from his network of spies and sycophants. Still, the fact that these men were questioning him proved that they did not yet know where his friends had gone. This chain of reasoning gave Nick a glimmer of hope. He decided on a tactic. If it worked, he might survive the meeting. With a deep breath, he began.

“I will not insult you by pretending ignorance. You are looking for my guests, Paul and Ava. As you said, they arrived yesterday. I provided a room at the hotel, and I joined them for a drink at the bar. They traveled with two heavy canisters. I presume these are your property—Paul must have stolen them. Now you seek their recovery. Correct?”

“Yes,” replied Ahmed, impressed by Nick’s directness. “Where are they now?”

“Because of today’s headlines, they couldn’t stay. I informed Paul and Ava they were no longer welcome, and I offered them a choice: I would deliver them to the airport or to the harbor. They chose the harbor. We drove out this morning. On the way, they discussed going north by sea to Greece, perhaps Crete. Of course, they might have lied, suggesting those destinations aloud for my benefit while intending to go somewhere else.”

“Why did you hide them?”