The Cana Mystery (29 page)

     Throughout the night, recovery teams removed bodies from the restless sea, dark now save for the occasional blue flash of emergency lights. Malta’s newly elected prime minister, Joseph Muscat, cut short his holiday to supervise rescue efforts. Speaking at the airport, he said: “Our government will make every effort to support the families at this difficult moment as they receive news of the tragedy.”

     Injured officer E. De Bono, who helped several passengers escape the sinking vessel, said it simply “exploded laterally. We heard a huge crash, and we saw a lot of smoke.” An American survivor reported that the ferry was going at a “pretty good clip” when he heard an “enormous crashing sound” and “felt a sharp jolt. Everybody then began running to grab life jackets.” A British passenger told the BBC: “The back end of the vessel opened like a sardine can.”

     A spokesperson for Virtu, which operates the Maltese ferry to Italy, said the explosion ripped out the hull steel and windows all the way along the ship’s length.

     No details of the deceased passengers’ nationalities or identities have been released. A local emergency service told the BBC that many children were among the victims.

     The Australian-built catamaran entered service in 2005 and was used for short trips across the Mediterranean, according to marine navigation expert Captain S. A. Nelson. He added that Virtu has an excellent safety record. All ferry service remains suspended to and from Malta pending completion of the investigation.

Gabe’s skin broke out in a cold sweat. Overwhelming nausea stirred within him. Finally able to move, he bolted from the chair, staggered to Jess’s bathroom, and vomited into the toilet. Then he rested, panting, with his forehead against the cool ceramic. Gabe felt his larynx constrict. Tears stung his eyes. He wanted to howl in anguish, but just a moan escaped his trembling lips. In shock, Gabe only gradually became aware of the telephone’s ring.

Sheik Ahmed was reading a newspaper account of the bombing. Paul and Ava were listed as “missing, presumed dead.” On one level, Ahmed was satisfied: He felt proud to have accomplished an important, difficult mission. On an instinctual level, though, he worried. He’d never favored this method of killing. Not for moral reasons—he had no scruples about sacrificing so-called innocent bystanders to advance his purpose. Rather, Ahmed disliked the technique’s imprecision. He’d prefer to have the Americans’ corpses in his trunk. Ahmed massaged his right arm as he visualized presenting the bodies to the master as trophies and as proof of the deed. Instead, he must rely on newspapers and television—notorious fabulists—for confirmation. Ahmed had loyal men watching every hospital. He’d bribed the petty bureaucrats, nurses, and clerks. By morning they’d provide a complete list of the injured. If either American had survived the shipwreck, the sheik would be happy to finish the job in person.

Paul was playing second base for the Red Sox. Jeter was at bat. He looked to his manager for a sign. Would he bunt? Something strange was afoot. Fans began singing a song Paul remembered from
Casablanca,
the one Victor Laszlo requests. The pitcher threw Jeter a hard slider. He ripped it into the gap. Then Paul was back in the water. Ava was sinking into darkness. He lunged but he couldn’t reach her hand. Struggling toward her, his legs seemed paralyzed. Then he noticed Ava’s eyes. They flipped open: lifeless.

“No!”

Paul woke in a clean, comfortable room. Its walls were decorated with bright Japanese prints, a dozen Technicolor waterfalls. Sunshine glowed through a window. He guessed it was about noon. Gradually, Paul remembered. Simon. He checked for his knife, but it was gone. Reaching to his chest, he felt Garagallo’s amulet under his shirt. At least they’d missed that. Paul tried to stand, but his head swam. He wondered if he was still deaf. As an experiment, he mumbled, “
J’ai mal partout,
” and was relieved when he could hear it. He touched his scalp and found that his hair was shaved down to a few centimeters. Paul’s face contorted with anger. What had Simon done? Confined him in a mental institution?

He wasn’t restrained, so Paul decided to escape. He found his wallet in the nightstand drawer. His boots were drying on a chair by the door. Quietly, he slid off the bed. Standing, he shifted his weight from foot to foot. His legs felt sturdy, but when he took a step he grew dizzy. Fighting to stay balanced, Paul shut his eyes, then inhaled and exhaled. The spell passed.

He padded across the room and tried the door. Unlocked. This must be a nice sanitarium, Paul reasoned, not a place for criminals. That would make things easier. He grabbed his boots, opened the door, exited the room, and crept down the hall. He should find inconspicuous clothes. No—steal an orderly’s uniform . . .

A door opened. Paul flattened himself against the wall, searching for a place to hide, but it was too late. Two men entered the hallway. The first wore a dirt-stained coverall and carried a sawed-off shotgun. The second was immaculate in a tropical-weight, double-breasted pinstripe. Paul recognized the man’s handmade shoes. He turned to face his adversary, and when their eyes met, Simon smiled.

Paul’s hands clenched into fists as he started toward his former employer, eager to repay him, in full, for his crimes. At the last second, a familiar voice begged Paul to stop. He turned toward the speaker. To Paul’s amazement, it was Ammon. The teenage smuggler stood between Sinan and Nick. Paul froze, baffled. His friends hurriedly told him that Simon wasn’t the real enemy. Sheik Ahmed had betrayed him too. Sensing that his old teammate wasn’t convinced, Nick explained, “Look, DeMaj just saved your life. If he wanted you dead, you’d be dead.”

Paul shook his head. “Even if you’re right, Nick, he ordered those guards to kill seven people. Some were just children. He’s a murderer.”

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.