The Cana Mystery (37 page)

Ava slumped. It seemed hopeless.

Simon went on: “They can’t evacuate everyone, so we must do everything in our power to prevent the attack. Through his organization, Barakah is spreading the word that we’re en route to La Maddalena. With luck, some of their people will arrive before we do. Fritz and my crypto team are hacking the Beast’s network, searching for something useful. Honestly, I doubt they’ll find anything, but—”

“But at least they’re trying,” Ava finished his thought.

“Precisely. And the same goes for us. Even if the prophecy is just superstitious nonsense, even if we’re on a fool’s errand, we must try. We must fight until the final bell.”

That made sense to Paul. “Okay. Just tell me what you need. If we go down, at least we’ll go down swinging.”

“I’m in too,” Ava said. “If you think it might help, I’ll proclaim the prophecy to anyone who’ll listen, but first, please answer one question.”

“Go ahead, Ms. Fischer,” said Simon.

“If your people are screaming bloody murder to eight national intelligence services, warning them of the attack and telling them we’re on our way, isn’t La Belva going to hear about it? If he knows we’re coming, won’t he try to stop us?”

Simon looked at her with approval. “Yes. I anticipate he’ll try to stop us. In fact, I’m counting on it.”

The cockpit radio crackled to life. It was Fritz. “Mr. DeMaj, I regret to report that you’ve been denied permission to enter La Maddalena’s airspace. It’s now a restricted security zone. Unauthorized aircraft will be intercepted and if necessary destroyed.”

“Message received.” Simon looked over at his two passengers, gauging their emotions. Neither American spoke as the helicopter continued west.

“Would the Italians actually shoot us down?” Paul asked.

“They might try, but it’s hard to shoot what you can’t see.”

Simon took the chopper into a steep dive, leveling out less than three meters above the waves, close enough to see schools of fish darting just below the surface. Paul’s stomach did somersaults. He knew the Comanche was responsive and agile. It could fly sideways and even backward at sixty-five knots, but reading flight characteristics off a printed page was nothing like experiencing them live. He glanced at Ava, expecting to see her quaking. Instead, she was leaning forward into the restraints. Her eyes were bright, and her posture indicated confidence. Paul marveled at her courage.

Beneath them whitecaps navigated around and between the heavy maritime traffic originating from the Strait of Bonifacio. Out of necessity Simon buzzed directly over one small ship. Its alarmed sailors hit the deck. As the morning fog lifted, a granite archipelago materialized. They drew closer, until Ava could perceive the ruins of ancient fortifications atop the easternmost promontory.

“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 crowded 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.