The Cana Mystery

Chapter 10

A shout jolted Ava awake. She sat up, hands clutching cold porcelain in fear. Then Paul’s voice boomed in the adjoining room. He began laughing and talking excitedly. Soon, she heard him hang up the phone.

Ava stood up and toweled herself dry. Wrapping her long hair in another towel, she put on one of the hotel’s luxurious Egyptian cotton robes. After almost slipping on the slick marble floor, she cracked open the door and peeked out. Paul was smiling. With the ivory telephone receiver wedged between his ear and shoulder, he appeared to be reading the room-service menu.

Ava cleared her throat. “What was that shouting?”

Looking up, he opened his mouth to answer. Then she heard a muffled voice from on the phone. Paul spoke into it. “Room service? Can you send us some dinner, please?”

Ava simmered with impatience. Noting her expression, Paul’s eyes widened. He spoke quickly into the phone.

“Yes, thanks. Can you just — okay, hold please.”

Cupping the phone in his palm, he stage-whispered, “Sefu’s alive! They got through to the hospital and he’s in stable condition.”

Ava’s shoulders relaxed and a smile blossomed. She crossed the room to Paul, sat next to him on the bed, and listened while he ordered two steak dinners and two bottles of an expensive claret. Grinning, Ava shook her head. “Nick will regret his generosity.”

“The hell with it!” Paul said. “We’re celebrating!”

Gabe stopped typing, stretched his arms, and took a deep breath. Several people had responded to his query. Despite his fears, no one had flamed him. No one had called him a fool or a moron. In fact, he’d received numerous sympathetic replies, but only one fellow hacker had offered actual assistance, and Gabe worried about him. He reread the IM from durmdvl: “Let’s discuss your problem directly. 919-555-3253.”

durmdvl had posted on the crypto board for years, earning a reputation for taking no prisoners. Many suspected durmdvl of launching the viral attacks against the rude noobs. From some posts, Gabe had the impression that durmdvl frequently raided international corporate databases, leaked documents, and even snooped on governments. Of course, it was just a hypothesis: he had no proof. All he knew for sure was that durmdvl lived somewhere on North America’s East Coast, spoke English fluently, wrote tight code, and possessed a razor-sharp sense of humor.

Gabe punched in the number. Before it rang, he noticed it was 3:08 a.m. and hung up. That call would have to wait until later in the morning. In the meantime, he decided to eat. He rued the fact that every pizza joint was closed, especially Tommy’s. Leaning far back in his leather chair, he opened the mini-fridge: nada. Frustrated, he pushed away from the desk, rose, and checked the cabinet. Inside he found half a bag of granulated sugar, some expired pudding, and an ancient box of Pop-Tarts.

He sighed, sat again, and pulled on his shoes. CVS was open late. He could get ice cream or something. He walked out the door, then he did a quick about-face; he’d forgotten his phone. He couldn’t tolerate the idea of missing a call from Ava. It had been days since he received her text. Presumably she’d deciphered his message, alerting her to potential eavesdroppers. That’s why she hasn’t called since, Gabe told himself, refusing to consider other explanations.

He stepped outside and stopped again. He’d forgotten his wallet.

Savoring the cool evening breeze, Ava reclined on the balcony and let her bare feet dangle over the rail. She closed her eyes and listened to the surf caress the shore. There were other sounds in the air: the rhythmic creak of moored sailboats’ rigging, the cacophony of polylingual conversations along the corniche. Next to her Paul finished his steak and attacked the remnants of Ava’s. Wind gusted, almost extinguishing their candles. He looked up to find her watching him eat.

“Do you remember when we met?” she asked.

“When we met? Or do you mean the first time I saw you?”

“When was the first time you saw me?”

“Freshman year. You were running.”

“Why do you remember that?”

“I don’t know, but I know that the first time we talked you called me an idiot.”

“I did not!”

“Oh yes you did, after we discussed the game-show question in class. Don’t you remember?”

“I remember perfectly. It was the Monty Hall problem. I called you ignorant, not idiotic.”

“Oh, thanks,” he said. “That’s much nicer.”

She giggled. “There’s a difference.”

“What?”

“Ignorance can be cured. Idiocy, I fear, is permanent.”

Paul grunted, finished his drink, and reached for the bottle. Ava lifted her glass for a refill and watched as the wine refracted flickering candlelight. A halyard strummed against a mast. On the street below, frustrated drivers honked and cursed. Ava set down her wine, drew her knees up against her chest, and rested her chin on them.

“What happens now?”

Paul sighed, rubbing his eyelids. “Tomorrow I’ll find us a way out of the country.”

“What about the jars?”

Gazing across the ancient harbor, Paul thought for a minute. Then he shrugged. “Let’s roll them into the sea.”

“Ha, ha, ha. Any serious ideas?”

He shook his head. “We can’t go to the police. Did you see that guy smile when he shot Sefu?”

Ava nodded. “We could take them to the Bibliotheca…”

“No way. Sheik Ahmed’s got his hooks in the local authorities. If we turn over the jars, he’ll get them. I won’t let that happen, Ava. I won’t let those murderers win.”

“So, what then?”

“I’m meeting Nick at Monty’s Bar after his shift. Maybe he knows someone who can smuggle us out of Egypt.”

Ava’s posture stiffened. She was silent for a moment. Then she announced: “No. For centuries, Europeans have stolen Egypt’s priceless relics. I’m not going to participate in that crime. Looting antiquities is illegal and immoral.”

“I don’t want any loot! I’ll happily give the jars to the first institute or museum you choose. Once we get out of Egypt.”

“And go where? Libya? Yemen? Tunisia? Saudi Arabia? Where will they be safe from Simon?”

Paul sagged into his chair. Brilliant ideas weren’t his strong suit. He had no grand strategy. He knew only that, somehow, he must keep them safe. He clung to what Father Besserion had said: “Protect what you found.” He’d accepted that charge, and his heart told him the jars would never be secure in Egypt. Suddenly Paul had a brainstorm. The more he thought about it, the more he liked it. Smiling, he sat up and turned to Ava.

“You said the jars are priceless if they’re authentic, right?”

“Yes, but we can’t simply assume—”

“Hear me out, please. The jars are either real artifacts or worthless junk. If they’re worthless, no one cares if we take them.”

“Sure, but if they’re real—”

“If they’re real, then they’re Jesus’s property! I mean, the true lost jars of Cana should belong to Christ’s heir on earth, a.k.a. the Catholic Church!”

Ava opened her mouth to disagree, and then paused. It was a novel argument. If Jesus took the jars from Cana to Capernaum, presumably they belonged to him. Wouldn’t the pope have a claim to Christ’s property, regardless of where it was unearthed? Of course, the argument’s basis, which Paul assumed as fact, was a biblical account. Not everyone accepted that version of history. Even Ava, with her Catholic upbringing, regarded most Bible stories as, in Einstein’s words, “honorable, but primitive legends.” She had no idea how the World Court would rule on the subject.

“Let’s assume you’re right. What then?”

“I propose that it’s our legal and moral duty to transport the jars to a nearby Catholic country and deliver them to the appropriate bishop, archbishop, or whatever. While the cardinals are busy electing the new pope, history experts can determine the jars’ authenticity. Assuming they’re real, international lawyers can sort out who gets them. Maybe they belong in Egypt, maybe they go to Rome, but no matter how the court rules, we’ll be okay. We never claimed ownership or sought compensation. We just relied in good faith on our plausible, albeit unorthodox, legal interpretation.”

Ava smiled. “That’s very clever, Paul.”

His shoulders lifted, and for an instant joy sparkled in his eyes. Then he turned away and shrugged.

“Ah, well, even a blind squirrel finds acorns—”

“Anyway,” she said, “what should I wear?”

“What?”

“What should I wear to Monty’s? Nick burned my robe, and I presume the bikini is inappropriate.”

Paul grinned. “I’ll call the concierge.”

Sheik Ahmed and Lieutenant Barakah arrived at the police station just after ten at night. While his underling questioned the cops, Ahmed commandeered an office and opened the telephone directory. He found the number of the local newspaper, called, and asked for the managing editor. The receptionist put him on hold. As he waited, Barakah entered the room. Seeing the sheik on the phone, Barakah apologized and turned to leave. Ahmed shook his head and motioned for the lieutenant to sit. Then someone picked up.

“Who the hell is this?” demanded the prickly editor.

“This is Sheik Ahmed.”

The editor gasped and juggled the phone. Instantly his tone became obsequious. “Oh, Sheik! I’m so sorry. I had no idea! No one mentioned… I would never—”

“Apology accepted. Now listen carefully. I have breaking news that you’ll want to publish in tomorrow’s paper.”

Gabe exited Lowell House and turned left onto Mt. Auburn. It was an exceptionally foggy night. Wet, snow-free asphalt glistened, reflecting streetlights. Humming, Gabe crossed the empty street, stopped at an ATM, and slid his card into the slot. At that moment, he sensed someone watching. He’d been mugged once in South Boston. He knew robbers try to catch people at bank machines. Warily, he glanced back into the mist: No one there. With a sigh of relief, he withdrew eighty dollars. Outside the CVS, he nodded to the Champ, a homeless man who frequently sought refuge there.

“Hey, bro,” said the Champ. “Got any change?”

“Not yet,” Gabe replied, but I’ll hook you up in a sec.” He went into the store and proceeded directly to the frozen section, seeking ice cream: Vermonty Python. Then he stopped, shocked. The entire freezer was empty.

“Yo!” he yelled to the long-haired clerk. “What’s up with the ice cream?”

“Aw, dude! The freezer is totally wack. All that stuff melted.”

“Great.” Gabe sucked in a breath and pressed two fingers against the bridge of his nose. It wasn’t his day. Should he go home and eat Pop-Tarts? No, that sounded gross. As he scanned aisles of junk food, he noticed a bearded man across the street, watching him through the fog. “Odd,” Gabe thought. “He doesn’t look like a student. He’s not nearly drunk enough.”

Chuckling, he grabbed a bag of Cheetos, then changed his mind. Maybe he could get a pastry at Tealuxe, just a few blocks away. He dropped the Cheetos, left, and, still lacking change, handed the Champ twenty dollars.

“Damn! Thanks, bro.”

Gabe smiled. Feeling virtuous, he continued north on JFK and passed Cardullo’s Gourmet Shoppe, wishing it was open. As he neared the intersection, his peripheral vision caught a flicker of movement. He looked over his shoulder. Oh, hell. The bearded man was walking behind him. Gabe wondered: “Is he following me, or am I just paranoid?”

Involuntarily, his pace quickened. He darted around the corner and turned right onto Palmer. Breathing heavily, he leaned against the brick building and waited. Moments later, the bearded man appeared. Their eyes locked. This was no coincidence. The man reached under his shirt and began to withdraw something. Gabe didn’t wait to find out what. He turned and ran. The bearded man gave chase.

Gabe had a head start, but he was out of shape. He couldn’t outrun anyone. Years ago he played Ultimate Frisbee, but since graduation he’d spent most afternoons and weekends working on the computer. Ava frequently invited him to run with her, but he was always too embarrassed to accept. Now he wished he had.

Heedless of traffic, he dashed across Church Street, raced past Starbucks, and turned into the adjoining parking lot where, to Gabe’s horror, a tall brick wall blocked further progress. Desperate to escape, he leaped onto a car’s hood, stepped onto its roof, and vaulted himself over the wall. Frightened, he tumbled into a dark churchyard. Seconds later he heard the car creak as his pursuer copied his maneuver. Gabe stood and tried to flee, but his shoe caught on a gravestone, dropping him face-first onto the cold, damp earth. He waited in terror, anticipating gunshots. Instead, rapid footfalls passed within inches of him. Holding his breath, he listened. The steps grew distant as the bearded man continued running. In the gloom, he didn’t see me fall, Gabe realized.

He kept perfectly still. Soon he heard angry voices speaking Arabic. Two men argued and then departed. He remained motionless for a half hour, afraid to betray his position. When he could wait no longer, he rose, cautiously, and looked around. Seeing no one, he crept out of the churchyard and headed back to Lowell House. Taking a circuitous route, using backstreets and watching at every corner, it seemed to take an eternity to reach the dorm. Gabe yearned to get inside, lock the door, and strip off his wet clothes. Nearing Mt. Auburn, he inched up to the corner. He poked his head around the edge and took a peek. It was just as he feared. Two men waited outside of Lowell.

He couldn’t go home.

In the elevator Paul could see that Ava was feeling her wine. Confident and relaxed, she laughed often and spoke a little louder than usual. She looked pretty in her new dress, a black Versace knockoff that hugged every curve. He struggled to keep his imagination in check.

“You look amazing, by the way.”

Ava beamed. Then she rolled her eyes, feigning embarrassment.

“You must be kidding. This is so not my style. I feel like Posh Spice.”

On the walk to Monty’s Bar, they discussed where to take the jars. Paul favored somewhere with a large Catholic presence. Ava said, “Well, if that’s the criterion, we could try Malta. It’s ninety-eight percent Catholic.”

“Wow. Have you been?” Paul asked.

“Not yet, but I know someone there. Professor Laurence Clarkson, from the University of Malta, taught a guest seminar at MIT last year. It was great. He’s brilliant.”

“We’ll have to look him up.”

“I will. Actually, I’m surprised you’ve never been to Malta.”

“Why’s that?”

“Because of your namesake.”

“Paul Newman?”

“No, your biblical namesake.”

“Uh-oh. I sense a history lesson coming.”

Ava laughed. “Okay, class, now pay attention! In the year 60, St. Paul was on his way to Rome for trial before Emperor Nero. His ship was caught in a terrible storm and wrecked off the Maltese coast. At the wreck’s site, known as St. Paul’s Island, there’s a statue of the apostle. The event is described in Acts 28:1: ‘Once safely on shore, we learned that the island was called Malta. And the barbarous people showed us no little kindness; for they kindled a fire and received us.’”

“Cool. At least the locals are friendly.”

“Yeah, but watch out for snakes.”

“Seriously?”

“The Bible says a venomous snake bit Paul’s hand in Malta. The islanders considered his survival a miracle, and legend says that they decided to convert en masse. The incident is very important to the Maltese, and it’s depicted in many religious artworks. For example…”

Sunrise found Gabe sitting alone in the old Algiers Coffee House, nursing an espresso romano. His clothes were damp and mud-stained. His ankle hurt. He was angry. He wanted to call the police, but couldn’t. If they searched his room, they’d find copious evidence of computer crime. Some hackers got off easy because they were just kids, but Gabe doubted such leniency extended to twenty-seven-year-olds. Still, he needed help. He was in exile, unable to return home and cut off from his network. Absently he scrolled through his iPhone and noticed that his last outgoing call was to a number he didn’t recognize. A 919 area code? Who the hell was that? Then he remembered: durmdvl.

Gabe hit the call button. As he expected, his call went directly to an anonymous voice mail.

“Hello. Sorry to call so early. My name is Gabe. I use the screen name rkngel. We met online and you sent me this number. You said you wanted to discuss things directly. Well, the situation has, um, intensified. I’m currently unable to access my residence and therefore have limited resources. I’ll provide details via a secure mode of communication. Of course, if you don’t want to get mixed up in all this, I understand.”

Monty’s was a tranquil lounge named after Field Marshal Bernard Montgomery. Muted, unobtrusive music kept numerous conversations private. Nick complimented Ava’s dress. The men ordered whiskey; she chose a champagne cocktail.

“How is your suite?” asked Nick.

“It’s great. Thanks again.”

“De nada, amigo.”

For the next hour they went from subject to subject: U.S. politics, the Red Sox, El Alamein, Texas Hold’em strategy. Eventually, Nick smiled and said, “So, why don’t you just ask me?”

Paul laughed. “Is my poker face that bad?”

“No,” said Nick, then pointing at Ava, “but she’s about as subtle as a bulldozer.”

“Do you know someone who can fly us to Malta?”

“Sure. United Airlines? Lufthansa?”

“We’re not eager to pass through airport security.”

“Hmm. I suppose I could charter you a flight. It won’t be cheap.”

“Do you know a good pilot?”

“Several, but few I trust.” He thought a moment and then went on, “Let me ask a question.” Nick lowered his voice and leaned toward them. “You want to avoid airport security. Does this have to do with those two canisters we lugged into your room?”

Paul and Ava exchanged a look. “It might.”

“Well, I don’t need to know details, but does it involve narcotics?”

“No!” Ava shouted, eyes bright with anger. The word reverberated across the quiet bar, attracting attention from several patrons.

“Okay, okay, relax. What was I supposed to think?”

Paul apologized for Ava’s outburst but corroborated her position: “It’s not drugs. You have my word of honor.”

“Good. Because the guy I’d recommend is an antidrug fanatic. He has a personal vendetta against Sheik Ahmed.” At the mention of that name, Ava blanched. Nick caught her expression. He sank down into his chair and moaned.

“Oh, bloody hell! You didn’t cross the sheik?”

Paul said, “It’s a long story. I was working for DeMaj—”

“No, no, stop. I don’t want to hear it. You need to be gone pronto. I was worried about getting fired? Hell, we’ll be lucky if we don’t get killed. I’ll call Sinan right away. Maybe he can meet us first thing tomorrow. Go back to your suite and don’t open the door for anyone except me.”

Paul nodded. He stood, took Ava’s hand, and led her toward the elevator.

Nick sat silently for a few minutes. He took a breath, finished his whiskey in one go, and opened his phone.

Gabe was halfway through a Levantine omelet when his phone chirped, indicating a new text. He keyed in his PIN and opened a message from the 919 number: “Find a public computer. Create an anonymous user account and post a message on the usual site. Create a screen name reflecting one of our common interests, something only I will get.”

Gabe assumed “the usual site” meant the programming group where he’d met durmdvl. He entered the university computer center and followed durmdvl’s instructions. Once on the site, he posted some banal observations about process virtual machines under the screen name Pope_1000. An hour later, a reply from R.Goldberg74 appeared. The response included a line of apparent gibberish, which Gabe recognized as a code. The code revealed a symmetric algorithm. For the initialization vector, he guessed 74. That didn’t work, but his second guess—1974—did, generating a string encryption key. The key enabled a secure protocol by which Gabe and durmdvl could e-mail and IM.

Finally able to speak freely, Gabe composed a long message describing his situation. He explained that he’d installed bots on his phone to see if anyone was snooping. Yesterday, the bots had alerted him to dual traces. The first, a crude sniffer program, came from an Aden-based shipping business. The second, sleek and subtle, had been difficult to detect. After hours of investigation, Gabe tracked it back to the DeMaj Corporation.

The next part was more challenging to write. “Honestly, I’m terrified for myself and for Ava. How can I contact her? The satphone is compromised, she can’t (or won’t) check e-mail, and I don’t even know her current location! I think she’s in Egypt, but I can’t confirm. Suggestions?”

durmdvl replied: “It may be possible to communicate through the LEO phone.”

Gabe snorted. “So I’m just too stupid?” He typed: “Reread previous message. If there was a way to use the LEO phone, wouldn’t I have done so already? My friend’s life is on the line. I told you, the satphone is subject to constant surveillance by DeMaj. You’ve heard of DeMaj Corp? Billion-dollar transnat w/top-notch crypto? That phone is 100 % penetrated. Any incoming call or text will be intercepted, monitored, and traced.”

When no reply came in a half hour, Gabe was overcome with remorse. He thought, “Why was I so abusive? Did I burn my only ally? Why don’t I think before I type? I’m such an idiot!”

It wasn’t the first time Gabe had dissed a friend. Gabe hated asking for help. Ever. From anyone. Asking for help was an admission of need. Whenever someone offered assistance, he became snide. He’d say mean-spirited things that he’d later regret.

“I gotta grow up,” Gabe decided. “If we get through this, I swear I’ll stop acting like a petty jerk. I won’t insult someone who is just trying to—”

At that moment, a response appeared on the glowing screen: “G, relax and leave minor problems 2 my superior intellect. Bad guys aren’t as smart as they think. After covert satphone link is established, what message 2 transmit? Require personal trivia 2 prove our message is from u & 2 confirm recipient’s identity.”

Back at their suite, Paul closed the door and locked the deadbolt. While unzipping her dress, Ava noticed a light flashing on the satphone. Its display indicated an unread text: “You don’t know me. I’m writing on G’s behalf. To prove I’m friendly, he said you mix too much Splenda in your tea. G’s sorry he can’t contact you directly. Bad guys are monitoring your phone, so don’t use it except in emergencies. I implanted this message using a trick that (I hope) will make it invisible to them. We need to speak. Call me from a landline @ 919-555-3253. You’ll get an anonymous voice mail. Code in 999. It will redirect to me.”

She read the message to Paul, who then asked, “What do you think?”

“I’m nervous, but I think it’s legit.”

“What’s the Splenda reference?”

“Gabe always says I put too much in my tea. It’s an inside joke. No one else would know it.”

“Then we should call.”

“From here?”

“I’d prefer an anonymous pay phone, but we agreed to stay in our room until we hear back from Nick.”

Ava weighed the alternatives. It was risky to call, but she was worried about Gabe. She lifted the hotel phone from its cradle and dialed the long-distance number. After one ring the call was answered and diverted to an anonymous voice mail. She keyed in 999. It clicked and then started ringing again.

“Hello?”

“Hi,” said Ava. “This is Gabe’s friend. Do I have the correct number?”

“Maybe. First I need to confirm your identity. Which of your friends was an extra in Harry Potter?”

“What? Oh, that was Jess. My friend Jessica.”

“Perfect, but from now on, try to avoid proper names. We don’t know who or what might be listening.”

“All right, but why can’t… why didn’t my friend contact me?”

“They’re after him. Men came to Lowell House. He escaped. Now he’s on the run.”

“Oh my God! Is he okay? How did they find him? It’s my fault! He doesn’t have anything to do with this! He doesn’t know anything!”

“Calm down and listen. Your friend will be fine. He’s smart, and we’re working on the problem. I’m much more worried about you. You’re in grave danger. Here are the rules: No using credit cards, cell phones, or regular e-mail. Avoid airports, train stations, embassies, or any place with security cams. Never show ID or use your real name. Don’t contact family or known associates. Don’t go to the police. If you follow these instructions, you’ll be very hard to find.”

“But we need to leave the country. How can we travel without passports?”

There was a pause. Ava heard rapid-fire taps on a keyboard.

“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?”

“For money. When they arrived at the hotel, they were desperate. They promised me a great deal of cash for a discreet room, but after I saw the newspaper, I realized the offer wasn’t enough.”

“Why did you transport them to the harbor?”

Nick stiffened, pretending to be offended. “They were my guests. I owed them a certain duty of hospitality, regardless of the circumstances.”

The lieutenant nodded. Then he turned to look at Ahmed, who was deep in contemplation. Barakah knew the sheik was trying to decide if Nick was lying. His story rang true and fit with every known fact. Informants had seen Nick’s jeep carry the Americans and their precious canisters across town to the harbor. Soon afterward, Nick had driven an empty jeep back to the hotel. But the Egyptian sensed this dapper casino manager knew more than he let on.

Ahmed appeared to have reached a decision, but before he could speak, Nick asked:

“May I make a suggestion?”

Surprised, the sheik said, “What?”

“The fugitives must have bribed their way onboard a vessel. I don’t believe they’d be stupid enough to remain here. Examine the passenger manifests of every ship that departed the eastern harbor today. Question the immigration officials. There can’t be too many possibilities.”

The sheik smiled. “Why would you help me?”

“All Egypt knows crossing Sheik Ahmed is suicide, but that he rewards those who aid him. You’ll catch the American thieves eventually. They will die, so I’ll never collect the sums they owe me. Perhaps by assisting you, I can avert a total loss on my investment.”

Paul and Ava went into the immigration office and found the diplomatic line. It wasn’t long before an English-speaking agent scanned their passports and asked perfunctory questions. In due course, the almighty computer beeped, granting them permission to enter Malta. A second agent inquired about their luggage. Paul handed him the printed receipt. The man read it carefully and gave Paul an appraising look. Then he returned the document and waved them through the line. The two Americans left the building and walked into the picturesque city of Valletta.

Ava spied a pay phone. She called the hotel that Nick recommended and reserved a room. Then she called Dr. Clarkson at the university. He was surprised and delighted to hear from her, insisting they meet for a drink at a tavern called the Two Gods, in the town of St. Julian’s. While Ava and Clarkson chatted, Paul stepped into the Bank Ċentrali ta’ Malta and traded their remaining Egyptian pounds for euros. At the Bieb il-Belt, or City Gate, they hailed a cab for Sliema. As they transferred the canisters into the vehicle, the driver muttered “Haqq ix-xjafek” (damn the devil). Paul didn’t understand the words, but he got the gist. Grinning, he passed the cabbie an extra ten euros along with the hotel’s address.

As the taxi navigated the maze of narrow streets, Paul admired the architecture.

“What’s the city called again?”

Ava replied, “Valletta, named for the knight, La Valette.”

In the rearview mirror she saw the cabbie nod, impressed. Paul’s expression implied that the name was unfamiliar.

“Jean Parisot de La Valette, knight of St. John. He was grand master during the Great Siege.”

“The Great what?”

Ava sounded surprised. “Don’t you know about the siege of Malta?”

Paul leaned back. “Okay. Go ahead. I know you’re dying to tell me.”

“The Ottomans invaded Malta in 1565. Back then the island was held by the Christian Knights Hospitaller, a.k.a. the Knights of Malta or the Sovereign Order of St. John. The first attack was on a fortress called St. Elmo. The Turks thought Malta would fall quickly, but due to the knights’ bravery and tenacity, Fort St. Elmo held out against incredible odds. The Ottomans leveled it eventually, but the fierce defense bought time for reinforcements to arrive from Italy. As a consequence, the island withstood the siege. After the battle, La Valette commissioned a new city on the site where Fort St. Elmo once stood, and lay the first stone with his own hands. He’s buried here.”

The taxi dropped them off at the Waterfront Hotel. They registered under aliases, paid in cash, and told the porter they’d handle their own luggage. After ensuring that both canvas covers were still securely in place, Paul loaded the canisters into the hotel’s service elevator and took them up to their floor. As Ava held the door, Paul carried the canisters across the threshold and scooted them into the closet.

“That’s a creative hiding place,” Ava remarked dryly.

“I doubt they’d fit under the bed,” Paul said.

“Whatever. You stay here and guard the jars. I’m going shopping.”

A few hours later, Ava returned. In her bags were cotton slacks, sandals, a conservative silk blouse, and a white dress. Nothing too formal, but appropriate, she felt, for a meeting with important churchmen. She rode the elevator up. From outside the room she could hear the TV blasting an Italian soccer match. Ava unlocked the door, eager to show Paul her new clothes. He was snoring.

She considered waking him, then decided against it. With a sigh, she walked to the bathroom and turned on the shower. They had hours until the meeting with Dr. Clarkson. Paul could sleep.

At the Internet café, Gabe ordered an espresso from the barista, a pretty redhead with heavy black eye shadow. He carried the hot drink back to his workstation and almost spilled it when he saw the screen — an IM from durmdvl: “Contact successful. Transmission confirmed as secure. A is OK. Cleared Malta immigration/customs hours ago. Expects update/advice from us soon. What 2 send?”

Gusts of cool Mediterranean air swept through St. Julian’s. Paul and Ava strolled past a bewildering variety of bars and nightclubs catering to the lively mix of tourists, natives, and hustlers. Moving with the crowd, Ava enjoyed a fleeting sensation of anonymity. Near the St. Rita Steps, leading from Baystreet to St. George’s Road, they located the Two Gods. The peculiar tavern’s exterior was bedecked with carved and painted Egyptian figures, colors and edges softened by years of weathering. Paul could tell Ava loved it already.

Inside, the comfortable smells of pipe tobacco and old mahogany welcomed them. Timeworn wooden stools, benches, and tables were distributed throughout the pub. Regular customers watched soccer on the ancient television. A stocky, middle-aged bartender introduced himself as O’Hagan and asked what they’d like to drink. His accent sounded Irish.

“I’m not sure,” Paul said. “What do you recommend?”

“We’ve some good Maltese brews. Have you tried Blue Label or Hopleaf?”

“Both sound good.”

“Or Lacto, a nice milk stout?”

Ava tried to hide her reaction, but the words milk stout turned her stomach. She was embarrassed to appear so narrow-minded. Grinning at her discomfort, the bartender asked, “What’s your usual drink?”

“Stella Artois,” Paul said. “Do you serve that?”

“Of course. Two euros for a draft.”

They accepted and took their mugs to a quiet table. Paul sipped his beer.

Ava sat back. “I like this old place. The decor is interesting, and for once the bartender didn’t check my ID. It must be these new clothes. I look more mature.”

Tactfully, Paul refrained from mentioning that Malta’s drinking age was sixteen.

She glanced up. Local TV was reporting on the Italian election. Anti-immigration marches had sparked riots in Sicily. Angry men shouted slogans at the camera, expressions of intense personal hatred masquerading as public activism. Ava shuddered.

“What’s wrong?” Paul asked.

“Those guys really give me the creeps.”

He scanned the bar. “Where?”

“No. On TV. The Italian right-wingers.”

He twisted until he saw the screen.

“Who? Berlusconi?”

“No. The Gruppo Garibaldi.”

His expression implied that additional details would be appreciated.

“Nationalists. Extremists. Reactionaries who make Berlusconi look like Bertrand Russell.”

“Wow. Are they popular?”

“Somewhat. Thanks to all the recent scandals and instability, extremists will probably win a few seats in parliament.”

He shook his head. “Unbelievable. You’d think the Italians would’ve learned from Mussolini.”

“They did, mostly, but just like the disgusting skinheads and neo-Nazis back in the States, some idiots never learn.”

Twenty minutes later a sharply dressed man walked through the door. His attire and manner seemed out of place in the smoky tavern, but he wore a broad smile. Paul guessed it was Laurence Clarkson. Ava jumped from her seat to greet him, shook his hand enthusiastically, and introduced Paul.

“Bonswa!” said Clarkson.

Paul replied, “Hey, nice to meet you. I like this place. Do you, um, come here often?”

Clarkson laughed. “Oh, heavens no, but most taverns in this town are too loud for civilized discourse. Plus, it seemed highly appropriate, given that you came from Alexandria.”

Grinning, Clarkson paused, waiting for him to get the joke.

Paul didn’t. In desperation, he turned to Ava. She rescued him.

“Of course! Don’t you remember? The ship St. Paul took from Malta to Syracuse was Alexandrian. It was named the Two Gods.

“Oh. Okay,” said Paul. “I get it now. Good one.”

Clarkson elaborated: “The referenced gods were surely Egyptian: Osiris and Re. It’s said that the bas of Osiris and Re met in Mendes and united. You’re familiar with the stela of Ramesses IV, in Abydos?”

Ava nodded. Paul suppressed a yawn.

“The inscription establishes that the two gods ‘speak with one mouth.’ Furthermore, a relief in Nofretari’s tomb reads, ‘Re has come to rest in Osiris and Osiris has come to rest in Re.’”

Ava contributed, “And throughout the Egyptian Book of the Dead, Osiris and Re appear united. In passages, their names seem interchangeable.”

“Exactly!”

Before they could continue, Paul spoke up, “Speaking of gods, we have some important business with the Catholic Church. Can you tell us who’s in charge here?”

“Archbishop Cremona heads the archdiocese, but he’s busy in Rome. Aren’t these exciting times? All Malta is breathless with anticipation, wondering who’ll be the next pope. In Cremona’s absence, Bishop Garagallo has authority. I’ve met him. He’s quite nice. Why do you need to see him, if you don’t mind my asking?

“Oh, just general ecumenical questions. Nothing interesting.”

Clarkson seemed puzzled. Then he smiled.

“Yes. I suspect Bishop Garagallo is extremely knowledgeable about matters such as scheduling Catholic weddings and satisfying Maltese marriage requirements.” Clarkson turned to Paul and extended his hand. “I congratulate you, sir. In addition to her obvious beauty, your betrothed is an exceptional scholar, blessed with an intellect of the first rank.”

“Wait, I think you misunderstood—”

Ava interrupted. “Paul, he knows already. We might as well admit it.”

“Huh? Oh! Okay. Yeah. You’re a tough man to fool, Professor. You saw right through our story.”

Clarkson shook Paul’s hand vigorously. “Call me Laurence. And there’s no need for concern. Your secret is safe with me.”

For some hours, Ava and Laurence discussed recent developments in archaeology and philology. The two academics covered a ragbag of topics, often finishing each other’s sentences. Eventually Clarkson announced his departure. He rose, toasted their health, and finished his drink. Then he said, “I envy you two. Malta is a beautiful, romantic island. Just the place for young lovers.”

He hugged Ava, gave her his mobile number, and begged her to call if she needed anything. Then he said, “Ha pjacir!” (enjoy yourselves), and bade the couple a good night.

“So, when’s the wedding?” Paul asked.

Ava grimaced. “Obviously, he shouldn’t know why we’re here. So, I decided to perpetuate his misconception. Why disabuse him of a perfectly plausible explanation? It’s easier than making up something.”

Paul considered it. “Okay, that was smart. Of course,” he reflected, “if we’re on the front page of tomorrow’s paper, it was all for naught.”

“True, but I’m confident the media here won’t be taken in by those lies.”

“Hey, I’ll drink to that,” said Paul, finishing his beer. He rose from the table. “Want another?”

“Sure, but when you get back, let’s make plans for tomorrow. I want to see the bishop as soon as possible.”

Paul nodded, then walked to the bar. He flagged down O’Hagan and ordered two more beers.

“Where are you from?” asked O’Hagan, filling mugs from the tap.

“We’re Americans. We met in Boston.”

“Is she your girlfriend?”

“Yeah, something like that.”

“Damn. You’re lucky, lad. She’s dead sexy.”

“That she is.”

The bartender set two mugs in front of Paul along with his business card.

“Just call if you need anything. I can set up tours, car rental, scuba diving, you name it.”

“Cool. Thanks.” Paul pocketed the card, flipped O’Hagan a five-euro coin, and took off with the frothy beers.

Gabe’s pride finally succumbed to his insatiable curiosity. He simply had to know how durmdvl snuck a message through to the satphone undetected. Humbly, he sent an e-mail asking for the inside dope. A lengthy response arrived almost instantly. In it, durmdvl reminded Gabe that his phone bots had detected reverse-transmission probes from two entities. One probe was relatively crude. Gabe’s defensive software blocked it before it could access his phone’s memory. The other, originating within DeMaj Corp’s notorious crypto section, was a sophisticated spy program. The DeMaj probe tried to clone Gabe’s phone. It would have enabled DeMaj to read new text messages (incoming and outgoing), record calls, and download anything (photos, movies, texts) saved in memory. The program monitored the target phone continuously, alerting DeMaj anytime it sent or received a call or text.

Assuming DeMaj had used similar tactics to snoop on Ava, durmdvl simply hacked into DeMaj’s computer division and used its monitoring program to access the satphone’s memory. Once inside, it was easy to locate the text message Gabe sent a few days ago, rewrite it (telling Ava to call from a landline, etc.), and alter its status from “saved” to “new.” It was perfect. From DeMaj’s perspective, no outsider had accessed the phone. No new messages were sent or received, but from Ava’s perspective, a new message appeared. She wouldn’t know or care that technically it was an edited version of an old message, and as long as DeMaj’s spies didn’t reread the satphone’s saved messages, they’d never see the altered version. Sure, it would be visible if they looked, but there was no reason to look. They’d long since downloaded and copied the saved-messages file, so they could view that data much faster by opening their in-house copy. Unless DeMaj’s spies took possession of Ava’s actual phone, durmdvl reasoned, it was very unlikely they’d ever read the new text. Even if they did, all they’d get from it was a 919 phone number registered to a fictitious Panamanian limited partnership. If they tried to snoop that number, their network would acquire a virulent little file durmdvl had nicknamed sno-krash.

Impressed, Gabe began typing a reply asking for technical specs. Then he stopped and wondered: How could durmdvl have written such a long explanation so quickly? Seconds later, it hit him. durmdvl was being polite! Anticipating (correctly) his forthcoming inquiry, durmdvl had prepared a thorough response, but not wanting to bruise his ego, durmdvl had waited to be asked before providing the details.

Gabe shook his head in disbelief. He’d met a lot of hackers. Most were very smart, some were even brilliant, but almost all were rabid egomaniacs. They lived to brag about sick hacks, and none was polite about it. For some reason, durmdvl wanted to avoid hurting Gabe’s feelings. What kind of hacker would care about that?

The casino was full to capacity. Resplendent in his white tux and tie, Nick drifted from table to table, conferring with his pit bosses. Any other night he’d have been scrutinizing the action, ensuring that no player or dealer was cheating the house. In addition, his responsibilities included congratulating big winners, welcoming regulars, and issuing comps and perks to big spenders. It was an important job. Nick’s reputation for his quick wit and garrulous personality was a key reason that many whales gambled exclusively at this casino.

Tonight Nick was filled with none of his customary joie de vivre. Every few seconds his eyes drifted to the threatening men Ahmed had left behind, ostensibly waiting for Paul and Ava but actually watching Nick. The sheik believed Nick’s story. Therefore, Ahmed refrained from killing him on the spot. Yet he didn’t trust Nick completely. When Ahmed and his lieutenant departed to check the vessels’ passenger manifests, they left these uniformed thugs behind to guarantee that Nick stayed put.

Thinking of the manifests, Nick grinned. The sheik would find no mention of Paul and Ava on those. Even if Ahmed had the perspicacity to demand air-transport manifests, he’d still find nothing. Sinan’s flight plan listed no passengers, just cargo. Despite all the clever misdirection, though, eventually Ahmed would uncover the truth. “And when he does,” Nick thought, “I’m as good as dead.”

He skirted a blackjack table and congratulated a boisterous Italian on his sharp decision to split eights. The gambler made 18 and 17, the dealer busted, and the table erupted in cheers. While they celebrated, Nick watched Ahmed’s men. Moments before he’d sent Jill, a popular waitress, to offer them complimentary drinks. The leggy California blond made a small fortune in tips, bringing refreshments to the casino’s elite clientele. Bending low before Ahmed’s goons, she coyly asked what they’d like. For a moment the two men stared, mesmerized by her dećolletage. They mumbled apologies, explaining that they were forbidden to drink on duty. Flirting, the sexy waitress pouted and asked if they were allowed to drink coffee. The younger of the men smiled, stole a glance at her cleavage, and admitted that coffee would be okay. Then she knelt close to him and whispered that she could bring coffee cups filled with cognac or whiskey. He laughed thanked her for the generous offer but reluctantly insisted on actual coffee. Jill giggled, bounced to her feet, and promised that she’d be right back. After watching her sashay to the bar, the men looked toward the blackjack table.

Nick was long gone.