The Cana Mystery

Chapter 11

Gabe put the finishing touches on his latest long e-mail to durmdvl. He’d written effusively of his respect for durmdvl’s inventive method of circumventing DeMaj security. He included the original code for an Internet spider he designed the previous year and recommended that they infect DeMaj’s network with this information-gathering program. Gabe stopped typing, took a deep breath, and reviewed his work. It was littered with typos and other errors. He rubbed his eyes. He was dead tired. Worse, he was out of cash and couldn’t afford caffeine. At the bottom of the e-mail he added another line: “Sorry for crazy typos. Need slppe. Out of money. Suggestions?”

durmdvl quickly wrote back, suggesting he go to the nearest hotel and rack out. “Negative. Can’t use a credit card or ATM. I think the bad guys are watching my accounts. If they broke into my room and penetrated my system, they can access all my info.”

durmdvl concurred with Gabe’s bleak assessment and recommended that he crash with a friend, someone trustworthy. Then durmdvl asked a shocking question: “Don’t you have a girlfriend?”

Gabe’s immediate reaction was: “None of your damn business!” He was flabbergasted by durmdvl’s lack of respect for his privacy. How was his relationship status relevant to the situation? Annoyed by the breach of protocol, anxiety churned inside him. Though he’d never admit it, Gabe was a hopeless romantic. He fantasized about love affairs, but in reality he had difficulty communicating with women. The objects of his affection never reciprocated his awkward advances. It wasn’t easy. He and these women had little in common. Sexy girls seemed to inhabit terra incognita. Gabe questioned: “Is it my fault they like dim-witted TV shows; read idiotic gossip mags; and listen to insipid pop? durmdvl of all people should understand,” thought Gabe. “His tastes are even more rarified than mine.”

Eventually Gabe calmed down. He remembered the huge risks durmdvl was taking on Ava’s behalf, and he decided everyone should be forgiven an occasional faux pas: “No GF,” he wrote. “I’m not conventionally handsome.”

He didn’t have long to wait for a response, and when it came, he was relieved to see that the topic had been dropped: “K. Whatever. Just crash w/a friend.”

Gabe’s mind sorted the possibilities. When he remembered that Jess lived nearby, he felt some embarrassment. He’d been uncomfortable around her ever since she’d declined his invitation to the Silver Kingdom Renaissance Faire, but he had to go somewhere. He hadn’t slept in almost two days. Plus, he rationalized, Jess deserved to know that Ava was okay. He shot a quick note to durmdvl, logged off the computer, and headed for Jess’s apartment.

The alarm rang at six in the morning. Ava dressed, went downstairs, and bought the Malta Independent and the New York Times. After determining there were no malicious stories about them in the news, Ava obtained a telephone directory and looked up the Catholic archdiocese. She called the bishop’s office but heard an answering machine. Frustrated, Ava hung up. She ordered breakfast and returned to the room. Paul was still asleep. Waking him, she said, “I called Bishop Garagallo.”

Paul yawned and cleared this throat. “Super. What’s up with him?”

“I got the answering machine.”

“Did you leave a message?”

Ava stiffened. She wasn’t his cute little secretary. “Look, why don’t you call? Here’s the number. I’m taking a shower.” She went into the bathroom and let the door slam behind her. Paul grinned. He grabbed the remote, clicked on the TV, and found the news. The lead story concerned Pope Benedict, who’d waived the traditional fifteen-day waiting period to enable the cardinals to elect a new pontiff before Holy Week. Benedict was scheduled to hold his final public audience in St. Peter’s Square on Wednesday, when he would address tens of thousands.

In local news, the Labor Party had gained several seats in parliament, three workers were hospitalized after a construction accident in Bizazza Street, and rain was expected later that night. To Paul’s great relief, nobody mentioned two American murder suspects on the lam.

By eight o’clock Paul had dressed, left the hotel, and found a payphone. He called the archdiocese. The receptionist who answered understood English. Paul asked to speak to Bishop Garagallo. “The bishop is not yet in. May I take a message?” the receptionist said.

“Yes, of course you may, but I must see him today.”

“Well, I’m not sure that’s possible. He’s very busy.”

“I have to see him because we want to make a seven-figure capital contribution to the Church.”

The woman paused, counting zeros. Pressing his advantage, Paul continued.

“It’s imperative that we negotiate the benefaction’s terms and conditions with the bishop today.”

“I’ll see what I can do. Would ten thirty be acceptable?”

Breakfast arrived: eggs, sausage, bacon, and toast, plus a steaming pot of coffee for Paul and a cup of hot tea for Ava. Ava finished showering and dried her hair. She left the bathroom to find Paul working the New York Times crossword puzzle.

“How’s it going?”

“Decent. We have an appointment with the bishop at ten thirty, but I’m stuck on an obscure clue.”

Ava was surprised and pleased. “How did you get the meeting?”

“Let’s say American ingenuity.”

Ava smiled and pointed to the crossword. “Lay it on me.”

“Stately seventeenth-century French dance. Six letters.”

“Hmmm. I’m not sure. It could be P-A-V-A-N-E or M-I-N-U-E-T.”

Paul frowned, wadded up the paper, and dropped it in the trash.

Gabe knocked on Jess’s door. He heard movement inside and a sexy voice asked, “Who is it?” Gabe envisioned Jess peering through the peephole and seeing his distorted, haggard face. “Jess? It’s Ava’s friend, Gabe. Sorry to bother you, but it’s an emergency.”

Jess flung open the door. She was wearing a short satin bathrobe. Gabe felt dizzy.

“What’s the emergency?” Jess asked. “It’s Ava, yes? Is she all right? Tell me she’s all right!”

“Ava’s fine. We contacted her. She’s—” Gabe caught himself. He looked around suspiciously. Anyone could be listening. “Do you mind if I come inside?”

“Oh, of course. How rude of me. Please come in. Have a seat.” Jess took in his stained clothes and unshaved chin. He also stank. “You look terrible. Have you slept recently? May I offer you something to drink?”

“Sure,” replied Gabe, trying to keep his eyes on her face. “Got a Coke?”

She went into the compact kitchen and pulled a can from the fridge. Gabe sat on the comfortable sofa and watched her put on a kettle to boil. She brought his Coke and sat next to him.

“Will you tell me the whole story?”

Gabe nodded. “Yeah, okay, but it’s pretty long.” Involuntarily, he glanced down at her exposed thigh. “You might prefer to wear something more…”

Jess grinned. His face was crimson. She popped up from the sofa and went into her bedroom to change. Gabe couldn’t help but notice that she’d left the door ajar.

Jess called out, “Is Ava still in Malta?”

Gabe freaked. “What? How the hell did you know she went to Malta?”

“Her parents told me. They’re really worried. They called a friend with the State Department, or was it the DOJ? Anyway, they reported Ava missing, unofficially, of course. This morning they got word that Ava passed through immigration on Malta. They left a message on my voice mail.”

She emerged from her bedroom in a white silk outfit to find Gabe with his head in his hands.

“What’s wrong?”

“It’s…” He sighed. “It’s complicated, but if you know she’s in Malta, you’re probably not the only one.”

After breakfast Paul asked the concierge to call them a cab. The taxi sped to the bishop’s office. They arrived a few minutes early, went into the historic building, passed through extensive security, and gave their names to the grandmotherly receptionist. She invited them to wait on an antique settee. Moments later the receptionist’s phone buzzed. She answered, uttered a few words in Maltese, and hung up. Then she smiled at Paul.

“Someone will be with you shortly.”

Before long an assistant escorted them into an ornate private office where a surprisingly young man wearing a suit and tie sat behind an enormous ebony desk. He rose and greeted them in English.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” Ava said. “We were expecting Bishop Garagallo.”

The man laughed. “Please accept my sincere apologies. I’m Zeke, the bishop’s executive assistant. His Excellency had to attend to urgent matters that arose at the last minute. He’s sorry, but he won’t be able to meet with you today. He asked me to see you and provide any assistance or information you require. I hope you’ll understand. He’s a very busy man.”

Ava’s eyes narrowed. She detected an undercurrent of falsehood in his practiced courtesy.

“May I ask the nature of your business?”

Paul answered. “As I said on the phone, we’d like to make a substantial donation to the Church.”

“Well, that’s very admirable, but you don’t need to see the bishop to make a donation.”

Disliking his officious manner, Ava said, “It’s a donation of property, not money.”

“Is that so? What type of property?”

“Unique historical artifacts,” she said.

His eyes widened.

“Valuable?” he asked, leaning forward in his chair.

“Yes.”

“How valuable?”

Ava smiled. Now she had his undivided attention. “The exact figure may be difficult to determine. No objects like these have ever been auctioned. Lesser artifacts of similar age were projected to fetch at least two million dollars, until they were determined to be inauthentic.”

“And you believe yours are authentic?”

Ava and Paul exchanged a glance. She replied, “We think so, but we can’t be positive. It would be the owner’s duty to establish authenticity.”

Zeke drummed his fingers on the desk, then asked, “What do you expect in return?”

“Certain guarantees,” said Ava.

“Such as?”

“Should the items prove genuine, the Church must promise to display them to the public in an appropriate forum and make them available for study by the legitimate academic community. If the Church opts to sell the artifacts, which I doubt, it would convey them subject to identical terms.”

“And what else?”

Ava looked at him. “Pardon me?”

“What else do you want?”

“Nothing else.”

“No reward? No credit for the discovery?”

Ava was annoyed. Her look said, “What part of ‘Nothing else’ is confusing?”

Hoping to avert an argument, Paul jumped in. “We don’t seek any reward or compensation. We’d remain anonymous.”

The man was skeptical. “But that doesn’t make sense. Why would you do that? Why not sell the items to a museum or a university?”

Ava was fuming. “Look, we’re not here to answer your questions. We have our reasons and you have our offer. Tell your boss to take it or leave it, that is, if he can find time in his busy schedule to consider our proposal.”

Ava stood, took Paul’s hand, and led him out of the office.

Zeke jumped up from the desk and followed them into the hall. “Wait! Come back! Where are you staying? How can I reach you?”

Ava neither paused nor looked back.

On their way out of the building Paul detoured to the receptionist’s desk. He dug the Two Gods business card out of his wallet and handed it to her, saying, “We can be reached at this number. Ask for Paul.”

A moment later, the bishop’s assistant walked up and snatched the card from the receptionist’s hand. Ignoring her glare, he watched the Americans depart. Once he was sure they were gone, he returned to the office. He closed the door, unlocked his private cell phone, and punched in some numbers.

They arrived at the Two Gods just after noon. A jazz record played quietly on the jukebox: Sarah Vaughan singing “Lover Man.” While Paul spoke to O’Hagan, Ava found an empty booth. Paul brought over a plate of deep-fried lampuki, some anchovy-filled pastizzi (puff pastry), and two frothy mugs of Stella Artois. Being careful not to spill anything, he eased their lunch onto the carved wooden table. The look on Ava’s face revealed that she was still angry. Paul sat, sipped his beer, and waited. After a moment, she asked, “Has anyone called?”

“No. Looks like we have some time to kill.”

A few seconds passed. Then Ava exploded: “This is unbelievable! Do they think it’s a joke? We offer the Church a unique archaeological find, easily worth millions, and the bishop won’t even meet us? It’s unacceptable!”

“He probably does think it’s a joke. Or maybe he thinks it’s a scam.”

“But we didn’t ask for money!”

Paul took a drink from his mug and set it on the table. “What’s the matter?”

Ava reddened. “Are you kidding? I’m upset because the bishop won’t see us! We’re in mortal danger, and he’s off doing God knows what. I can’t believe he’d be so inconsiderate.”

“I’m sure he has a lot on his mind. Did you hear that Pope Benedict accelerated the conclave? We could have a new pope by St. Patrick’s Day.”

Ava rolled her eyes. “So what? The Catholic bureaucracy is hopelessly out of touch. The cardinals will just elect another stuffy European. The Church will never change!”

She was on the brink of tears. Paul reached across the table and took her trembling hand. Then, looking her in the eyes, he asked: “What’s really bothering you?”

She opened her mouth to argue, then paused. He was right. “Okay, I am upset about the bishop and the Church, but I’m really angry with myself. Given the chance to crack one of the world’s great mysteries, I struck out. Where’s the lost prophecy? Why can’t I solve the riddle?”

“Maybe there wasn’t a mystery to solve,” Paul said. “I’m not convinced that a hidden message exists. Would Jesus really make up a prophecy? That sounds more like something you’d get from a bogus psychic or a fortune-teller than from the Bible.”

“Are you kidding? A prophecy is something uttered by a prophet. Paul, the Bible is chock-full of prophets and prophecies. Tons of folks get zapped by the Holy Spirit and start predicting the future — often in verse. Read Luke 1:67, Deuteronomy 18:18, or Acts 3:22, ‘For Moses said, “The Lord your God will raise up for you a prophet like me from among your own people; you must listen to everything he tells you.”’ In John 13:38, Jesus himself prophesied that Peter would deny him three times before the cock crowed.”

Paul waved his white napkin in surrender. “Okay, okay, I concede. You don’t need to quote chapter and verse.”

She blushed. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to be rude. I’m just really frustrated.”

He waited, giving her a chance to explain.

Ava lowered her eyes and sipped from her mug. “I’ve been dissatisfied for a long time, okay? I’ve just been too proud — or maybe too scared — to face it. The honest-to-God truth is that I’m dreading graduation. I’ve worked like a dog to finish my doctorate, but why? I don’t want a life built around researching and debating linguistics. I’ll become another Professor von Igelfeld, hermetically sealed in an academic cloister. The moment I saw the jars, I sensed this was my path, my destiny. We can’t keep them, obviously, but when we surrender those artifacts, our journey ends. I’ll resume my mundane existence: books, lectures, maybe the occasional pub quiz, but no adventure.”

He shook his head. “No disrespect to Professor von Igelfeld, but you can do anything you want. Ava, each day offers a new adventure. With your abilities and talents you can go anywhere. What do you want to see tomorrow? Yonaguni? The Mountains of the Moon? There are no limits but those we accept. Sure, it can be risky, and sometimes it hurts, but that’s real life: a thrilling spin of the wheel.”

Ava smiled. She felt much better after hearing what Paul said. She made eye contact. He held a fist to his cheek, with his thumb to his ear and his pinky pointing to his lips: the universal sign for telephone.

Paul walked to the bar and took the receiver. “Hello?”

A gravelly voice said, “This is Bishop Garagallo. Is this Paul?”

“Yes, Excellency. Thank you for calling. Did you get our message?”

“I did. May I ask a question?”

“Of course.”

“Are you the Americans who encountered some difficulty in Alexandria?”

Paul took a deep breath. “We are, but the newspaper accounts of our activities are dead wrong.”

“I believe you, but I’m sure you’ll understand that given the circumstances, a man in my position cannot meet publicly with… fugitives.”

Paul was glad the man hadn’t called them criminals. “Yes, Father. We understand. Nevertheless, we are eager to meet. What do you suggest?”

“Are you familiar with the Catacombs of St. Paul?”

“No.”

“They’re a complex of interconnected caves located in Rabat, on St. Agatha Street. The last tour begins at four thirty, but if you can meet me later, I’ll arrange for the gate to remain unlocked.”

“I’m sure we can find it, Excellency.”

“Good. Meet me in the chapel at eight. Bring the jars. Please come alone, and tell no one of our meeting.”

Paul returned to the table. Something about the telephone call bothered him, but he wasn’t sure what. He told Ava the bishop was willing to meet. She was elated. Then he asked, “I assume you’ve heard of these catacombs?”

“Of course. St. Paul’s Catacombs represent the earliest archaeological evidence of Christianity on Malta. They contain numerous tombs and important murals, the island’s only surviving evidence of late-Roman and early-medieval painting. It’s an important historical site as well as a tourist attraction.”

“Won’t it be too dark to see much at eight o’clock?” asked Paul as he tasted the fish.

“Paul, it’s a cave. It’s dark all the time.”

He laughed. “Right. I’ll bring a torch, then.”

Ahmed’s phone rang. He checked the caller ID and fear gripped him. It was the call he dreaded. He dismissed his entourage, closed the office door, and then picked up. “Master?”

“The Americans are in Malta. You must complete your mission. I cannot tolerate another delay. The girl is adept at solving puzzles. She may uncover the secret.”

Paul and Ava walked back to the hotel and prepared for an excursion into the catacombs. Ava obtained directions from the concierge while Paul purchased a small flashlight from the gift shop. They went upstairs to change. Ava donned khakis, a T-shirt, and running shoes. Looking for his blue jeans, Paul opened the closet. He paused. The two canvas-covered canisters were still hidden inside. Noting his posture, Ava asked, “What’s up?”

“Garagallo said to bring these to the meeting.”

“And?”

“And… I don’t think we should. They’re much safer up here. If the bishop accepts our deal, he can send someone to collect them. Or he can come himself. Either way, I don’t think we should haul them halfway across the island. It’s an unnecessary risk.”

“If you feel strongly, then I agree,” Ava said.

They caught a cab to Rabat, an ancient settlement several kilometers inland. The taxi dropped them in the parish square outside St. Paul’s Church. Less than one hundred meters down St. Agatha Street, they found the catacombs. The site was closed for the evening but, as promised, the gate was unlocked. The two Americans stepped inside. Paul turned on his flashlight. Its bright beam revealed the entrance to a sizable labyrinth. Steep steps led down into a central gallery from which passages branched off in several directions.

“Spooky!” said Paul.

Ava hit his arm. “Hush! Show some respect. These are tombs.”

“Sorry,” he whispered. Taking her hand, he guided her into the large chamber. Divided by a central pillar, the room opened into a bewildering series of tunnels. Immediately to their right, a wide corridor beckoned.

“Which way to the chapel?” Paul whispered. Ava shrugged. She had no idea.

“Guess we’ll find out.”

Paul ventured into the passage. After walking twenty-five meters, they entered a tall crypt with a raised plinth. Hewn from the natural rock were two circular tables and two semicircular benches. Ava whispered that the site must have been used for meals during the ancient festival of the dead. Then Paul stopped in his tracks. At the end of the chamber was an apse containing a variety of small amphorae and two large stone jars. Both were unsealed. Their heavy stone lids rested on an adjoining shelf. Eyes wide with wonder, Paul turned to Ava and in a hushed voice asked, “Are those what I think they are?”

His question confused her for a moment. Then Ava understood. Out of respect for the dead, she struggled to suppress her laughter. She took his wrist and redirected the flashlight’s beam to a sign near the apse. In several languages, it read: examples of period stonework and ceramics.

“Honestly, you didn’t think those were the other lost jars, did you? They’re not even from the right century! Look at the carving style—”

“Whatever,” Paul said glumly. From his tone, Ava worried that she’d really insulted him. She was relieved when his usual smile reemerged.

They continued down the passage until they reached a dead end.

“Damn. Looks like we took a wrong turn,” Paul said. He led her back to the main chamber and played his flashlight over the wall signs. One indicated that the chapel was to their left. They followed the arrow and descended deeper into the catacombs. Down a few more steps was a wide room. Ava could see why it was called a chapel: A shadowy recess at its far end resembled an altar. Walking slowly in the dim light, she approached, drawing closer until a loud voice called out, “Did you come alone?”

Ava spun around. A tall, robed figure materialized out of the gloom. She tried to answer, but found she couldn’t. Paul spoke for her.

“Bishop Garagallo? Hi, nice to meet you. We came alone, as you requested.”

“Excellent. It’s nice to meet you, too. Now Paul, I told you to bring the jars. Where are they?”

In that instant, Paul realized what had been bothering him. They’d never said the artifacts were jars! Paul needed time to think. He stalled.

“The jars? Oh, they’re safe. They’re in a very safe place.”

“Where?”

Paul looked at Ava. She was embarrassed. His intuition told him something was very wrong. The bishop shouldn’t know about the jars. He couldn’t know. Unless. Paul hunted for a decent response. Then he heard Ava.

“I apologize, your Excellency. We left the jars—”

“In the other cavern,” Paul finished. “We left them over in the other cavern. You see, it’s my fault. I got us lost. We took a wrong turn, and, you know, those things can get very heavy. I can show you where they are. I’ll lead you to them. Come this way.”

Ava stared at him. She had no idea what he was doing, but she trusted him enough to play along. Paul turned and walked out of the chapel. Unsure of what to do, he tried to formulate a plan. Suddenly, he had an idea. When they reached the main chamber, he turned. “Watch your step, Father. You know Malta’s reputation for poisonous snakes.”

“What?” The bishop was confused. “Snakes? Certainly. I’ll watch out for them.”

Paul saw Ava stiffen. She knew. The real Maltese bishop would have caught the reference. She looked directly at Paul, fear written on her face. “Ava, you look a little cold. Why don’t you wait for us outside? The bishop and I can carry the jars—”

“No, I don’t think so.” From the folds of his robe, the man produced a pistol equipped with a silencer.

He pointed the gun at Ava. “Move away from the stairs. Stand next to him.” Ava was shaking. She backed into Paul. He looped his arm around her waist and pulled her close, but for once his touch didn’t calm her.

“You’re not Bishop Garagallo,” said Ava.

The man smiled.

“Look,” said Paul, “you can have the jars. We won’t make trouble. If you let her go, I’ll help you carry them out.”

The man smiled again. “First, show me the jars. Then we’ll negotiate.”

The three of them continued down the corridor until they came to the room with the stone tables and benches. Paul knew they’d both be killed as soon as the impostor had what he wanted. Playing for time, he tried to distract the man with chatter.

“So, why are you doing this? What’s in it for you?”

The assassin didn’t reply. Desperate, Paul began again, “It’s the money, right? Of course it is. You’re a professional. Can’t say I blame you. For a hundred million? Who wouldn’t?”

When the killer reacted to the figure, Paul knew he’d found his angle: greed. Somehow he must use that to his advantage. Praying the impostor wouldn’t read the sign, Paul strode directly to the apse and turned around. Standing next to the alcove, he pointed his flashlight at the stone examples and said, “Well, here they are. The famous lost jars of Cana.”

When the false bishop saw the two jars, he allowed himself a smug smile. His mission was almost complete. He raised the revolver and pointed it at Ava’s face. “Go stand next to him.” She complied. Grinning, the killer cocked the pistol.

This was it — now or never! “Of course, you don’t really need the jars once you’ve seen the message,” Paul said coolly.

The man paused. “What message?”

“Didn’t they tell you? That’s why the jars are so valuable. There’s a message hidden inside. It gives the location of a buried treasure worth hundreds of millions. We uncovered it.”

Paul pointed his light down into a jar. “See? It’s right here. You can read it.”

“Step away,” the killer ordered. Paul backed up against the shelf. With one hand, he kept the flashlight on the jars. With the other, behind his back, he groped for any object he could use as a club.

With his eyes focused on Paul’s face, the would-be bishop inched forward. Soon he stood directly in front of the apse. “See for yourself,” said Paul. “It’s written right there on the bottom, the treasure’s secret location.”

In the darkness Paul’s fingers closed around something made of heavy stone. He watched the man’s eyes. For the briefest moment, the man glanced down into the jar.

With reflexes honed by throwing out countless runners at first, Paul swung. The thick stone lid connected with the man’s skull, cracking it like a ripe pumpkin. Instantly, the killer went limp and dropped to the cave floor. Ava screamed. Paul dropped the bloody stone disk, grabbed Ava’s arm, and ran. He dragged her through the corridors and up the steps. As they neared the exit, Ava tripped.

She fell on top of a corpse. The dead woman’s uniform identified her as a tour guide. The gunshot wound in her forehead identified her killer as a professional. Ava scrambled on all fours, desperate to escape. The cavern floor was slick with blood. Ava gagged. She felt vomit rush up her throat. Then strong hands helped her stand. A firm voice urged her to move, to run. Paul kicked open the door, and the two bolted into the street. Picking a direction at random, he dragged Ava away from the catacombs.

“No, wait! That poor woman—”

“Ava, she’s dead, but her murderer might still be alive. He won’t miss us again. We have to go. Now!”