The Cana Mystery

Chapter 12

Pope Pius II rested in the Episcopal Palace. His room offered a spectacular view of the harbor and of Monte Astagno, but the ailing pope preferred to admire St. Ciriaco Cathedral. Completed in 1189 on the site of an eighth-century church (and an even older temple of Venus), the Romanesque structure was patterned after a Greek cross. Built of gray stone, it featured a dodecagonal dome and a facade with Gothic elements. Pius II smiled, wondering if he’d be buried there.

“Holiness,” said Cardinal Jacopo, “the Venetians have arrived.” With difficulty, the pontiff lifted himself and turned his gaze toward the Adriatic. On the far horizon, he beheld at long last the sails of the Venetian fleet.

“Too late,” he whispered, laboring for breath. “Too late.”

Pius shut his eyes and fell back against his pillow. How had it come to this? Two years ago he’d been at the pinnacle of strength. Invigorated after deciphering the sacred prophecy, he’d undertaken an ambitious campaign to protect Christendom from the Turkish onslaught. Following his predecessors’ instructions, the pope composed an eloquent, respectful letter to Mehmed II that revealed the prophecy’s secrets and encouraged the sultan to convert to Christianity. When his invitation was ignored, Pius convened a congress of Christian princes at Mantua. He smiled, remembering that glorious day. His grand entrance to the convocation was like a triumphal procession. He stood at the dais and read the blessed prophecy to the assembled royals. Then Pius demanded a cessation of all internecine feuds and proclaimed a three-year crusade against the Ottomans. Spirits buoyed by the prophecy’s guarantee of victory, the rival princes unified against their common foe and pledged unanimous support for the pope’s bold strategy.

For a time it seemed the alliance formed at Mantua would succeed. Vlad Dracula led a successful resistance against Mehmed. The Wallachians attempted to assassinate the sultan. The prophecy predicted success. During the resulting turmoil the Turks would be vulnerable.

The prophecy was wrong, however: Mehmed survived the night attack. No longer convinced that victory was preordained, the fragile alliance shattered. Of course, aid promised by the duplicitous French king never materialized. Worse, France threatened Burgundy, forcing Duke Philip the Good to recall his support.

Despite suffering these setbacks and a bout of debilitating fever, the pope’s faith never wavered. On June 18, Pius personally assumed the cross. He departed Rome for Ancona to lead the crusade himself. Alas, the Venetian fleet was interminably delayed. Predictably, selfish factions within the crusading army used the postponement as an excuse to pursue other interests. Milan attempted to seize Genoa. Cynical Florence recalled her forces, hoping to acquire rich lands after the Turks and Venetians weakened each other. Without Florentine participation, the crusade would fail. Rather than sacrifice themselves for nothing, even Pius’s most loyal soldiers deserted. By the time the Venetian ships arrived, the dying pope had no army with which to fill them.

Cardinal Jacopo attended his beloved pontiff, mopping sweat from his fevered brow. All their efforts were doomed. Pius had staked everything on retaking Constantinople. His failure would cripple the enlightened, humanist faction within the Holy Church. Jacopo Piccolomini-Ammannati knew he’d never sit on St. Peter’s throne. Instead, the path had cleared for a weaker, less charismatic man’s ascendance. Jacopo dreaded that a subsequent pope would capitulate to Spanish pressure and resurrect the Inquisition. In despair, the gifted cardinal wondered, “Is Mehmed truly the Antichrist? Or, perhaps, are we?”

Ridding his mind of such inappropriate speculation, Jacopo focused on his immediate responsibilities. He raised a chalice to his master’s lips and whispered, “Please take some water, Holiness,” but the pope was dead.

Nick’s jeep sped west on Highway 1. The convertible top was down. Nick wanted to leave Egypt that night, but he couldn’t go without paying Sinan. To Nick, a promise was sacred. From his years in business he’d learned that if people couldn’t rely on your word, you might as well pack it in. Besides, Sinan was a friend; he deserved a warning. Nick called the pilot and left a detailed voice mail explaining that Ahmed was checking passenger manifests at the harbor. “It’s only a matter of time before he figures it out,” Nick said. “I’m skipping until things cool. If you want your money, meet me at the Porto Marina Hotel in El Alamein. I’ll wait a day. After that, I’ll have to mail you a check.”

Nick should have known Sinan wouldn’t be the only one to hear the recording.

Paul and Ava ran through Rabat until they reached St. Paul’s Church. They cut across the parish square and continued north. Every time they passed an alley Ava’s heart stopped. What danger lurked there? The sheik? The police? Simon? Another assassin? Hand in hand they ran hard for an additional quarter mile. It was cathartic. The night air tasted sweet after the dank catacombs. The exercise cleared Ava’s head until, with effort, she could think rationally.

They paused to rest on a stone bench beneath a statue of two lovers embracing. After catching her breath, Ava said, “Paul, someone betrayed us, someone who knew we were in Malta.”

“Right, and it’s a short list. Sinan knows we’re here, but I’m confident he wasn’t the one. If he planned to sell us out, why fly us over from Egypt?”

Ava nodded, so Paul continued. “And we didn’t get pinched at immigration, so it wasn’t Gabe’s hacker friend.” Ava agreed with this assessment too. Then Paul asked, “Could it have been Clarkson?”

Ava’s expression hardened. “That’s ridiculous. I contacted him, not the other way around. What are the odds that the one person I call in Malta is an agent for Simon and Sheik Ahmed? Half a million to one? Clarkson has no idea why we’re here. We never discussed the jars. Plus, he’s a tenured university professor with a stellar academic reputation.”

“What difference does that make? Are tenured professors morally superior to us normal people?”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes,” she replied coldly. “I’m sure.”

“Then who do you think it was?”

“Could it have been Nick?”

Paul was hurt. He stood and glared at her. “No,” he said, and began walking toward Mdina.

Ava called after him. “Wait! Are you sure? How well do you know him?”

Without slowing, he shouted back, “He’d never rat us out.”

“Hey! Will you just listen? It’s not impossible. Think! He might have had no choice. What if they captured him? Tortured him? Injected him with drugs?”

Paul stopped. He took a deep breath and waited a few seconds. Then he faced Ava. “Okay, I admit it’s possible. Every person we mentioned might have been captured, tortured, or drugged. By that standard, everyone’s a suspect, but the assassin called us at the tavern. Nick couldn’t have known about that. The first we heard of Two Gods was from your pal Clarkson after we landed on Malta.”

Ava thought it over. He was right. She took his hand. “I’m sorry,” she said quietly.

Paul lifted her hand to his lips and gently kissed it. In a warm voice he said, “Nick’s a good friend. He wouldn’t betray us. I know it in my heart.”

Ava smiled. Then her mind buzzed with an idea. “Paul, you nailed it! The traitor was someone who knew to call us at the tavern. And the only place you gave out that number—” Her memory flashed back to the young man behind the huge black desk, the man who’s ears pricked up when she mentioned historical artifacts and kept asking how much they were worth.

Paul’s jaw set as he reached the same conclusion. He finished her sentence: “The only place I gave out that number was at the bishop’s office. I left it for his assistant.”

Fury radiated from his body like heat from a blast furnace. His fists tightened as he whispered, “That greedy little worm is going to pay.”

Gabe sat on Jess’s sofa, telling her all that had transpired since Ava called from Yemen. Hesitant at first, he gave only cursory details, but as Jess pressed for specifics, his explanation became increasingly elaborate. When he described helping Ava escape across the Red Sea, Jess hugged him and praised his cleverness. After that, he brimmed with confidence. His description of being chased by the bearded men took a few liberties with the truth: He neglected to mention falling on his face and implied that he’d evaded capture by stealth and cunning, but from the skeptical light dancing in Jess’s eyes, Gabe suspected he’d crossed the line between poetic license and balderdash. As he recounted his conversations with durmdvl, he paused, remembering he needed to send an e-mail as soon as possible.

“Can I borrow your computer?” he asked.

“Sure.” She disappeared for a moment and then emerged from the bedroom carrying an old Dell Inspiron 1525 laptop. Gabe would have preferred something with a bit more firepower. Regardless, he booted it up and began programming the secure-communication protocol. He sent an encrypted message to durmdvl, giving his current location, describing the limited computer hardware, and warning that others knew Ava was in Malta. He couldn’t think of any way to protect her, but Ava should at least be warned that the secret was out. When he finished typing, Gabe leaned back on the sofa, yawned, and fell asleep.

On the way to El Alamein, Nick stopped at an ATM. His suite would be free of charge, but he’d need a little cash for extras. Before making a withdrawal, he decided to check his balance. He wanted to leave enough in the account to pay Sinan everything he was owed. He keyed in his PIN and hit the balance inquiry button. Nick estimated he had about six grand saved, give or take a few hundred, but when he read the receipt, his eyes bulged in amazement. $76,427! “What the hell is going on?” he thought. Wasting no time, he withdrew the maximum allowed, hurried back to his jeep, and resumed his journey.

The Greek’s Gate is a vaulted tunnel that cuts through Mdina’s southern wall. As rain began to fall, Paul and Ava hurried through this dramatic stone archway and entered the noble city. By flickering lamplight they beheld conventual churches, medieval palaces and historic squares. Any other night Ava would have insisted they stop and appreciate the city’s intoxicating mix of Norman and Baroque architecture, especially the magnificent Palazzo Vilhena. Instead, they rushed through, suspicious of every shadow. Inguanez Street led them to Bacchus, a popular restaurant.

“Maybe we can get a taxi here,” Ava suggested.

“Good idea. Ask them to call one. I’ll check that no one followed us.” He started away.

“Paul!” He looked back. “Please be careful.”

He returned to her, squeezed her shoulder, and nodded. Then he darted across a narrow alley and disappeared from view. Ava walked downstairs into Bacchus and signaled to an attractive hostess. Her name tag said maria.

“Kif inti?” asked Maria, smiling.

“Ma nitkellimx tajjeb bil-Malti” (sorry, I don’t speak much Maltese). “Taxi?”

The hostess sensed that Ava was having a difficult evening. Probably fighting with the boyfriend, Maria thought. She switched to English and complimented Ava on her pronunciation. Maria explained that cars, except emergency vehicles, wedding limos, and hearses, were forbidden in Mdina, but she could call the taxi service and have a car wait just outside the gates.

Ava nodded, and Maria disappeared into the kitchen. When she returned, she said a cab was on its way. As Ava was thanking her, Paul appeared. His look communicated that he’d seen no one. Waving and saying “Sahha” to Maria, the couple left. As she watched them go, Maria smiled and abandoned her initial assumption.

In St. Publius Square, a crew was busy dismantling the stage where musicians had performed an open-air concert. Warily, Ava and Paul crossed the piazza. They exited Mdina through the Notabile Gate, a massive arch festooned with elaborate sculptures and statues. After crossing a stone bridge, they spied their taxi waiting near the bus terminal.

Jogging through the first raindrops of an approaching thunderstorm, they got to the cab. The driver opened his window a crack. Paul gave him their hotel’s name and address. The cabbie nodded, unlocked the doors, and invited them to enter. After his two wet passengers slid into the backseat, he put the car in gear and headed east.

They rode in silence for several kilometers. Ava was antsy. She looked at Paul: Staring intently out the foggy window, he seemed lost in contemplation. He’s angry, she thought. He blames himself for everything.

In a pocket on the back of the front seat, Ava found a collection of brochures advertising island attractions. To kill time, she clicked on an interior light and began reading. One brochure described the Domus Romana, a Roman house from the first century discovered outside Mdina. The pamphlet provided a photo catalog of artifacts on display there: delicate amphorae, a beautiful Roman comb, coins, domestic utensils, richly ornamented columns, mosaics, statues, marble inscriptions, glass objects, and several stone jars identical to the ones in the catacombs. Seeing the jars, Ava went numb. She recalled how close they’d come to dying. If Paul hadn’t grabbed that stone lid and bashed the impostor over the head…

Thunder roared.

Ava sat up, rigid, mouth open in wonder. Stone. How could she have missed that? The lid was stone. The lids were always stone. Flat disks of stone. “Of course!” Her memory flashed back to Revelation 5:2: “And the mighty angel asked, ‘Who is worthy to break the seals and unlock the message?’”

Paul gazed out the window, oblivious to Ava. The storm had gained strength. Sheets of rain came drenching down. Ava grabbed his arm, demanding his attention.

“The jars were sealed when you found them, right?”

“Huh? What do—”

“Shut up and listen! In Egypt, you said the jars were sealed when you found them.” She stared at him expectantly.

“Right. Yes. They were.”

“And you helped Simon open them. Being super careful, you used surgical tools to unseal them, right?”

“Yes. We removed the lids. Hey! What’s the matter?” Ava was shaking, her hands balled into fists.

“Driver,” she yelled, “can’t you go any faster?”

The cabbie grunted. He pushed the accelerator, the engine roared, and the car hurtled down the ancient Roman road.

“Ava.” Paul took her shoulders and turned her body toward him. “What is it?”

“You said it yourself. Oh, why didn’t I listen?” She hugged him tightly, put her lips to his ear, and whispered, “What if the message is hidden in the jars? Literally in the jars.”

“But they’re empty.”

“No. They’ve never been empty.”

The moment they reached the hotel Ava shot out of the cab. She raced through the lobby, startling a bell captain. Paul paid the driver, added a generous tip, and followed her upstairs. He opened the hotel room door and found her struggling to drag a titanium canister out of the closet.

“Help me!” she ordered.

“Help you how?”

“Help me open it!” They lugged the canister into the center of the room and released the latch. Air hissed. Ava washed her hands and asked Paul to remove the artifact. He spread his feet, crouched, wrapped his arms around the stone jar’s lip, and hefted it clear. Hoping to facilitate her examination, he carried it directly under the light. To his surprise, Ava ignored the jar. Instead, she gently removed the disk-shaped clay lid. Holding the ancient seal under the light, she investigated both of its sides. Then she quivered. Paul saw her eyes widen in wonder.

“Look,” she whispered. He stood by her and directed his gaze down where she indicated. On the inside rim the clay was cracked where he and Simon had pried it open. Beneath the dull surface he noticed a metallic glint. Paul grinned. It looked like gold.

Gabe awoke in a dark, unfamiliar room. A disturbing image loomed above him. After a moment of panic, he recognized Picasso’s Guernica. With relief, Gabe realized he was still in Jess’s apartment. He turned on the lights and scanned the room for his hostess, but she was missing. Gabe grew nervous. Did the bearded men follow him here? Did they do something to her? His heart pounded. How could he have been so thoughtless? Wracked with guilt, he scoured the room in search of a telephone. He had to call the police…

Just then Jess arrived with several boxes of aromatic takeout labeled spice thai restaurant. She’d selected Pad Thai, dancing shrimp, mango curry with chicken, a seaweed salad, and two gigantic boba teas. Ordinarily Gabe wasn’t keen to experiment with new cuisines, but overcome with relief that Jess was all right, he scooped a heaping spoonful of each dish onto a plate. Thirty minutes later, all the food was gone and Gabe had a new favorite restaurant.

They checked e-mail. durmdvl had replied, promising to contact Ava and convey Gabe’s warning. In addition, the e-mail went on, Gabe and Jess should expect some FedEx deliveries. Jess asked, “What’s that about?”

Gabe had no idea.

To create a workspace, Ava and Paul covered the hotel table with their white cotton bedsheet. Atop it sat an art deco lamp with its hot bulb exposed. Next to the lamp was the disk of ancient clay. Ava bent over the artifact, studying it. Soon she set about widening the crack delicately, using a sharp, silver-plated letter opener. After two hours she’d made little progress. Frustrated, Ava glanced over at Paul, who was reclining on the naked mattress, struggling to stay awake. She sighed and returned to her explorations, when suddenly she noticed something interesting.

“Hey!” she said. “Come look at this.”

He rolled off the mattress, joined her at the table, and examined her work. Ava had widened the crack, but only slightly.

“Great job!” he said, trying to sound supportive.

“No,” she replied, exasperated. “Look at this.” Her letter opener pointed to a smudge on the sheet. Paul raised his eyebrows quizzically. He couldn’t imagine how that mattered, but she was the expert. “Do you need me to fetch a clean bedsheet?”

Ava laughed. “No, silly. I’m trying to show you something.” With a cloth napkin, she wiped some perspiration from her brow. She daubed the artifact with the cloth and showed Paul the results. Except for a little dust and dirt, the napkin was still basically clean. Then she held the wet cloth against the seal’s underside. When she removed it, the cloth was stained the clay’s dark color.

“Huh!” said Paul. Then he frowned. “What’s the difference?”

“The exterior is glazed, kiln-fired clay. It’s waterproof, but for some reason the inside isn’t. I wonder…”

She lifted the artifact and walked to the bathtub. Ava closed the drain, turned on the faucet, and slid the lid under the running water. Reddish clay melted away to reveal a dazzling golden disk about eighteen centimeters in diameter. With a gentle tug, Ava freed the shimmering metal from the drab exterior that had concealed it for so many centuries.

Paul was awestruck. He shook his head, “Amazing,” he whispered.

“Yes,” she said, “it really is.”

“I was talking about you.”

Too nervous to sleep, Zeke sat up late, flipping his TV from channel to channel. It was difficult to find anything to watch. At this hour, most stations ran nothing but infomercials that badgered him to buy exercise equipment. Eventually he chanced upon an actual program, a black-and-white movie. Humphrey Bogart was saying, “I hope they don’t hang you, precious, by that sweet neck.”

The phone rang. He jumped up.

“Hello?”

A raspy voice commanded: “We need to meet.”

“Now?”

“Yes.”

“Wait!” the bishop’s assistant said. “Are they dead? Did you get the jars?”

“Not over the phone. Come to the parking garage behind your office. I have your reward.”

The garage was dark and empty. Just a few zones were illuminated by security lights. Zeke had to suppress a shudder when the tall Italian stepped out of the gloom and set a heavy silver attaché case on the pavement. In his gravelly voice, the man whispered, “This is for you.”

The younger man’s body tingled with excitement. He visualized opening the case and counting the banknotes. He’d been promised more money than he could earn in thirty years working for the Church. The Italian seemed to be waiting for him to make a move. Nodding, Zeke stepped forward and smiled obsequiously. “I’m happy to be of service,” he said. “Of course, now that our business is concluded, I think it’s best that we never meet or speak again.”

Even muffled by a silencer, the gunshots echoed in the vacant concrete building. The first bullet pierced Zeke’s skinny neck. The second shattered his jaw. In agony, he fell to the wet pavement and rolled onto his back, gasping.

Roderigo advanced until he loomed over his target, covering the dying man with shadow. He raised his weapon and fired again.

“We won’t.”

Together, Paul and Ava opened the second titanium canister and withdrew the lid. To her delight, it too contained a golden disk. The artifacts were almost identical, although their markings weren’t perfectly matched. Ava set them side by side on the table. Then she collapsed onto the bed.

“What now?” asked Paul.

Ava sighed. “I don’t know. My brain is kaput. First thing tomorrow I’ll go online and try to determine exactly what the heck we’ve discovered. I’m out of my depth. I can’t process all the ramifications.”

“Maybe because someone tried to murder us a few hours ago?”

“Maybe. I was so scared. That man—”

Paul interrupted. “Listen, I need to say something. I’m incredibly sorry about that. It won’t happen again.”

“It’s not your fault!”

“Really? Let’s see: I proposed going to the church. I called the bishop’s office. It was my brilliant idea to give the assistant our contact number, and I’m the one who agreed to meet that bastard in private, at night, in the freaking catacombs—”

“And I’m the one who forgot to thank you for saving my life.”

Paul shrugged. He glanced at the clock: four in the morning. Rubbing his eyes, he walked to the window, pulled aside the curtain, and looked out. Lights from Manoel Island Fortress reflected on the water. Everything was closed. The usually busy avenues were empty. Still, someone could be out there, watching the hotel. After a few moments, he said, “I’m very glad you’re okay, but it doesn’t count as saving you when it was my fault you were in danger.”

When Ava didn’t respond, Paul looked over at her. She was fast asleep.

He stayed awake all that night, watching over her. An hour after sunrise Ava’s eyes fluttered open. She looked at Paul and smiled. Then, noting the time, her expression changed to one of annoyance. “Why did you let me sleep so long?”

“I thought—”

“Oh, never mind. Let’s get moving.”

They dressed and walked down to the lobby. While Paul ordered breakfast (coffee, tea, pastry, and orange juice), Ava tried to access the Internet. Unfortunately, the ISP was down. Refusing to admit defeat, she marched out to a pay phone and rang Professor Clarkson. Though surprised by her call, he agreed to meet her at the university in a few hours. She hung up, collected Paul, and led him back upstairs. Once the hotel-room door was locked, Ava removed the golden disks from their hiding place. While they ate, she reexamined the objects. Both disks had delicate, etched rings radiating from the center. Around the edge, she found on each a chain of tiny symbols. Then she noticed an interesting difference. The first disk’s center was marked with a pair of symbols:

X

The second disk, however, was etched with:

P

She showed Paul.

“I recognize X and P, but what’s the box thing?”

“It could be the Star of Lakshmi.”

“Come again?”

“A Hindu symbol that represents Ashtalakshmi, the eight forms of wealth.”

“Hmm. The disks are gold. I suppose it’s appropriate.”

“A better guess might be Rub el Hizb.”

“What in God’s name is that?”

“It’s Arabic. Rub means ‘lord,’ ‘nourisher,’ or ‘protector.’ Hizb means ‘group.’”

“I don’t know anything about that, but I know X stands for ten in Roman numerals. Does P stand for anything?”

“In medieval Roman numerals, P means four hundred.”

“Huh? How can there be medieval Roman numerals?”

“Don’t ask. Besides, these artifacts predate that system. Forget I said it.”

“I already did.”

Ava laughed. “Of course, P could be rho. In Greek numerals, rho represents one hundred. Or it could stand for radius.” She paused. A little bell was ringing in her subconscious, but she couldn’t identify it. “Anyway, it’s time to go.”

As she gathered her things, Paul wrapped the two treasures in cotton cloth, concealed them inside pillowcases, and loaded them into his backpack. Surreptitiously, he grabbed his hunting knife. He suspected it was illegal to carry it here, especially on campus. Ava probably wouldn’t approve, but a weapon might come in handy.

He turned to her, “Are you ready?”

Ava didn’t respond. She was rooted to the floor, staring at the satphone. Its new message indicator was flashing. Ava dashed across the room, snatched the phone off the windowsill, and opened the text message from durmdvl. “Your location is not secure,” it said. “Obtain a disposable cell phone and call me ASAP. 919-555-3253.”

Shaded by an aluminum umbrella, Nick sipped his Bloody Mary and reclined on the chaise longue. It was ten o’clock. He’d watched the morning’s gentle sun intensify. Soon it would burn fiercely. He scanned his messages: nothing yet from Sinan. He ignored all other calls. He turned off the phone and told the steward to send him a second cocktail. It promised to be a long afternoon.

Resting his head against the canvas, he opened the newspaper. Nick read for a half hour before he sensed someone approaching. He lowered the paper and scanned the beach. A teenage Egyptian was slowly making his way across the sand. The boy drew near but rather than take sanctuary beneath the umbrella, he waited at a polite distance. Nick dipped his head and regarded the visitor over his Ray-Bans. He looked harmless. Nick smiled. He motioned for the kid to approach.

“Care to have a seat?”

The courteous teenager sat and then said: “You are Mister Nick? From Alexandria?”

Nick pushed up his sunglasses again and said, “Sorry, kid. Wrong guy. I’m from Texas.”

The boy made a face. “You are not the friend of Paul and Miss Ava?”

Nick’s smile evaporated. “Who wants to know?”

“My boss seeks them. It’s very important. He begs to ask where they’ve gone.”

“Nope. Never heard of ’em. Y’all got me mixed up with someone else. I’m just an American tourist in for the regatta.”

The boy looked suspicious.

Nick relaxed, opened his paper, and said, “Hey, there are a lot more umbrellas, kid. Keep asking around. Somebody out here must know.”

Scowling, the teenager took off. Nick waited an appropriate interval before finishing his drink, pocketing his phone, and sliding his feet into his sandals. After scanning the beach in both directions, he stood and set off for the hotel at a brisk pace.

Halfway back he encountered the overworked waiter toting an enormous tray of drinks. With one smooth motion he snatched his off the tray and left two hundred-pound notes in its place. The waiter called after him, offering change. “Keep it,” said Nick. “I have to run.”

Paul and Ava walked to the open-air market. For a hundred and forty euros they purchased a decent world phone with a prepaid international SIM card and a rugged, waterproof case. Unfortunately, the battery required several hours of charging before it would function. Ava put it in her backpack.

The square was filling with celebrants for some kind of street festival, making it impossible to flag a cab. The university wasn’t too far away, so they opted to go by foot. They traveled southwest on Triq Ix-Xatt (the Strand) for a quarter mile. To their left a magnificent eighteenth-century fortress dominated the horizon. They passed the bridge to Manoel Island, cut through the Ta’ Xbiex Gardens, and veered right on Triq Imsida. After another half kilometer, they passed the Empire Sports Ground, a decaying soccer stadium unused since 1981. They turned right, then left, then passed the National Swimming Pool Complex. Finally, they crossed under the highway and were on the campus.

The university was one of Europe’s oldest. Founded by Pope Clement VIII in 1592, the college had been administered by the Jesuit order for centuries. Now it enrolled more than nine thousand students. Professor Clarkson was listed in the directory under the faculty of arts, history department. He was in his office, awaiting their arrival. The professor seemed genuinely happy to see them. Paul sensed no duplicity whatsoever. The three of them chatted for several minutes before Ava came to the point.

“Dr. Clarkson, I’m sorry to ask, but could you help us with something?”

“Anything, dear.”

“Would it be possible to borrow a computer?”

“Certainly.” He gestured toward the silver laptop on his desk.

“Actually, our project might require several hours. I hoped to use the university’s computer lab.”

Clarkson thought for a minute. “Well, I don’t see why not. It should be empty today because of the festival. Let’s walk over, and I’ll sign you in as visitors.”

Just outside the door they saw Clarkson’s boss, Professor Fenech, being harangued by a shrill, hawk-faced woman. The academics acknowledged each other collegially as they passed. Once they were out of earshot, Clarkson confided in Ava and Paul.

“I despise that woman. She’s teaching a postmodernist contemporary history seminar: The Life and Struggle of Elisabeth Burgos-Debray. If you ask me, it really belongs in the literature department.”

Sensing he’d missed another witticism, Paul smiled and nodded knowingly.

The computer lab was on the northeast corner of campus. As predicted, it was empty. While Paul found an outlet and plugged in the phone charger, the professor logged Ava in to the LAN using his password.

“Voilà! Let me know if you have any problems. I’ll be working in my office all afternoon.”

Ava thanked him. After Dr. Clarkson left, Paul warned her not to check e-mail. Simon might have people monitoring it.

“Can they really watch my e-mail?”

Paul shrugged. “Honestly, I don’t know. I’m not great at tech stuff. If you think it’s safe, go ahead. To me, it’s not worth the risk.”

Despite immense temptation, Ava refrained. Rather than e-mailing, she spent several hours reading everything she could find about the secret hidden inside the lost jars of Cana. She tried to ascertain the language, origin, and meaning of the symbols etched onto the golden disks. Meanwhile, Paul poked around the empty computer lab. Finding little of interest, he returned to Ava’s cubicle and sat down at the neighboring workstation. Its desktop machine was linked to a Metris LC15 Laser Probe. He inferred from the setup that an engineering student had been using the scanner to model the leading and trailing edges of microturbine blades. He toyed with the cool gadgets for an hour, then suddenly the hairs on the back of his neck stood up. Someone was watching them. He turned around and saw Clarkson standing silently in the doorway. The professor looked furious.

Without disturbing Ava, Paul rose and approached him. The normally pleasant academic was too angry to speak. Instead, he handed Paul a page printed from the Times of Malta website. The article said Maltese police were looking for two Americans seen in Rabat the previous night. A local woman had been murdered. The story continued: “These may be the same fugitives who fled Alexandria two days ago.”

Clarkson’s gaze was flinty. “We need to talk.”

Nick detoured around the Puerto Marina lobby, taking a shortcut to his executive suite. He’d secured a room at the exclusive hotel through industry connections. Many wealthy guests who stayed at the Marina gambled in his casino, so naturally he had some friends on staff. The posh resort was built to emulate Venice, replete with canals. The food was stellar and the service was impeccable. Too bad he wouldn’t get to enjoy either. After passing the canal bend where the gondolas were moored, Nick rounded a corner and hopped onto the elevated promenade. Then he stopped.

An elegant, middle-aged man sporting an eggshell linen suit blocked his path. Nick recognized DeMaj immediately.

“Bonjour,” said Simon. “A pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

With a taut smile, Nick estimated his odds. Simon was fit but not muscular — it had been decades since the technocapitalist had performed manual labor. Furthermore, every man’s reflexes slow with age. Nick was twenty years younger with a muscular body, but his greatest asset in any fight was his intuition. He excelled at predicting his opponent’s moves, thereby gaining a tactical advantage. He could read a bluff in poker and anticipate a line of attack in chess. Nick figured he could outfight DeMaj with relative ease.

As if reading Nick’s mind, Simon gracefully drew open his coat, exposing a deadly firearm. The gesture wasn’t aggressive, but it communicated the futility of attempting a fist fight.

Nick nodded. Message received. Simon bowed slightly and extended his hand toward the promenade. “Come this way, mon ami. Let’s walk and talk.”

Clarkson was visibly irate. He threatened to call the police and demanded to know all that had transpired the previous evening. Ava admitted they’d visited the catacombs, but she swore they hadn’t killed the tour guide. Not believing her, Clarkson asked for the murderer’s identity. Ava said she didn’t know and attempted to explain why, but he threw up his hands. Finding the notion of a false bishop preposterous, he insisted on a complete report. Ava apologized again for deceiving him, and tears flowed freely. At that, Clarkson’s manner softened. In a gentler voice, he asked Ava what happened. She began by revealing that they weren’t in Malta to marry. Rather, she explained, “We fled Alexandria to avoid false charges. They accused us of horrible crimes that we didn’t commit.”

Paul broke in. “It was my fault. I made some powerful enemies in Egypt when I worked for Simon DeMaj. He does business with a lot of characters: smugglers, corrupt officials, maybe even terrorists. When I learned the extent of his dealings, I quit.”

“And that’s why they’re after you? Because you know incriminating information?”

“No. They’re after us because I took something. Something very valuable.”

“You stole from them?”

“Yes, but it’s complicated. The items we took belong to the Church. Or Egypt. Maybe all humankind. I’m not really sure—”

Ava interrupted. “That’s why we need to see the bishop. If we deliver the items to the Church, legitimate authorities can determine ownership. Professor, our methods may be questionable, but our intentions are pure. We’ve never claimed ownership or sought compensation. We’re trying to prevent a crime, not participate in one.”

Frustrated, Clarkson replied, “Pardon me for being a stickler, but before we parse the legal niceties, do you mind telling me exactly what items we’re discussing?”

Paul glanced toward Ava, wordlessly asking, “Can we trust him with this?” She gave an almost imperceptible nod. Ava trusted Clarkson, but she’d defer to Paul’s judgment. She’d learned to appreciate his instincts about people. Paul deliberated. His mind told him to suspect everyone, but his heart told him the professor was a good man. On the basis of that intuition, Paul decided to tell the truth.

“We stole the lost jars of Cana. They’re in our hotel closet.”

Clarkson almost fell over. “Sliem Għalik Marija (Hail Mary),” he whispered.

While the two academics discussed the jars’ exalted status in archaeological history, Paul reread the newspaper report. He noted that investigators had found only one dead body in the catacombs, that of the female tour guide. The report made no mention of the impostor. This omission led Paul to an alarming conclusion: The killer had survived.