The Cana Mystery

Chapter 13

Someone knocked. Gabe and Jess shared a look. Walking quietly, Gabe approached the door and peered out. It was a FedEx deliveryman, and he was loaded with packages. Suspicious, Gabe’s instinct was to leave the door locked. Then he remembered durmdvl’s message to expect a delivery. He signed for the shipment, and the FedEx man left. When Gabe opened the boxes, he discovered they contained thousands of dollars’ worth of cutting-edge computer hardware and a new phone. Jess was floored.

“What is all this stuff? What’s it doing here?”

“I have no idea. I didn’t order it.”

Suddenly Gabe recalled his offhand remark to durmdvl about needing a computer upgrade. This must be durmdvl’s response. Wow, thought Gabe, the guy doesn’t mess around. Refusing to consider how durmdvl had paid for the gear, Gabe concentrated instead on getting it unpacked.

“I have to go to class.”

“Okay, I’ll be here.”

By the time Jess returned from school, Gabe had taken over her den. Everywhere she looked an exotic computer component was humming or blinking. When he noticed her, Gabe said, “Hi, Jess. I set up everything in here. Hope you don’t mind.”

She sighed and forced a smile. “Of course not. How could I mind?”

With his attention focused on the computer screen, Gabe missed the sarcasm. “Great. Thanks, Jess. Oh, by the way, I finished off the rest of the Cokes. Looks like you’re out of soda.”

After hearing the details, Clarkson believed Ava’s story. He excused himself and hurried back to his office to contact Bishop Garagallo. As he passed Professor Fenech’s door, he recalled that his boss had seen him with the Americans. Clarkson swallowed. What would happen when Dominic realized they were murder suspects? Would he call the police? He turned to knock. Dominic was reasonable. If he spoke to him now, perhaps he could convince him of the truth. Then Clarkson realized it hardly mattered. Professor Xanthippe had seen the fugitives too. When that harpy connected the dots, she’d inform the authorities instantly. Time was of the essence.

He went directly to his office, closed the door, and turned the lock. A quick shuffle through his Rolodex produced a phone number for the archdiocese. He called and a polite receptionist answered. In rapid-fire Maltese, Clarkson asked to speak to Bishop Garagallo on a matter of utmost urgency. The receptionist apologized, saying the bishop was unavailable. “Where is he?” Clarkson barked.

“I’m very sorry, sir. I’m afraid I couldn’t say.” Then she confided, “It’s been an absolute madhouse here today. Everyone’s trying to follow the latest developments in Rome and then, on top of everything else, the bishop’s executive assistant never showed up for work. He’s gone missing. Personally, I’m not surprised. I always felt that young man was a little wiċċ laskri” (unstable).

“Anyway,” she continued, “I’ll give the bishop your message the instant he arrives.”

Realizing there was nothing more she could do, Clarkson said, “Thank you very much for your help. I appreciate it. Sahha.”

He hung up the phone and pondered his next move.

Paul and Ava returned to the computer lab. She tried to finish her research, but after the conversation with Clarkson, she was too angry. Paul read her mood. “Come on,” he said. “Let’s get some fresh air.”

After leaving the laboratory they crossed through the lobby, exited the building, and sat beneath a shady tree. Paul leaned against its gnarled trunk. Ava leaned against Paul.

When her words finally came, they were a torrent. She vented for a long time. Ava was both furious about and humiliated by the false allegations. Didn’t the media have a responsibility to print the truth? Didn’t they check their facts, research their claims? How could they be so irresponsible? She wanted to sue for libel.

Paul listened to her complaints without interrupting. When she wound down, he said: “It had to be Simon. With his money and influence, he can make them say whatever he wants. Besides, can you really blame the police for suspecting us? We were at the crime scene. Don’t you watch CSI? Our DNA must be all over those catacombs. You touched the body, for God’s sake.”

Ava shivered at the memory, and Paul moved quickly to change the subject. He asked, “Did you make progress translating the symbols?”

She sighed. It had been terribly frustrating. She might have identified the language, but she still couldn’t decipher the inscription. To Paul’s amusement, she sounded almost as upset about the unsolved puzzle as about the trumped-up murder charges.

“Don’t worry,” he reassured her, “it’ll come.”

“I’m glad one of us is confident.”

“I am.”

The sun had set. Now it was getting dark. By force of habit, Paul glanced at his wrist before asking, “What time do you think it is? Let’s go see if our new phone works.”

The world phone wasn’t fully charged, but it was operational. Leaving it plugged in, Ava dialed the 919 number from durmdvl’s text. Her first call was aborted — the signal was too weak. After unplugging the phone, Ava climbed upstairs to the roof, hoping for better reception. She redialed, and this time the call went through. After the anonymous voice mail beeped, she keyed in 999. durmdvl answered, authenticated Ava’s identity, and warned her that enemies might know they were in Malta.

“I’m afraid we learned that the hard way,” Ava replied. She recounted the previous evening’s unfortunate events. Horrified, durmdvl urged them to leave Malta before another assassin materialized. As they discussed travel options, Ava had a brainstorm. Who better to crack a code than a hacker? With durmdvl’s assistance, she’d be able to solve the mystery much faster. On the other hand, it might be unwise to trust a mysterious computer genius whom she’d never even met in person. Ava wavered. It was risky, but as Paul often said, life is risk.

Taking a deep breath, she decided: Circumstances justified a gamble. Crossing the Rubicon, Ava told durmdvl about the jars and the golden disks. Fascinated, durmdvl asked Ava to send photos. “Actually, we should forward them to Gabe,” durmdvl said. “He’s a superlative code breaker, much better than I am. I respect his skills. Don’t tell him I said so, but he has a knack for creative, indirect thinking that just can’t be replicated.” Hearing durmdvl express admiration for Gabe’s talents lifted Ava’s spirits. It was about time someone appreciated him! She agreed to send the photos as soon as possible. Then, with a smile, she said good-bye to her new friend and hung up the phone. Rejuvenated, Ava walked back downstairs to the computer lab.

As they strolled along the canals, Simon said, “Nick, you have a reputation as an honorable man, one who appreciates directness. Therefore, I’ll just ask: Where are your friends?”

“Sorry to disappoint you, Mr. DeMaj, but I couldn’t say.”

“Call me Simon.”

“Okay, Simon. As I said, I don’t know where they went. At the moment, I’m more concerned about myself. It’s not easy to escape the long arms of Sheik Ahmed. I hear good things about McMurdo Station. Do you know if they have a casino?”

Simon stopped, turned to face Nick, and looked into his eyes. With an earnestness Nick knew was virtually impossible to fake, Simon said, “I know you’re bound by loyalty. You’re trying to protect your friends, but the situation has evolved. They’re in greater danger than you realize. It’s not hopeless. I can help them, but they won’t survive unless I find them first.”

“You’d help them?”

“I possess the means to rescue them and the resources to keep them safe.”

“Sure, but why would you? You know Sheik Ahmed. You understand what he’s capable of. Why endanger yourself?”

“I got Paul and Ava into this mess; it’s my responsibility to get them out. Plus, if Ahmed gets his hands on the artifacts, there will be hell to pay — for everyone.”

As they veered down the path back to the suite, Nick noticed the Egyptian boy waiting outside. Nick thought, “He’s probably packing heat, too. There’s no way I can take them both.” Needing time to think, he temporized: “Okay, Simon. You’ve got a deal. Just let me collect my belongings; then I’ll do what I can to help you.”

Simon nodded and allowed Nick to enter. The boy followed him inside, but Simon stayed in the doorway, watching. Nick tossed his suitcase onto the bed. He folded his Paul Stuart sports coat, button-down shirts, and khaki slacks with the precision of a department-store clerk. Socks and underwear were rolled and stashed in zipper pockets; toiletries were assembled in a black dopp kit.

Then Nick stopped packing and smiled. Simon felt a pistol’s cold barrel press against his occipital lobe.

“Sinan!” yelled Nick. “It’s about damn time! Did you get lost, or what?”

Paul and Ava photographed each side of both disks using the world phone’s built-in camera. It was a basic device, but the pictures looked all right. After transmitting the images to durmdvl, Paul noticed that the phone was running out of juice.

“We need to leave it plugged in overnight.”

He unhooked the charger and pocketed it, and they left the computer center. On the way to Clarkson’s office, Paul asked, “So how much do we tell the bishop?”

Ava thought, then: “Nothing at first. Let’s meet him, talk to him, and get a sense of his character. Remember that Zeke, his personal assistant, contacted the killer. I doubt the bishop was involved, but we can’t be sure. Even assuming that Garagallo’s innocent, having an untrustworthy employee in such an elevated position gives me reason to doubt his judgment.”

Paul nodded. Ava went on: “I’ll ask Clarkson to keep everything confidential for now. If after meeting Garagallo in person we decide he’s legit, we’ll hand over the jars.”

“And the disks?”

Ava ran her fingers across the worn, nondescript backpack that held the two priceless objects. She knew it wasn’t wise to keep them, but the disks were her discovery and she didn’t want to surrender them before finishing her analysis. “We won’t mention the disks until we’re sure we can trust the bishop,” she said.

When they reached the professor’s office, their conversation ceased. Ava knocked. Clarkson unlocked the door and welcomed them inside. The telephone rang a moment later. It was the bishop. The professor put Garagallo on speakerphone and made the full round of introductions. Everyone exchanged pleasantries. Then Ava gave a recap of what transpired in the catacombs, excluding any mention of the artifacts. Even over the phone, the bishop’s anger was unmistakable. After using surprisingly profane language to characterize his assistant’s conduct, Garagallo said, “I cannot begin to express the depth of my embarrassment and rage over this incident.”

“Thank you, Excellency,” Ava replied. “We know this wasn’t your doing.”

“Be that as it may, on behalf of myself, the archdiocese of Malta, and the Holy Church, I apologize for this act of betrayal and take full responsibility. I thank Almighty God that you both survived the attack. Please accept my word that the guilty parties will meet justice forthwith.”

The conversation was brief. Garagallo intended to call Chief Justice Silvio Camilleri, as well as John Rizzo, the commissioner of police. The bishop hoped to persuade them to shift the investigation’s focus from Paul and Ava to Zeke. The bishop continued, “In the meantime, I can extend a formal offer of sanctuary. I hope all three of you will honor me by dining in my home tonight. We’ll prepare a traditional Maltese feast.”

They accepted his invitation. Clarkson wrote down the bishop’s address in Valletta. Then they bade him farewell and prepared to leave.

Bishop Garagallo’s palatial home occupied an entire building in the city’s historic district. Ava estimated the residence to be at least two hundred and fifty years old, predating the island’s Napoleonic conquest. Before the professor could ring the bell the door opened and a handsome gentleman with gray hair and a dignified bearing greeted them. Ava saw intelligence in his eyes, and Clarkson’s smile of recognition reassured her that this man was the bishop, not another impostor.

Garagallo invited them to come inside and prepare for dinner in his guest rooms. Paul and Ava accepted gratefully. After receiving keys from the housekeeper, they climbed the stairs, unlocked the doors, and found two fully appointed suites. While Ava washed, Paul plugged in the phone charger. Shortly thereafter they descended the grand staircase. Spotting his American guests, Garagallo asked, “Won’t you join me for an aperitif in the sitting room?”

Surprised by the offer, Paul grinned. “I thought drinking was a sin.”

The bishop laughed. “No. Our Lord and Savior drank alcohol on many occasions. In fact, Christ’s first public miracle was turning water into wine at the Wedding of Cana. The Church teaches us to avoid intoxication because it is a form of gluttony and because it can lead to sin, but drinking is not forbidden.”

Each carrying a glass of sherry, they joined Professor Clarkson in the richly appointed sitting room. A cheery blaze crackled in the hearth, where a set of andirons, forged into miniature Dobermans, held the logs. Opposite the fire an interior wall was dominated by a striking fresco. Entranced, Ava said, “Raphael?”

“Yes. A reproduction, of course. It’s The Meeting between Leo the Great and Attila. Do you like it?”

Ava nodded.

“I’m very pleased. It’s one of my favorites.”

Paul examined the wall painting. “Is that Attila?”

“Yes. Why do you ask?”

“I don’t know. I guess I expected Attila the Hun to look more demonic or monstrous. Wasn’t he called the Antichrist?”

“Attila was known as the flagellum dei, or Scourge of God. He was a powerful warrior. Countless thousands were slain at his command, but are you familiar with the particular scene Raphael has portrayed?”

Paul wasn’t.

Garagallo explained: “In AD 452, Attila invaded Italy and threatened Rome. Flavius Aetius’s army was vanquished; thus, no earthly power could prevent a Hunnic conquest of the Eternal City.”

He approached the painting and pointed to a regal figure astride a white horse. “Pope Leo the Great, shown here with Consul Avienus and Prefect Trigetius, rode out to meet Attila in Lombardy, near the city of Mantua.”

He glanced at Ava. “My dear, you are a classicist, yes? Do you know Mantua?”

“Yes, Excellency. The birthplace of the immortal Virgil.”

The bishop smiled. “Correct. Mantua is also mentioned in Romeo and Juliet. It’s where Romeo was sent after he killed Tybalt Capulet. May I refresh your glass?”

Startled, Paul looked up. He’d downed his tiny measure of Spanish sherry in one gulp.

“Sure. Thank you. It’s delicious,” he commented, trying to ignore Ava’s disapproval. Smiling, Garagallo lifted an antique crystal decanter and refilled Paul’s drink, then continued the story.

“The two leaders met privately in Attila’s tent on the banks of the Mincio. When they emerged, Attila surprised the world by vowing to withdraw from Italy in peace. The Scourge of God never attacked Rome.”

“Wow. Really?” asked Paul. “Pope Leo must have been a persuasive guy.”

Clarkson spoke up. “Of course, not everyone believes that account. There are a host of theories regarding Attila’s decision to spare Rome. His forces were greatly weakened after the Battle of Châlons. Some historians allege he was bribed. Some believe the Hunnic army was wracked with infectious diseases. Still others argue that Attila’s men had grown so rich from plunder that they already possessed more gold than they could carry.”

Ava interrupted. “But I sense our host favors a different explanation.”

“Correct again,” said Bishop Garagallo. Turning to Paul, he asked, “Do you see the figures suspended above Pope Leo?”

Paul nodded.

“Those are St. Peter and St. Paul. What do they carry?”

Paul studied the fresco. “Swords. Is that significant?”

“I find it quite significant. According to Leo’s biography, during the meeting Attila received a vision of Peter and Paul dressed in priestly robes and armed with flaming swords.”

Clarkson interrupted. “Flaming swords? I’m sorry, but no one buys that fanciful chronicle. It’s clearly an allegory, not meant to be taken literally.”

“Precisely,” the bishop said. “Swords represent special knowledge, truth, or the Word. For example, Ephesians 6:17 states:

‘[T]he sword of the Spirit is the word of God.’ Raphael uses swords to symbolize that although Pope Leo carried no weapons, he was armed with truth.”

Clarkson grunted. “You make too much of it. Gibbon himself called this tale a pious fable.”

“Indeed,” said the bishop, “but I believe this fable is rooted in fact.”

Further argument was suspended by the butler’s announcement that dinner was served. The party moved from the sitting room to the formal dining room, decorated with another Raphael fresco, The Coronation of Charlemagne. Atop a polished African mahogany table, to ravenous Paul’s great joy, sat the first course of what promised to be a feast. Garagallo’s cook had prepared stuffed octopus in a piquant tomato sauce; fenek (rabbit) simmered as a casserole in wine; bragoli (parcels of chopped eggs, bread crumbs, and herbs wrapped in thin sheets of beef braised in gravy); and a crisp roasted hen served on a bed of sliced potatoes, eggplant, onions, and garlic. The symphony of flavors was intoxicating.

Between courses the good-natured historical debate resumed. Professor Clarkson and Bishop Garagallo defended their positions like master fencers, each seeming to enjoy the cerebral combat. Before long Ava joined the fray. “Didn’t St. Prosper of Aquitaine describe the encounter between Attila and Leo?”

“Indeed,” said the bishop. Begging their pardon, he rose and retrieved an ancient illuminated text from a bookshelf. Opening it to a page marked by a golden tassel, he read: “‘Our most blessed Pope Leo, trusting in the help of God, who never fails the righteous in their trials, undertook the task. And the outcome was just as foreseen. When Attila received the embassy, he was so overwhelmed by the high priest’s words that he promised peace and ordered his army to give up warfare.’”

“What does he mean when he says the outcome was ‘foreseen’?” Ava asked.

“That’s an excellent question, my dear,” replied Garagallo, smiling. “I wondered the same thing for years, and then I unlocked the secret. Do you recall the allegorical biography’s mention of flaming swords?”

She nodded.

“What do flaming swords represent?”

“As you said, a sword represents truth and flames represent the Holy Spirit. Thus, a flaming sword symbolizes a miraculous truth, or God’s truth.”

“Precisely. The pope came to that historic meeting armed with miraculous truth. Specifically, he carried a sacred prophecy. It foretold that if Attila showed mercy and withdrew from Italy, Leo would crown Attila’s heir the rightful Roman emperor. Attila spared Rome because he believed the pope’s prophecy.”

For several minutes they ate in silence, pondering the bishop’s words. Then Paul spoke up. “So did it come true? Did Attila’s heir become emperor?”

“Not right away. Attila’s greedy sons squabbled over his legacy. Divided, they were defeated and killed by the combined might of the Ostrogoths and the Gepids, but one of his daughters married the Gepid king Adaric. A child of that marriage, the beautiful Princess Austrigusa, married King Waccho of the Lombards. Waccho and Austrigusa are considered ancestors of—”

Ava gasped. Her eyes shot up to the fresco. Then she finished his sentence: “Charlemagne, emperor crowned in Rome by Pope Leo III.”

Garagallo beamed.

Unwilling to surrender the field, Clarkson persisted. “That’s a fine story, and I hate to be so cynical, but if the prophecy dissuaded Attila from attacking Rome, why didn’t it protect the city from the Vandals in 455?”

“According to legend, the scroll on which the prophecy was written caught fire when it was read aloud. Such pyrotechnics likely had a marvelous effect on Attila, but regardless of whether it was a miracle or a parlor trick, the prophecy was consumed.”

Looking up from his rabbit, Paul asked, “Couldn’t they just print another copy?”

“Apparently not. The prophecy was said to come from a holy relic. Historical sources are in conflict here. Some say the relic was possessed by the Roman emperor Valentinian III; others say it was divided so that Pope Leo and Emperor Valentinian each held a piece. In any case, when the emperor was assassinated by Petronius Maximus, at least part of the relic was lost.”

“And the Vandals sacked Rome shortly thereafter,” marveled Professor Clarkson.

“Yes,” said the bishop, “although sacked may be an exaggeration. Pope Leo persuaded the Vandals to refrain from violence, thus preventing Rome’s destruction. The invaders remained for fourteen days, but they did not burn the city, contrary to their custom. St. Prosper reports almost no murders.”

Paul asked, “Did Prospero say what the relics were?”

Ava flinched. Garagallo smiled and said, “If he did, no record survives. Predictably, it’s a topic of fierce debate. Numerous scholars believe the sacred relic was the mummified head of John the Baptist.”

Paul’s nose wrinkled with disgust. “You’re kidding! A severed head?”

“Please show some respect, Paul,” Ava cautioned. “You’re talking about the man who baptized Jesus.”

“It took me by surprise.”

“You find that hypothesis implausible?” asked Garagallo.

“Well, no, not necessarily. I’m keeping an open mind, but who would worship a rotting head—”

“Paul!”

For a moment, there was an awkward silence. Then Garagallo erupted into peals of laughter. Ava was momentarily taken aback, but then such an august churchman chuckling was irresistible. Then Paul joined, and soon all four were laughing.

When he regained his composure, Garagallo said, “For what it’s worth, I tend to agree. I don’t think the relic was the Baptist’s preserved head.”

“Good, because that would be creepy,” Paul said. Ava squirmed. Ignoring her, he went on: “What relics do you think they had?”

The bishop smiled at his guests. “I believe they possessed two of the lost jars of Cana. Does anyone care for coffee?”

After dinner, Clarkson checked his messages. He’d received an urgent call from the history department chair. Apologizing profusely, he excused himself and stepped in to the garden to return the call. When he came back, he announced that he had to leave.

“What could be so important at this hour?” Garagallo asked.

Clarkson answered, “Dominic is… curious about the situation. He’d like to ask me a few questions.”

Ava’s face was ashen. “I hope you’re not in trouble.”

“Oh, don’t worry. He’s an eminently reasonable man. He won’t jump to conclusions. Nevertheless, it’s vital that I see him immediately.”

Clarkson thanked their host for the splendid meal and made preparations to leave.

“Should we go too?” Ava asked him.

“No, that might complicate things. I’d prefer to speak with him first in private.”

“Ava, I wonder if you and Paul would like to stay here awhile longer,” Garagallo said. “My housekeeper prepared a variety of desserts. She’ll be inconsolable if no one tastes them.”

Ava glanced at Paul. He didn’t seem nervous. She decided to accept the bishop’s invitation. Predictably, the desserts were phenomenal. Paul’s favorite was the crisp cannoli filled with sweet ricotta and chocolate. Ava preferred the warm figolla (soft, almond-stuffed cookies). Garagallo then invited the Americans to join him for a postprandial snifter of brandy. He led them to his private study: an interior room protected by a thick, ancient door of oak and iron. Inside, Ava noticed portraits of Shakespeare and Marlow, a statue of Democritus meditating, and a bust of Homer. Paul’s attention was captured by an escutcheon mounted behind the wide desk. The heraldry featured a flaming sword and a shepherd’s crook crossed above a castle with seven towers. Beneath it hung the motto gardez bien. As Paul struggled to remember where he’d heard those words, the bishop excused himself to see about the drinks. While he was gone, Paul whispered, “Do you trust him?”

Ava sighed. “Not fully. I like him, but I sense he knows more than he’s telling. Why play games with us?”

“He seems to know a lot about the jars.”

“Yes but, I wonder—”

Garagallo’s return interrupted her sentence. Noting her startled expression, he said, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to intrude.”

“Oh, no, Excellency. We were just discussing Shakespeare.”

“Really? What play?”

“The Tempest.”

“Ah, yes.” He smiled. “One of my favorites. ‘We are such stuff as dreams are made on…’”

For several minutes they chatted about the work, Ava and the bishop quoting verses from memory. Paul’s attention wandered. He resisted the temptation to gulp his brandy. Finally, Ava asked the bishop: “Something you said at dinner piqued my curiosity. You mentioned the lost jars of Cana.”

“A fascinating subject, yes? You might even call it my hobby. What would you like to know?”

“You said Pope Leo and Emperor Valentinian had two jars. Weren’t there six originally?”

“Yes. The Gospel of John specifies that six jars were present at the first miracle. Later, these six were split into three pairs. Each pair was hidden on a different continent to prevent destruction by the Antichrists…”

Paul interrupted: “Hold on. Did you just say Antichrists? There’s more than one?”

“Regrettably, yes. History has withstood a seemingly endless succession.”

Paul shook his head. “I’m confused. I thought Satan was the Antichrist.”

Garagallo explained. “Jesus Christ epitomizes the Christian virtues, the greatest of which is love. Do you agree?”

Paul nodded. “I do.”

“Thus, anyone or anything opposing those virtues is, by definition, anti-Christ. The word can describe Lucifer or any other monster who serves death, injustice, and damnation. Early Christians considered Herod and later Nero to be Antichrists. Of course, there have been others. I believe each generation must find the courage to combat this evil, embodied in some new, hideous form.”

“But what use are stone jars against a monster?”

“The jars contain a prophecy. If you believe the legend, reading the prophecy aloud at the proper place and time can defeat the devil.”

“Too bad it didn’t work against Hitler.”

Garagallo closed his eyes and anguish passed over his face. In a hollow voice, he said, “Yes. Hitler was a terrible Antichrist. Even as a little boy, I despised him. I’m proud we Maltese resisted his evil, and I grieve for all those who sacrificed their lives.”

For a moment the bishop couldn’t speak. Finally, he opened his eyes, gazed up at the antique crest, and went on. “As a man of faith, I believe the sacred jars’ power might have stopped the Nazis. Sadly, we’ll never know. At least one jar was destroyed in 455. After the fall of Rome, the surviving jars’ whereabouts were lost to humanity. St. Bede believed one was given to King Osby of Northumbria in 665. He may have hidden it under Whitby Abbey or possibly Whitekirk, but the others disappeared.”

Ava asked, “Were any hidden in Egypt?”

“According to legend, two jars were given to Africa. No one knows what happened to them. If I were to guess their location, Egypt and Ethiopia would be my top candidates. Why do you ask?”

Generally, Ava distrusted churchmen. She knew the Church’s spotty history, and she was well aware of its recent scandals. Not all Catholic leaders had acted honorably. Yet Ava trusted Garagallo. She heard sincerity in his voice, and she shared the bottomless anger he expressed regarding the Nazis. Though she sensed he had a secret agenda, Ava concluded that the bishop was an ally, not an enemy. Having made her decision, she answered him. “Because that’s where we found two of them.”

Garagallo was silent. After a moment, he reclined in his chair, whispered a prayer of thanks, and said, “Please, tell me everything.”

Ava told him of their journey from the monastery to Malta. She began by describing the relics’ discovery and concluded by explaining how she and Paul had escaped the catacombs. For now, she omitted any mention of the disks. Garagallo listened intently. Though he nodded occasionally, he never spoke, allowing Ava to relate her story without interruption. When she finished, he asked, “What do you intend to do with the jars?”

Ava glanced at Paul. He nodded. “We want to give them to the Church,” she said, “pursuant to certain conditions.” She listed their terms.

For a moment, Garagallo appeared lost in thought. Then he rose, smiled, and took Ava’s hands in his. With a warm voice he said, “On behalf of the Church, I thank you for your honesty, selflessness, and generosity. Naturally, in a matter of such importance, I must contact Rome. I may not receive guidance until after we’ve elected our new pope, but you may rest assured that we appreciate your astounding gift.”

They left the study and returned to the main hallway. As they neared the stairs, the bishop said, “Friends, tonight has been a rare pleasure. Thank you for trusting me. I’m honored, and I give my word that you’ll come to no harm within these walls. Please feel welcome to spend the night in my guest quarters. All are fully equipped and comfortable. Or, if you prefer to go, my butler will call a cab. Of course, none may be available right now.”

At that moment, Paul heard gunshots. In an instant, he lunged for Ava, threw her to the ground, and covered her with his body. Once he was sure she was safe, he raised his head to locate the source of the attack. “Fireworks, Paul,” the bishop said quickly. “Those were just fireworks. Weren’t you aware of the festival? They have fireworks at midnight.”

Paul glanced at his empty wrist. Then he consulted the bishop’s grandfather clock. Its hands pointed straight up, and it was chiming. Embarrassed, Paul’s face reddened.

“Sorry,” he muttered sheepishly. “Guess I overreacted a bit.” As Paul helped Ava regain her footing, Garagallo turned away from his guests and crossed the room. Heading through the doorway, the bishop turned and waved goodnight.

Outside, the street festival continued. After enjoying the dazzling fireworks, the mob of brightly costumed revelers paraded and twirled through the smoky air. The Mediterranean night echoed with the sounds of a thousand happy voices. Groups clustered to sing folk songs, play instruments, dance, and drink.

Amid the throng, two men seemed out of place. They cut through the crowd like sharks through a shoal. Ignoring catcalls and whistles from some intoxicated students, the men approached the waterfront and entered a grand structure. The elder of the two patted his pocket, ensuring that the stolen key was secure. They climbed the stairs.

When they reached Paul and Ava’s room, each man drew a pistol and clicked on his night-vision goggles. Quietly, Lieutenant Barakah slipped the key into the slot. The door unlocked. Motionless, he waited, straining for the faintest sound. Hearing nothing, he eased the door open. With his accomplice covering him, Barakah launched himself through the doorway. Something flashed. Cat-quick, Barakah dropped, rolled, and came up aiming his gun. Silence. No movement. He scanned the room. The blinking light was just an old satphone charging on the nightstand. Then Barakah spotted the closet. He crept toward it. After gesturing for his confederate to enter the room, he grasped the handle and pulled. A hinge squeaked. Startled, his cohort began firing. Barakah’s stomach knotted at the sound. Furious, he swung around and leveled his weapon. The younger man raised his arms and whispered an apology. For several seconds Barakah considered killing him for sheer incompetence. Then he lowered his gun and examined the damage. Bullets had shredded the room’s linens and pillows, but there was no blood. The bed was empty.

At dawn the aroma of rich Ethiopian coffee lured Paul into wakefulness. He cracked open the door and spied the butler, who intimated that the bishop awaited him downstairs. After requesting a few moments to prepare, Paul washed his face, brushed his teeth, and dragged a comb through his thick mop. More than a month had passed since his last haircut, and he was starting to look like a rock star. He pulled on his dirty clothes and went to the breakfast room. Garagallo stood when Paul entered. “Did you get some rest?”

“Yes, thanks. Your guest rooms are very comfortable.”

“And Ava?”

Paul grinned. “Sleeping like a baby. I didn’t wake her.”

“That’s probably best. Unfortunately, I have disturbing news. It will be easier to tell you man to man.”

They sat. Garagallo poured Paul a demitasse of steaming coffee. “Commissioner Rizzo called. There’s been another attempt on your life. Last night criminals broke into your hotel room and stole the jars. Security found your bed riddled with bullet holes.”

Paul sagged into his chair. Despite everything they’d endured, the jars were lost. It was simply too much. He’d been a fool to think he could protect Ava from these thieves. They’d survived thanks only to amazingly good fortune. Sooner or later, luck would run out and they’d be captured or killed. He sipped his coffee, but it had no taste. He looked at the bishop. “I’m sorry about the jars. Is there anything I can do?”

“Don’t worry about that. We’ll find them, but you must leave Malta. Dark forces are at work. The longer you wait, the more dangerous it will become.”

“Where should we go?”

“Take Ava across the strait to Italy. The Virtu Rapid Catamaran sails from Valletta to Sicily. When I meet with the commissioner, I’ll arrange tickets.”

Noting Paul’s expression, he asked, “Do you object?”

“No. I’m sorry, Father. That sounds fine. Italy’s as good a destination as any, but it seems pointless to keep running. It’s only a matter of time before they find us.”

“Have faith. The tide may yet turn. There is an old German proverb: Wo die Not am grössten ist, ist Gott am nächsten. It means ‘Where the need is greatest, God is nearest.’”

The bishop stood, walked to Paul, and handed him a small golden amulet. It was inscribed with a flaming sword and a shepherd’s crook crossed above a castle. Looking into Paul’s eyes, he said, “Take this. When you’re in dire need, show it for protection.”

Paul thanked him, looped its chain over his head, and slid the amulet under his shirt. Making the sign of the cross over his guest, Garagallo whispered, “Gardez bien.”

Ava was roused by the ring of the now fully charged world phone. It was Gabe, and he could hardly contain himself. “I think sound data is preserved on your artifacts!” he shouted.

She fell back against the pillows. Audio! Of course! That’s why “no one can read it with mortal eyes.” She recalled Revelation 3:6: “If you have ears, listen to what the Spirit says to the people.” She laughed, then spoke aloud Jesus’s admonition: “Having ears, hear ye not?”

Someone knocked at her door. It was Paul, carrying a pot of tea. He looked worried. Why was she was acting crazy?

Ava yanked him into the room and slammed the door. She set the phone to speaker and began discussing Gabe’s radical hypothesis. Instantly, Paul was lost. When he couldn’t stand any more technical jargon, he asked, “Excuse my skepticism, but how could ancient people record audio? Is that possible? I mean, they didn’t have electricity.”

Ava smiled. “Gabe, do you want to field this one?”

“You don’t need electricity to record stuff,” Gabe explained. “Before the advent of magnetic tape, sound was recorded mechanically. In 1877, Edison’s phonograph used metal cylinders. Sound vibrations were physically printed and played back when a stylus read the impressions. You can still listen to some. There’s a cool site called tinfoil dot com. Despite background noise, you can hear historical audio of President Taft, William Jennings Bryan—”

Paul stopped him. “But could they record onto a gold disk?” Ava flinched. Gabe had a reputation for intellectual arrogance. He frequently referred to techno-illiterate classmates as troglodytes and imbeciles. She feared Paul was about to be similarly flayed. Instead, Gabe answered calmly.

“Yes, of course. In fact, it’s the medium NASA used. Do you remember Voyager?”

“The space probe?”

“Exactly. In 1977, NASA launched Voyager 1 and Voyager 2. Each carried a twelve-inch gold disk containing audio recordings selected by Carl Sagan. The records were encased in protective aluminum jackets with a cartridge, stylus, and symbolic instructions on how to play them.”

“I’m sure NASA could do that in 1977, but these artifacts date back to biblical times.”

“That’s why it’s so cool. Several people have claimed to discover ancient audio recordings, but no claim has been scientifically substantiated. It was the basis for a classic X-Files episode—”

Ava cut him off. “Gabe, wouldn’t the recorded information have deteriorated by now?”

“Maybe. It matters how often it was played and by what method. Unfortunately, playing a mechanical recording hastens its destruction. Most of Edison’s recordings on tin have deteriorated, but they were played often. I suspect gold would preserve data just fine. Besides being ductile, gold is unreactive. Therefore, it resists corrosion and tarnishing.”

“Enough to last millennia?”

“It’ll be forty thousand years before Voyager approaches a planetary system. If NASA expects those recordings to last that long, then two thousand years seems possible — even on Earth.”

“Can we play these disks? Obviously, a phonograph won’t work. Nothing would fit, and the needle would probably destroy them, but could we reverse-engineer an ancient playback device?”

“Why do all that? Why not just capture the data to a PC running good audio software?”

“How?”

“It depends. You could use an optical scanner or a light-contact technique. Optical is easier and usually results in a better sound. Unlike bouncing a laser beam off a record, optical scanning isn’t susceptible to dirt, damage, or wear. On the other hand, light contact is quicker and more authentic.”

“What do you mean ‘authentic’?”

“Optical-scan results require digital filtering, meaning somebody guides the process. In effect, he or she decides how the final recording will sound, but now there’s some cutting-edge software incorporating precision optical metrology with slippery pattern recognition algorithms—”

“Speak English!” Paul barked.

“Okay, sorry. I’ll back up. Let’s say you break a wax record. Now you can’t play it with a needle, right? But the information is still there — it’s stored mechanically. Once upon a time, two geniuses at Lawrence Berkeley Laboratories got bored studying subatomic particles and used their scanner to optically ‘read’ etchings in damaged antique records. They scanned the physical objects, digitized the images, reintegrated them, and calculated what a stylus would do. The experiment turned out beautifully.”

“Would that work on our disks?”

“I don’t see why not. The Berkeley software is hard core. It was designed to find Higgs bosons. If we had a really good scan, I could model the artifacts’ undulating grooves and extract the audio data. I can even enhance the result to remove scratches, noise, or whatever, but I don’t see how any of that’s helpful.”

“Why not?” Ava asked.

“Because I can’t do anything without scanned images. Photos won’t work. We need much greater detail. Given the point density required, we’d need a high-res scanner suitable for soft, delicate surfaces—”

“Would a Metris LC15 Laser Probe suffice?” Paul asked, enjoying the silence that followed his question.

Once Ava was dressed, she and Paul took a cab to the university. As they were hurrying to the computer center, Paul told her that their hotel room had been robbed. To his surprise, she wasn’t crushed. In fact, the news didn’t seem to faze her. She remained enthused about their current project. After logging into the system using Clarkson’s password, Ava called Gabe. Over the phone, he explained how to use the 3D scanner. She relayed the instructions to Paul, who carefully scanned both disks.

The resultant mountain of digitized information was too large to transmit by phone. Ava attempted to send it via the secure e-mail interface but the system crashed. They were stymied until Gabe suggested saving and transmitting each scanned file individually. It was tedious, but following Gabe’s directions to the letter, Ava completed the task. When Gabe confirmed receipt, Ava heard excitement in his voice. She knew he couldn’t wait to begin his analysis. “Okay, just one last thing,” she said.

“What? What?” he asked.

“Gabe, I really miss you. It’s beyond wonderful hearing your voice again. I was scared that something bad had happened. Thanks for everything you’ve done. You’re a true and loyal friend, and I’ll never forget it.”

Gabe tried to reply, but the words caught in his throat. He felt tears welling up. Self-conscious, he handed the telephone to Jess and turned away, struggling for self-control.

“Hello? Gabe? Are you there?”

Grinning, Jess said, “Ava, this is Jess. Gabe will be just a moment. He got something in his eye and he’s run to the loo.”

They talked for a while. After bringing her friend up to speed on everything happening in Boston, Jess mentioned that Ava’s parents and teachers were becoming concerned about her extended absence.

“Please tell them not to worry. I’m okay, and I’ll be home soon.”

“Are you sure?”

“Of course! The situation is under control. For heaven’s sake, we have first-class tickets on the next catamaran to Italy. How cool is that?”

When Sheik Ahmed heard the mobile phone, he smiled. He’d been eagerly anticipating this call. Finally, he had good news to report.

Before it could ring twice, Ahmed had answered. “Master?”

“Yes.”

“We have the jars. Shall I bring them to you personally?”

“No.”

To Ahmed’s surprise, the master did not sound pleased.

“The clever little troia is close to the secret. She must be exterminated immediately. Spare no expense. Utilize any resource. Stop at nothing. Kill her now.”

For perhaps the first time, Ahmed detected a human emotion in the master’s voice. He must be furious, thought the sheik, but then he reconsidered. Fury wasn’t quite right. He’d heard something more, something hidden underneath. Was it possible? Ahmed wondered: Was the master afraid?

Embarrassed that he’d teared up during the phone call, Gabe retreated into his work. After several hours he located and downloaded the software necessary to read the scans. While the parallel processing algorithms monopolized his available computing resources, Gabe decided to eat. He pondered a momentous decision: pizza or Thai? As he vacillated between the two enticing options, he checked his inbox. It contained an urgent e-mail from durmdvl.

“We have a problem. I’ve been snooping on DeMaj Corp so that if it located our friends, I’d know. As of last night, none of our spiders had detected a single usage of the term Malta, Valletta, or bishop. We know someone found Ava (and sent the assassin), but nary a word about it was uttered or typed on the DeMaj network. That doesn’t scan. I’ve drawn 2 conclusions, both of which are scary. (A) Someone other than DeMaj sent the killer, meaning we’re facing an unexpected enemy. (B) The bad guys found her in Malta almost immediately. They set up an ambush in less than 24 hours. Therefore, they have already compromised her new phone, they have a spy in the Malta police, immigration/customs, or both.”

“If that’s true,” Gabe realized, “they’ll know Ava’s itinerary.”

Paul and Ava strolled down Pinto Road through Valleta, then checked in at the Sea Passenger Terminal. The catamaran wouldn’t depart for an hour, so they sat down on a bench to wait. Eventually Paul asked, “Would you explain something?”

“I’ll try.”

“How could ancient people have done all this stuff?”

“What stuff?”

“Well, for example, how could they make recordings? I understand it’s physically possible, but they didn’t have the necessary technology—”

“Ancient people had all kinds of technology. Thales of Miletus wrote about electrostatic phenomena in 550 BC. Heron of Alexandria invented a working steam engine in the first century.”

“A steam engine? Seriously?

“He called it an aeolipile. The basic principle is jet propulsion. Heat up water in a sealed metal cauldron. Water boils into steam. Steam shoots out from two jets, rotating a ball.”

“That’s awesome!”

Ava smiled. “Do you know about the Baghdad Battery?”

“Is it the Iraqi baseball team?”

She laughed despite herself. “No. Before World War II, archaeologists discovered terra-cotta jars buried near Baghdad. Some claim they date from the Parthian era. I think the Sassanid dynasty is more likely. Regardless, they’re at least fifteen hundred years old — and they’re basic electric batteries.”

“You mean like Duracell?”

“Pretty much. Each clay jar had a stopper. Sticking through it was an iron rod surrounded by a copper cylinder. Filled with vinegar or any other strong electrolytic solution, they produced electricity. Experts estimate each made about one volt. In 1980, Arthur C. Clarke built a reproduction, filled it with grape juice, and proved it could electroplate a statuette. The MythBusters determined it was plausible for ancient people to have used such batteries.”

“That’s so cool.”

Gradually, as Paul and Ava talked, the terminal filled with passengers. Representatives of many nationalities and ethnicities congregated around the gate. Soon the metal building reverberated with the babble of two hundred simultaneous conversations.

Efficient security personnel appeared and organized the crowd into three lines. First, an officer reviewed identification. Second, luggage was examined by customs agents, who offered to stow heavier bags belowdecks. Finally, a smiling steward tore tickets and welcomed passengers across the gangway.

Ava and Paul waited their turn, but when the officer saw Ava’s ID, he pulled them out of line and escorted them past security. In broken English, he explained that Police Commissioner Rizzo personally insisted the two Americans were to be shown every courtesy. Paul thanked the officer and helped Ava board.

Meanwhile, out on the waterfront, a diesel pump throbbed as it refueled the massive catamaran. The wharf bustled with activity. Growling, a forklift shuttled to and fro, lifting crates into the hold. Dockworkers rushed aluminum tubs of perishable food up a ramp and delivered them to the galley. Supervisors shouted instructions to burly men hefting innumerable cases of beer, liquor, wine, and soda to the ship’s four bars and passenger lounges.

Amid the chaos, no one noticed a tall Italian spiriting aboard an unregistered case and hiding it in the aft engine room.