The Cana Mystery

Chapter 14

Mired in melancholy, Cardinal Jacopo Piccolomini-Ammannati attended the coronation of Pope Paul II. A vain, suspicious, and ineffectual man, Paul II was no elector’s first choice. Rather, the self-important Venetian represented a compromise between ideologically divergent factions. To secure support in the College of Cardinals, the new pope had signed a capitulation that, among other things, required him to continue Pius’s campaign against the Turks. Cardinal Jacopo was instrumental in obtaining this concession. He championed the cause not out of personal animus or ambition, but rather out of loyalty to a departed friend.

The forty-two-year-old cardinal had accomplished much in his career. He was ordained a bishop at thirty-eight. One year later he was named cardinal of Pavia. He’d served as secretary of briefs under Pope Calistus III and continued in that role until Pius II made him a member of the pontific household. Sadly, his meteoric rise would now stall. Jacopo suspected the new pope would break his political promises, arguing that preelection capitulations abridged a pope’s absolute authority. By disregarding these commitments, Paul II would ignite a feud within the Vatican, weakening the Church at an inopportune time. Fraught with internal division, Rome could never check the Ottoman advance. Pius’s steadfast allies, the valiant Knights of Rhodes, would continue to fight. But it was only a matter of time until the Turks invaded Italy. Worse, Spain might persuade the isolated pope to revive the execrable Inquisition. Jacopo’s humanist friends and cohorts, particularly de Volterra, Carvajal, and Roverella, feared that an anti-intellectual backlash could engulf all of Europe, strangling the nascent Renaissance in its crib and dragging Christendom back into darkness.

As soon as decorum allowed, Jacopo bade farewell to the assembled ministers, clerics, and plenipotentiaries. He had important duties to perform. On his deathbed Pius had ordered Jacopo to destroy the artifacts and the prophecy they contained. Jacopo had objected. The two men disagreed sharply on the topic. Jacopo believed the prophecy was simply mistranslated, by either accident or design. Pius thought otherwise. He insisted the prophecy was a demonic instrument, imbued with black sorcery that turned arrogant mortals away from God. To prove such speculations were illogical, Jacopo invoked the reasoning propounded by the brilliant Franciscan friar William of Ockham. Pius, however, would not be dissuaded. He ignored all arguments, endlessly repeating: “A daemonibus docetur, de daemonibus docet, et ad daemones ducit.” (It is taught by the demons, it teaches about the demons, and it leads to the demons.)

Though he opposed the pope’s decision, Cardinal Jacopo finally agreed to destroy the relics. To disobey the pontiff was an unthinkable sin, one that would expose his soul to eternal damnation. More important, Jacopo would never refuse his mentor’s last request.

It was vital to act quickly, before the new pope consolidated his authority. Piccolomini-Ammannati summoned his personal secretary. While Jacopo and his fellow cardinals were locked in the papal conclave, this aide collected every extant copy of the prophecy. These Jacopo would burn. Whispering to the young priest, he revealed the ancient jars’ hiding place and instructed him to throw them over the balcony. As the stunned academician turned to obey, the cardinal said, “Inside the cabinet, hidden below the jars, are two disks of pure gold. Melt them down.”

The young man’s eyes widened. “And what should I do with the gold?”

Jacopo smiled. “Cast it into coins. Distribute them to the poor to honor our generous new pope’s election.”

“Yes, Eminence.”

The secretary hurried to perform his assignment. He found the secret chamber, located the hidden jars, and dragged them onto the balcony. After inspecting the courtyard below to ensure that no one would be crushed, the young priest shoved the first jar over the edge. With an ear-splitting crack, it shattered. He wiped his hands on his cassock, then repeated the process with the second jar. That task complete, he searched the cabinet and uncovered the golden disks. For a moment he was awed by the glimmering objects, but he soon regained his composure and transported them to the goldsmith.

In exchange for a modest bribe, the artisan agreed to begin work immediately. He pumped the bellows, bringing his furnace to a white heat. Inside, the disks melted rapidly. Dripping with sweat, the goldsmith removed the assembly from the fire and poured refulgent metal into a cast. While they waited for it to harden, the smith offered the priest a cup of cool water. He smiled and drank. Suddenly, the door burst open. A gang of soldiers marched into the workshop, arrested the occupants on charges of conspiracy, and seized the gold as evidence.

At trial, few were surprised to learn that the evidence had mysteriously vanished. The missing treasure, as much as Jacopo’s able defense, persuaded the tribunal to dismiss the complaint.

Years later, after the death of Paul II, a group of cardinals inspected his treasure vault. They noted fifty-four silver shells filled with pearls; a collection of jewels, including several magnificent diamonds; and a cache of unfashioned gold worth at least three hundred thousand ducats. The origin of this gold remains unknown.

Though he mourned the lost artifacts, Jacopo maintained a fervent hope that the ancient secret endured. Hidden somewhere, probably in Africa, two jars still existed. The secret brotherhood would protect them. Jacopo whispered, “One alone shall be chaste. Only when two are gathered is the truth revealed.” As long as two jars survived, the prophecy would survive, and the coming evil might still be defeated.

Once clear of Valletta Harbor, the MV Maria Dolores throttled up its Rolls-Royce Kamewa 80 SII engines and put out to sea. Powered by six water jets, the sixty-eight-meter catamaran could make thirty-six knots running at ninety percent capacity. The Australian-built vessel’s 4.6-meter clearance height (in combination with T-foil and interceptor ride control) enabled safe, year-round operation, regardless of unpredictable Mediterranean conditions. Accordingly, the experienced captain wasn’t concerned by a wall of thunderclouds looming on the eastern horizon. Over the intercom he advised his passengers that the stormy forecast was no cause for alarm. The Maria Dolores was designed and built for rough weather. Heavy seas might slow their voyage to Sicily, but there was no danger.

Paul led Ava through the posh club-class lounge to the observation deck. They leaned against a painted metal rail and watched the evening sun dip behind Mount Sciberras. As Tommy Dorsey’s orchestra warbled through the tinny loudspeaker, Paul thought how perfectly a white cotton dress complemented Ava’s tanned skin. Her long hair danced in the maritime breeze, defying her efforts to tame it. With a smile, he asked, “Where are we headed?”

“Pozzallo.”

“Ah, yes. Of course. I believe that was the birthplace of the immortal Homer.”

She giggled. “No, just a quaint Sicilian fishing town. It has an excellent harbor, which made it an important fourteenth-century outpost. Now it’s the main port for Ragusa Province.” She paused, brow knitted in concentration. “Actually, it might be the only port in Ragusa Province…”

Amused, Paul watched Ava search her memory. After a few seconds, he said, “It’s okay. We can look it up later.”

“Don’t patronize me,” she said, then grinned.

“What should we do while we’re there?”

She thought, “Hide out, stay safe, not get killed,” but she said, “We might tour the Cabrera Tower. It dates back to the 1400s.”

He made a sour face.

“Or there are pretty beaches.”

“Yes! I vote for the beach.” He knelt and opened his backpack, wondering if he’d remembered swim trunks. He nudged aside the priceless golden disks and dug through the odd laundry. He didn’t see his trunks, but, happily, he found Ava’s black bikini. He pulled out the bottoms and announced, “Look! We still have—”

“Put that away immediately,” Ava scolded. She grabbed the backpack, zipped it closed, and hefted it over her shoulder.

Convinced that durmdvl’s suspicions were valid, Gabe didn’t dare call Ava. His only hope was that their enemies hadn’t yet twigged the stratagem of inserting edited text messages into the satphone. In desperation, he typed: “Current escape plan likely compromised. Strongly recommend you cancel tickets. CHANGE PLANS and find another route! G”

Moments later, in Malta, the satphone blinked. Sheik Ahmed opened the text, read Gabe’s warning, and smiled. He pocketed Ava’s phone and watched the doomed catamaran vanish into the distance.

The aft engine rooms were quite cramped. In fact, the challenge of squeezing three enormous water jets into each slim hull had involved some complex engineering. To create room for the intakes and drivelines, the designers chose to mount powerful boosters above and between the tandem steering jets. It was a good design, but it necessitated running all six fuel lines through the transom. To generate its 2,465 kW (roughly 3,300 HP), each jet required a generous allowance of high-octane gas. Thus, at any given moment, a surprisingly large volume of refined petroleum pumped through the nexus.

Thunder clapped as the storm began rocking the ship. In response, the captain turned the bow into the wind and gently increased the rate at which fuel coursed through the engines. Meanwhile, inside an apparently misplaced crate labeled johnny walker scotch, a digital timer counted down the final seconds until 00:00.

A raindrop hit Paul’s ear. Ava was oblivious, watching waves grow into whitecaps.

“Hey,” Paul said, touching her forearm, “let’s get inside before all the chairs are taken.”

“That sounds good.”

She looked queasy. Maybe she was nervous about the weather. Or maybe she was getting seasick. They went into the lounge but couldn’t find two seats together. Frustrated, Ava looked to Paul for guidance.

“Here.” He directed her to an available place. “You sit. I’ll see if they have hot cocoa.”

Her expression implied that cocoa didn’t appeal.

“What about some proper grog?” He did his best impression of a bandy-legged pirate. Ava managed a weak smile.

“Maybe bottled water?”

“Aye, aye.”

He saluted, executed an about-face, and crossed the rolling deck to the bar. He spied the cocktail waitress, a slender Italian brunette in skimpy white shorts and a tube top. Paul thought she must be freezing. He estimated her age to be twenty. She watched him approach with undisguised interest. “Ciao, bella,” he said. “May I see your menu?”

She opened her mouth to answer, but instead the world turned upside down. Paul experienced a bizarre sensation of weightlessness until his head slammed into the unforgiving metal ceiling. Then the lights went out.

It seemed as though a long time elapsed before he regained consciousness. When Paul opened his eyes, the ship was aflame. The club lounge was a shattered waste of broken glass and twisted steel, and it was eerily silent. Through acrid smoke, he saw wrecked furniture and motionless bodies strewn about. Abruptly, his mind focused. A single, urgent need consumed him: Find Ava.

He tried to stand but his legs wouldn’t work. Plan B: He grabbed a dented stanchion, yanked himself upright, and found the young waitress. She was in shock, holding a paper napkin against her bloody scalp and staring into space.

“Hey!” Paul tried to yell. “Get up! Get to the lifeboats!” She didn’t move. It seemed his voice didn’t work, either. Then the girl snapped back to reality. Bursting into tears, she grabbed Paul’s hand and began mouthing words, but he heard nothing. At that point, Paul realized that he’d been deafened.

After gently extricating himself from her grasp, he climbed, hand over hand, back to where he’d left Ava. The seat no longer existed — it had been replaced by a tangle of smoldering debris. Somewhere, down in his gut, an inconceivable, poisonous, fatal query stirred: Is she dead? He weakened. Then, with fury, he banished the question from his mind. He had no time for it.

At this point, Paul began shouting — though he was unaware of any sound coming from his mouth. He might have screamed Ava’s name or cursed fate or even roared like a lion; it was a mystery to him. All he perceived was blood pounding in his temples. He dived through the shattered window and wriggled out onto the hull, seeking a high point from which to reconnoiter. He began climbing. Soon he could survey the catastrophe’s full extent.

The Maria Dolores was a total loss. Hundreds must be dead. Valiant crewmen were helping survivors escape, filling lifeboats and lowering them from enormous davits. An officer waved and probably shouted instructions. Paul ignored him. He prayed that Ava was safe aboard a lifeboat, but somehow he knew she wasn’t. He’d climbed rather high before he realized how slick the rain made the metal hull. Paul missed a handhold and began to slide. The instinctual terror of falling generated a blast of adrenaline, shocking his leg muscles into action. Kicking and groping, he arrested his descent by snagging a cable and pushing the toe of his boot through a broken porthole. The storm had grown, and Paul guessed this precarious perch was the best vantage point he’d attain. Using his free hand to shield his eyes from the rain, he scanned left and right. He saw several corpses, including the dismembered body of a young woman. His heart stopped. For a two-second eternity, he wasn’t sure. Finally, he exhaled. Not Ava.

The sinking ship lurched violently. Something fluttering by caught his attention. It was a woman — falling. The unexpected jolt had pitched her overboard. Clinging to the cable, Paul saw her splash into the churning sea. He concentrated on the spot, watching for any movement. When the woman finally surfaced, Paul realized with horror that she wasn’t swimming. Was she dead or just unconscious? In a few minutes it wouldn’t matter. Paul had to decide. Was it Ava? He strained for a better perspective, but in the storm, and from this distance, he’d never be sure. He closed his eyes and replayed his memory. Someone had fallen. He slowed it, trying to view the action frame by frame, like a football slo-mo. What had grabbed his attention? What had he seen? Something fluttering. What? Hair. Long hair. Beautiful long hair.

Ava.

Paul shifted his weight and gauged the distance: about fifteen meters. Taking a deep breath, he released the cable and jumped. Falling fast, he somersaulted once and extended his body. By gyrating his arms, Paul managed to stay upright and hit the surface feetfirst. He plunged and lost all sense of direction. Then, mastering his fear, he exhaled and followed the bubbles. When he broke the surface, a wave caught him in the face, blasting saltwater into his mouth. Fluid rushed up his sinus cavities. He felt as though he was drowning. Thankfully, his second inhalation was mostly air and he began to tread water.

Paul searched for Ava, but he saw nothing. Stay calm! Taking bearings from the rapidly sinking catamaran, he reckoned she was to his north. He began swimming, keeping his face above water. A monstrous wave swamped him, and briefly he was lost. Fighting off panic, he oriented himself and kicked even harder. When a second wave lifted him he used the opportunity to survey the area. There — he saw her! In that moment, though, she slipped helplessly beneath the water.

Without pausing to breathe, Paul lowered his head, and with a furious stroke propelled himself like a torpedo through the waves. It was the fastest way. At camp, when he was ten, he’d won the fifty-meter freestyle using this tactic. Push, he told himself. She’s close. A few strokes more. He accepted the heat building in his lungs. By forcibly exhaling, he squeezed out some toxic CO2, buying precious seconds, but now his respiratory system moved into rebellion, demanding oxygen. It was impossible. He wasn’t fast enough. It was getting too dark to see…

Ava! Underwater, he caught a glimmer of a white dress. He surfaced, sucked in all the air he could hold, and dived. As he kicked down, he tried to dislodge his heavy hiking boots, but they were laced up tight. Wait. What was that? A limp body.

Ava!

He wanted to scream her name. She looked terrible. Her eyes were shut. Her skin was a ghastly green. No bubbles came from her mouth or nose. Fear beset him. This was a lost cause. He’d arrived too late. It was her time. Just let go. Couldn’t he accept the obvious?

No. He kicked down and grabbed the hem of her dress. Taking a fistful of material, he pulled her toward the surface. God, she was heavy! He kicked harder and swam with his free arm, but it was no use. He felt the current dragging them down. The surface was so distant. It was getting farther, growing darker. Paul’s lungs were burning, even worse than before. Then he realized — the backpack! She was wearing that damn heavy backpack! He pulled the hunting knife from his belt and dragged its sharp edge against the straps. They cut easily. As he watched the pack disappear, he thought, “If we survive, she’ll kill me.”

Thus lightened, he made better progress. Each kick drew him closer to the surface. His lungs were screaming now, and he’d begun to have strange thoughts. His vision was failing, as was his ability to reason. Desperate, he urged his muscles to fight. Become a machine, he commanded. No wasted motion. Just kick and pull. Kick, kick, pull! A few hard kicks. Just a few more. Pull! Ten more. Don’t quit. Five more. Don’t quit. Three more. Pull!

Gasping, he broke the surface. He savored one delicious breath, then, against every vital instinct, he dived back under. Swimming behind Ava, Paul wedged his hands into her armpits and kicked. When they emerged from the sea, he rolled her onto his chest, lifting her mouth and nostrils into the air. Was she breathing? He couldn’t tell. He fought to keep her head above water. Fluid drained from her nose. How long had she been under? It seemed like hours, but it must have been less than a minute. Seventy seconds max. Come on, Ava!

His energy was failing. He hoped his head wasn’t bleeding much. From the Discovery Channel, he knew the Mediterranean was home to forty-five species of shark, including the great white. Paul looked around. No dorsal fins yet, but he didn’t see any flotsam either. How long could he tread water? Floating on his back, he clutched Ava to his chest. Between strokes he reached his fingers into her mouth and forced it open wide. Then he felt something. She coughed. Alive! He felt a rush of energy. He could swim for hours. Days, even! Her body wrenched with a spasm as she spat up water. Ava inhaled. Then she vomited. Her face rolled to one side and she began shuddering with dry heaves. Paul elevated her head and fought to keep it above the surface. They maintained that position for several minutes.

Ava was breathing, he was sure, but Paul was fading. He felt something stab his calf. Cramp! Jaw clenched, he battled to keep afloat. Rain fell in sheets now, as the storm whipped the sea into a frenzy. Saltwater stung his eyes and burned in his esophagus. He snorted and coughed. Ignore it! Just kick. Breathe and kick. A little longer…

Shrouded in silence, he saw a tunnel of light — a bright white glow shining down from the sky. It seemed to search for him. Paul was dazed. Is that God? Am I dying? He hugged Ava. If God wanted one of them, he had to take both. We’re a package deal, Lord. Take it or leave it.

The light was blinding now. It centered on him, and as though the jealous sea knew salvation was nigh, enormous waves began forcing the two under. Suddenly Paul felt hands on his arms. A powerful force took hold of him. He clung tightly to Ava, refusing to be separated from her. Then, miraculously, they began to rise from the water, ascending heavenward. The light was close now, almost close enough to touch. He reached out and realized that it was a searchlight suspended from a helicopter. As a rescue harness pulled them into the cabin, Paul rejoiced. They were saved!

Every iota of his energy spent, he released Ava and collapsed. Then, just before succumbing to exhaustion, Paul saw something that filled him with dread. It was the face of their savior: Simon DeMaj.

Gabe stared at the monitor. For a moment he experienced hysterical paralysis, limbs refusing to obey his mind’s instructions. Thus imprisoned, he felt compelled to reread the Associated Press wire report.

Gabe’s skin broke out in a cold sweat. Overwhelming nausea stirred within him. Finally able to move, he bolted from the chair, staggered to Jess’s bathroom, and vomited into the toilet. Then he rested, panting, with his forehead against the cool ceramic. Gabe felt his larynx constrict. Tears stung his eyes. He wanted to howl in anguish, but just a moan escaped his trembling lips. In shock, Gabe only gradually became aware of the telephone’s ring.

Sheik Ahmed was reading a newspaper account of the bombing. Paul and Ava were listed as “missing, presumed dead.” On one level, Ahmed was satisfied: He felt proud to have accomplished an important, difficult mission. On an instinctual level, though, he worried. He’d never favored this method of killing. Not for moral reasons — he had no scruples about sacrificing so-called innocent bystanders to advance his purpose. Rather, Ahmed disliked the technique’s imprecision. He’d prefer to have the Americans’ corpses in his trunk. Ahmed massaged his right arm as he visualized presenting the bodies to the master as trophies and as proof of the deed. Instead, he must rely on newspapers and television — notorious fabulists — for confirmation. Ahmed had loyal men watching every hospital. He’d bribed the petty bureaucrats, nurses, and clerks. By morning they’d provide a complete list of the injured. If either American had survived the shipwreck, the sheik would be happy to finish the job in person.

Paul was playing second base for the Red Sox. Jeter was at bat. He looked to his manager for a sign. Would he bunt? Something strange was afoot. Fans began singing a song Paul remembered from Casablanca, the one Victor Laszlo requests. The pitcher threw Jeter a hard slider. He ripped it into the gap. Then Paul was back in the water. Ava was sinking into darkness. He lunged but he couldn’t reach her hand. Struggling toward her, his legs seemed paralyzed. Then he noticed Ava’s eyes. They flipped open: lifeless.

“No!”

Paul woke in a clean, comfortable room. Its walls were decorated with bright Japanese prints, a dozen Technicolor waterfalls. Sunshine glowed through a window. He guessed it was about noon. Gradually, Paul remembered. Simon. He checked for his knife, but it was gone. Reaching to his chest, he felt Garagallo’s amulet under his shirt. At least they’d missed that. Paul tried to stand, but his head swam. He wondered if he was still deaf. As an experiment, he mumbled, “J’ai mal partout,” and was relieved when he could hear it. He touched his scalp and found that his hair was shaved down to a few centimeters. Paul’s face contorted with anger. What had Simon done? Confined him in a mental institution?

He wasn’t restrained, so Paul decided to escape. He found his wallet in the nightstand drawer. His boots were drying on a chair by the door. Quietly, he slid off the bed. Standing, he shifted his weight from foot to foot. His legs felt sturdy, but when he took a step he grew dizzy. Fighting to stay balanced, Paul shut his eyes, then inhaled and exhaled. The spell passed.

He padded across the room and tried the door. Unlocked. This must be a nice sanitarium, Paul reasoned, not a place for criminals. That would make things easier. He grabbed his boots, opened the door, exited the room, and crept down the hall. He should find inconspicuous clothes. No — steal an orderly’s uniform…

A door opened. Paul flattened himself against the wall, searching for a place to hide, but it was too late. Two men entered the hallway. The first wore a dirt-stained coverall and carried a sawed-off shotgun. The second was immaculate in a tropical-weight, double-breasted pinstripe. Paul recognized the man’s handmade shoes. He turned to face his adversary, and when their eyes met, Simon smiled.

Paul’s hands clenched into fists as he started toward his former employer, eager to repay him, in full, for his crimes. At the last second, a familiar voice begged Paul to stop. He turned toward the speaker. To Paul’s amazement, it was Ammon. The teenage smuggler stood between Sinan and Nick. Paul froze, baffled. His friends hurriedly told him that Simon wasn’t the real enemy. Sheik Ahmed had betrayed him too. Sensing that his old teammate wasn’t convinced, Nick explained, “Look, DeMaj just saved your life. If he wanted you dead, you’d be dead.”

Paul shook his head. “Even if you’re right, Nick, he ordered those guards to kill seven people. Some were just children. He’s a murderer.”

Finally, Simon spoke. “Paul, I understand what you must be feeling. I know why you’re angry, but think carefully. What exactly did you see that night in the desert?”

“You yelled and the gunmen fired on those poor people.”

“Correct,” Simon agreed. “But what did I yell?”

Paul searched his memory “I don’t know,” he admitted. “You spoke Arabic.”

DeMaj nodded. “Yes. In Arabic, I demanded that the seven men leave my camp.” Recalling that moment, a somber expression crossed his face. “I thought they planned to steal the jars. I realize now they were only trying to protect them.”

He swallowed, then continued, “They refused, and I became irate. I yelled. I threatened to have them arrested and… worse.” A note of sorrow entered his voice. “I made several threats, but I swear on my mother’s grave that I never gave the order to fire. When the guards started shooting, I was as surprised as you were.”

Paul regarded his former boss carefully. Simon was an accomplished diplomat. He could dissemble with great skill when necessary, but he had never lied to Paul. Furthermore, Simon revered the memory of his mother. In all the time Paul had worked for him, DeMaj never invoked her name in vain. Paul began to think he might have been mistaken. Then he realized: If Simon didn’t order the guards to shoot, Paul shouldn’t have taken the jars, and all the horrible things that had happened since then were his fault. His shoulders sagged.

Simon read his thoughts. “No, Paul, what you did was right. After you left, I learned Ahmed had been playing me the whole time. He’d ordered his men to kill everyone, including us, rather than lose the jars. If you hadn’t acted as you did, they would have won.”

As he spoke, Simon unbuttoned his shirt and revealed two ugly bullet wounds. “Later that night, Ahmed shot me. He left me in the desert to die.”

Confused, Paul rubbed his scalp, wondering if all he’d just seen and heard was an elaborate con. Was he hallucinating? Had he been drugged? To hell with it, he decided. Hallucinations or not, his friends trusted DeMaj and Paul trusted his friends. Nick, Sinan, and Ammon were good people. Each in his own way was smart, cagey, and perceptive. If all three believed Simon’s story, it was probably true. Paul exhaled. “Okay. Where are we?”

“Capri. This is my villa.”

“Where’s Ava? Is she safe?”

“Yes. She’s sedated. I flew a doctor, one of the best in Europe, here from Rome. He treated Ava last night and recommended she rest for a while. Her body endured a terrible shock. It was a close call.”

Nick walked over to Paul and and clapped him on the shoulder. “Your lady will be fine, hermano. She’s just sleeping.”

Paul locked eyes with Ammon. “And Sefu?”

The Egyptian smiled. “Very good! He has many new girlfriends.”

Paul was mystified. Nick laughed. “Look, it’s complex. Why don’t we explain over lunch?”

At the mention of food, Paul’s stomach rumbled. He’d eaten nothing since dinner with the bishop and was beyond ravenous. The group proceeded down into the villa’s kitchen.

Designed for no-nonsense cooking, the room contrasted sharply with the household’s ornate aesthetic. A central island supporting an enormous hooded grill dominated the cooking area. Stainless-steel appliances glinted below cedar cabinets. When they entered, Simon’s chef opened the brick oven, releasing a combination of aromas. He withdrew a sizzling cast-iron tray of pasta ‘ncasciata, over which Paul salivated. Nick watched in amazement as his friend devoured two servings of the baked macaroni casserole filled with ground beef, eggplant, mortadella, salami, hard-boiled eggs, tomato, basil, and grated pecorino. As they ate, Paul’s friends brought him up to speed on all that had transpired since they’d parted company. Ammon described how DeMaj had found him crawling through the riverbank muck, attempting to escape the corrupt authorities. Simon revealed that the cops knew Sefu’s location and offered Ammon a choice: Fly to the hospital and rescue Sefu or remain in the mud and try to avoid capture. Although he suspected a trap, Ammon opted to fly. Simon had kept his promise to help Sefu, thereby earning Ammon’s trust.

“Where’s Sefu?”

Nick grinned. “He’s recuperating on the mainland. It’s an exclusive clinic, frequented by models and actresses who want confidential lipo, nose jobs, and… enhancements.”

As Paul laughed, a tattered baseball cap appeared on the table.

“Shokran,” said Ammon, solemnly.

Paul nodded at the earnest young Egyptian. For a moment, neither spoke. Then Paul smiled, accepted the woefully threadbare hat, and slapped it atop his shaved head. Everyone resumed eating. Between bites, Nick told them how Simon and Ammon had tracked him down in Egypt and convinced him that Ahmed was the true threat. Over dinner, DeMaj had persuaded Nick and Sinan that joining forces against the sheik vastly increased their collective odds. Suddenly, Nick fell silent. A moment passed before Paul realized he was the only person still eating. The others were staring past him. He turned to look. There, framed in the doorway, stood Ava.

In a rapturous instant, all of Paul’s doubts and pain vanished. His heart pounded in his chest and his jaw tightened. Ava shivered. Jumping from his chair, Paul rushed to her. As he neared her, she began to sob. They embraced. Tears ran down her cheeks. Holding her fragile body against his chest, Paul whispered, “Ava, I’m so sorry. I didn’t know what else to do. I know you’re upset. I know how much they meant to you, to archaeology, to history. I’m really, really sorry. I just couldn’t think of anything—”

She pressed a finger against his lips, imploring him to hush. Shaking her head, Ava tried to speak, but the words caught in her throat.

Then DeMaj stepped in. “Why are you apologizing?”

Paul weighed his options. At this point he couldn’t see a reason to keep the disks’ whereabouts secret. He was fairly certain that, thanks to him, the sacred artifacts were lost forever. Of course, if anyone could retrieve the disks from the sea, it was DeMaj. Perhaps Simon wanted the disks for himself. Maybe he’d sell them on the black market. Neither outcome, though, would be worse than the current situation. Then Paul looked down at the woman in his arms. No matter what else happened, Ava was alive. Simon had helped save her. For that single act, even a thousand golden disks were an insufficient reward. Paul lifted his head.

“I lost the artifacts.”

“What artifacts? The jars? You lost the jars?”

“No. Ava solved the puzzle. Inside the jars she found two gold disks inscribed with symbols and ancient writing, but I lost them in the storm. They were in my backpack, and it sank to the bottom. I’m sorry.”

Paul was devastated by Simon’s reaction. He’d seen his boss in some tight spots, but Simon had overcome every problem and adversary. Now DeMaj’s face turned pale. His usual ferocious gaze seemed infected by despair. After several seconds, he spoke in a whisper.

“We’re doomed.”

DeMaj turned and walked listlessly from the kitchen. Then Ava collapsed.

Nick helped Paul carry Ava back to her room. After they laid her on the bed and covered her legs with blankets, Paul asked, “What was that? Why did Simon freak out?”

“He believes in the legend of the lost jars. He says we need them to fight the Antichrist.”

Paul made a face.

“Hey, you asked, I answered, okay? You know him better than I do, but I’ll tell you this: It’s no bluff. DeMaj takes the concept of Armageddon seriously.

Paul shook his head. “Wow. I never pegged him as religious. In fact, I thought he was an atheist.”

“Apparently, he made some kind of Damascene conversion out in the desert.”

Nick left, but Paul stayed with Ava. He clicked on the TV and set it to mute. After zapping through a dozen stations, he settled on Bloomberg News. The NASDAQ was way down, but the dollar was up versus the euro. The Red Sox had begun spring training. Outside the G8 Summit, in La Maddalena, activists gathered to demonstrate. Carrying signs that demanded tax the rich! make them pay! hundreds of protesters had marched through the city, occupied a central piazza, and erected a stage. A free concert was planned under banners proclaiming: putting people before profit.

He heard Ava move. Her eyes fluttered opened.

“Paul?”

“I’m here.”

“Where are we?”

“Capri. You’re safe.”

She took his hand and smiled. Then Ava laughed.

“What’s funny?” he asked.

She pointed at the TV, then kept laughing until that segued into a hoarse coughing fit. On screen, a passionate, balding middle-aged man addressed the crowd outside the G8 Summit. He shook his fist for the cameras and yelled into the microphone.

Ava croaked, “It’s Bagelton!”

“What?”

Before she could explain, Simon poked his head through the doorway. After apologizing for his odd behavior in the kitchen, he asked Ava how she felt.

She looked at the infamous billionaire. He had a distinctive way of speaking. His voice, refined by years of private schools, was a practiced and accomplished instrument of his will, but his accent was unusual. Like something from the past, a rough undercurrent persisted. Each word he spoke was gauged to convey his present emotion (in this case, curiosity), but Ava sensed that the speaker was a shell, almost like a disembodied intelligence.

“I feel fine, Mr. DeMaj. Thank you for rescuing us.”

“It was the least I could do. After all, it was my fault that you were in danger.”

Ava gave him an appraising look. He seemed amused by what seemed to be her suspicion.

“By way of apology, I’d like to treat you all to dinner at one of my favorite restaurants. Ava, I’ve taken the liberty of having some outfits delivered. I hope one of them is to your taste. Paul, the clothes you left behind in Yemen are hanging in your closet.”

Everyone showered and dressed. Afterward they convened in the parlor. Only Sinan and Ammon were absent — they’d hopped across the strait in Zulfiqar to visit the recuperating Sefu. DeMaj poured each guest a stiff cocktail and invited all to sit. A moment later, his companion de jour, the ravishing Mellania, made her entrance. Unprepared, Ava found herself gawking. She recognized the Slovakian from her ubiquitous Vogue covers. A few months ago Mellania’s career had taken a turn for the worse. Rumors of a serious drug habit had made tabloid headlines, prompting several designers to cancel modeling contracts. Shortly thereafter, the DeMaj spin machine launched into action. Mellania held a teary press conference at which she simultaneously denied the allegations and repented her sins. Afterward she spent six well-publicized days at an exclusive Malibu rehab center. Now in recovery, Mellania was supposedly hard at work writing her memoirs, for which she’d been promised a two-million-dollar advance.

Nick and Paul stood and introduced themselves. Polite conversation ensued, then Paul said, “Simon, this afternoon you seemed really upset about the lost artifacts. I’m glad your mood has improved.”

For a beat, no one spoke. Ava and Nick shared a worried look. Then DeMaj broke the silence.

“You’re right. I was upset. I apologize for my reaction. That was rude.”

Paul persisted. “But are you still angry?”

“I’m dismayed by the turn of events, but in the course of my long and interesting career, I’ve learned it’s no use crying over unfortunate circumstances. Instead, we must rise to meet each challenge and make the best of tough situations. What’s the quaint American saying? When life gives you lemons…”

“Make lemonade?”

“Precisely.”

Ava’s curiosity was piqued. “So you have a plan?”

“Indeed. I’ve spoken with the Maltese authorities and offered my assistance in the wake of the tragedy. We must determine the explosion’s cause and track down the criminals responsible. Thus, it’s crucial to examine and possibly raise the sunken catamaran. The Maltese have generously agreed to let me participate in the salvage effort. I’ve also contacted friends in Washington. I prevailed upon the director of the National Oceanographic and Atmospheric Administration to lend me a research vessel for the duration of the investigation. Are you familiar with the Jason ROV?”

Ava nodded.

“As we speak, it’s being refitted with a powerful magnetic scanner. I intend to scour the seabed for clues, as well as for two disks of high-density metal.”

Ava jumped to her feet. “But that’s fundamentally dishonest! We know who’s responsible for the bombing. It was Sheik Ahmed. You’re concealing the truth for personal gain.”

Simon’s expression was stern. “First of all, my dear, we don’t know it was Ahmed. He tops our suspect list, but I fear Sheik Ahmed may be just a lackey, in the service of someone even more dangerous. Of course, I don’t expect the enraged citizens of Malta to accept my word for it. The victims’ families deserve a thorough investigation, and I’m doing everything in my power to ensure that they get one. Prior to the inquest’s completion, I’ll contribute all I know about Ahmed’s possible connection to the attack.”

Ava rolled her eyes. “That doesn’t alter the fact that you’re withholding relevant information until it suits your purposes to reveal it.”

“Has it occurred to you what would happen if we disclosed the artifacts’ existence? Imagine the interminable delays as a horde of petty, self-interested bureaucrats bickered over who has the legal right to salvage.”

“Oh, I see. You believe it’s more efficient and beneficial for a self-interested capitalist to act unilaterally.”

“In this case, considering what’s at stake, I do.”

“And I can only imagine the exorbitant bribe you must have slipped NOAA to get its equipment.”

“Let’s just say the boss owed me a favor.”

“I’ll bet.”

“Ms. Fischer, I don’t claim to be a saint. Yes, I’m willing to break rules when necessary. Many times I’ve employed tactical misdirection, subterfuge, and other tricks to accomplish my objectives. I don’t shrink from doling out an occasional bribe or campaign contribution to the appropriate official, and I have conducted business with unscrupulous characters. This is the life I chose. I don’t apologize for it. Condemn me if you will, but before imposing judgment, shouldn’t you at least consider the people who benefit?”

“Who? Your stockholders?”

Simon laughed. “Yes, some have done very well by investing in my companies. For example, the funds that comprise the Harvard University endowment own a substantial portion of DeMaj preferred stock, but just now I was referring to the lesser-known beneficiaries. We pour hundreds of millions of dollars into the world’s most impoverished regions. By transacting business with dictators and corrupt regimes, I’ve materially improved the lives of thousands — tens of thousands — of actual human beings. Unlike some squeaky-clean, impotent charity, I have the connections, the power, the resources, and the respect to guarantee my money is put to good use. True, a fraction is siphoned off to pay bribes, fight lawsuits, and manufacture favorable public opinion, but the lion’s share generates jobs and creates infrastructure where none existed. We finance the construction of schools, hospitals, and libraries. We’re building five pollution-treatment facilities in North Africa. We’ve endowed university chairs in Egypt and Jordan and co-funded a massive desalination center in the Sudan. In Mozambique and Zimbabwe, we gave our customers and workers free inoculations against malaria, tuberculosis, pneumonia, and meningitis, and, perhaps most important, my projects provide Internet access to millions of destitute, disenfranchised people. Knowledge is power, Ava.”

“But in spite of all your noble efforts, many in Africa have a lower quality of life today than anyone had two hundred years ago.”

“True,” DeMaj conceded. “But is that different from South Asia in the sixties and seventies? Health outcomes are improving. Child mortality is down, and taken as a whole, the continent’s standard of living is up. Not everywhere, of course, not in Congo or Mali, but in Kenya and Ghana, personal incomes have grown dramatically.”

Flushed with emotion, she shot back, “At what cost? What does a man profit if he gains the world but loses his soul.”

DeMaj met her stare. “When you’re young and innocent, it’s easy to be critical. Because you’ve done nothing, you’ve done nothing wrong. Later, as you mature, you discover innocence was never an option. The key question isn’t ‘How many sins have I avoided?’ Instead, ask: ‘What have I created? What have I improved? How much good have I accomplished?’”

Ava was silent. Paul could see that Simon’s haymaker had connected. She teetered on the brink of surrender, then rallied: “I fear your argument proves too much. Without ethical principles or boundaries, all is permitted. If nothing matters except results, you can rationalize every criminal transgression and justify every selfish indulgence.”

Ava continued, confident now. “For example, what social good was accomplished when you bought this ostentatious villa and rented a washed-up supermodel?”

Simon stiffened. Nick almost spat out his scotch.

“Enough!” Paul said, taking Ava’s hand. “I’m starving. Let’s table this discussion until after dinner, okay?” Glancing at Simon, he asked, “By the way, where are we eating?”

DeMaj swallowed his anger and smiled. “Do you know the place where the lemon trees bloom?”

The chauffeur brought Simon’s gleaming silver Maybach 62 S from the garage. Paul, Ava, Simon, and Mellania rode in back; Nick sat up front with the driver. As the others socialized, Ava gazed out through the tinted glass. She was impressed by the island’s beauty and tranquillity, but Simon’s argument reverberated in her mind. Though she hated to admit it, DeMaj had a point. Notwithstanding all her talents and abilities and despite her world-class education, she’d accomplished nothing that actually mattered, nothing that improved people’s lives. As the sun dissolved into the horizon, she wondered if she’d chosen the right path.

Ava’s thoughts were interrupted by the already-intoxicated Mellania braying that everyone must have another drink. The car’s tiny wet bar featured a variety of miniature bottles. Giggling, the Slovakian bent over the seat, popped a piccolo of champagne, and filled two foaming glasses. Leering, she offered Paul a flute, allowing her arm to graze his chest as she moved. When he accepted, Ava felt a flicker in her abdomen. Nodding to the model, Paul said, “Thanks, Mel, but I prefer something less bubbly,” and with a conspiratorial wink, he handed the drink to Ava. She felt dizzy.

Minutes later the car arrived at Da Paolino, a restaurant on the Marina Grande known for its Caprese cuisine. The owner met Simon at the door and led them to a table on the patio within a grove of delightful lemon trees. Ava smiled, noting that several menu items incorporated fresh lemon. Music played in the kitchen. Edith Piaf sang and an accordion bellowed. When the wine arrived, Simon raised his glass.

“Cento di questi giorni!”

They drank the toast and began to eat. Ava started with a salad of sliced mozzarella, vine-ripened tomatoes, and basil. Sautéed ravioli stuffed with fresh cacciotta (a soft-textured, mild-flavored cheese) was her main course. Between bites, Ava looked at Paul. If his freshly shorn head made him self-conscious, it certainly didn’t inhibit his appetite. He demolished a titan’s portion of spicy pirciati (pasta with anchovies, lemon, onion, garlic, capers, black olives, basil, tomato, and pepper), a spinach salad, and three glasses of Sancerre.

When Simon had finished off his rigatoni with sautéed pumpkin flowers, he leaned back, smiled, and turned to Ava. “How was your supper, Ms. Fischer?”

“Marvelous, Mr. DeMaj. Thank you. You’re a generous host.”

“My pleasure.”

“As much as I’ve enjoyed this sumptuous meal, though, I can’t impose further on your hospitality. How soon can we leave your home?”

He took her question in stride.

“What’s the rush? Officially, you’re still considered lost at sea. You never had legal permission to enter Italy, so it might be tricky to depart. Furthermore, I believe the Egyptian government has taken an interest in your whereabouts.”

Paul met his eyes. “We’re innocent of those charges and you know it.”

“Of course, of course. It’s just a technicality. My lawyers are working diligently to resolve the situation. In the meantime, may I suggest you try to enjoy a brief vacation on Capri?”

Ava began to argue but then stopped. “I suppose we can tolerate a few days here.”

DeMaj smiled. “You like the island?”

“I agree with Emperor Tiberius’s opinion. It’s spectacular.”

“Yes, Tiberius loved Capri. He spent the final ten years of his reign enjoying its serenity. Did you know he founded the first archaeological museum here?”

She nodded.

“Of course, Tiberius wasn’t the only emperor to appreciate Capri’s delights.”

“Didn’t Augustus vacation here?”

“Yes. And Caligula. Each built a villa on the island.”

Nick laughed. “I’ve heard some crazy things about Caligula.”

Ava adroitly changed the subject. “Did you know,” she asked everyone at the table, “that Capri wasn’t always an island?”

“How’s that?” Paul said. “The strait must be five kilometers wide. Did the Romans build a giant causeway or something?”

Ava smiled. “No. According to Strabo, Capri was part of mainland Italy. When the sea level rose, it became an island.”

“Well, I think Strabo is full of it,” Paul joked.

“Yeah,” Mellania giggled, beaming at Paul across the table. “Me too.”

Ava’s face colored. Her lips thinned into an expression of disgust. Under the table she clenched her napkin and thought about strangling the empty-headed tramp.

“Regardless,” said Simon, watching Ava closely, “it’s an island now, and for that I’m thankful.”

She turned to look at him. “Yes, I’m sure you prefer it this way. Keeps out the proletariat.”

He lifted his hands in a supplicant’s gesture. “If Mother Nature saw fit to provide a moat, who am I to object?”

“Of course, it’s no impediment for the right kind of visitors, meaning those with private yachts.”

“I don’t own a yacht, mademoiselle.”

“Oh, right. I forgot. You don’t need one. You own a helicopter. Or do you have two?”

“I own twenty.”

Ava gasped. “Twenty?”

“Simon collects helicopters,” Paul said, hoping to defuse the situation. “It’s one of his passions.”

Despite herself, Ava was impressed. “You collect helicopters?”

DeMaj angled his head to one side and shrugged as only a Frenchman can — an expression of modest pride with a hint of carelessness.

“Would you care to see my collection?”

After dessert they thanked the restaurant’s owner for a splendid meal. Simon’s driver was outside, flirting with a hostess. Spotting DeMaj, the chauffeur ended his conversation and hurried to start the car. Ava took Paul’s arm, casually ensuring that Mellania couldn’t sidle in between them. The car sped back to the villa. After clearing the security gate the driver veered away from the house and approached a large, windowless structure built into the hillside. Simon typed a code into a recessed keypad and the automatic door opened. They entered a cavernous hangar full of helicopters.

With obvious pride, Simon jumped from the car and led his guests toward a Bell 47 Sioux AH1, his first purchase. Powered by a six-cylinder turbocharged engine, the Sioux had flown in Cyprus with the United Nations. Adjacent was a Sud-Ouest SO.1221 Djinn, built at Rochefort for the French army. Simon found the retired ’59 Djinn in a storage facility at Versailles-Satory and restored it to glory. Nearby were two German helicopters: a Bölkow Bo.102, the first helicopter built in the Federal Republic after World War II, and an MBB Bo.105M, designed by Messerchmitt-Bölkow-Blohm for police and air ambulance.

“The 105 was a light-attack helicopter,” Simon said, enthusiasm apparent in his tone. “This one was operated by the West German army.”

Mellania stifled a yawn; Simon ignored it.

As he went on and on, extolling the technical merits of his ’56 Bell 47H (one of only thirty-four built), Ava noted her companions’ glazed expressions and experienced a moment of clarity. Is this how she sounded when talking about history? In the future, Ava resolved, she’d pay more attention to her audience and avoid smothering them with extraneous detail.

Meanwhile, Simon had directed attention to his modern exhibits. Conspicuous was an Aérospatiale SA-330 Puma that had participated in Opération Daguet.

“And this is my sentimental favorite.” He gestured toward a helicopter displayed on a concrete riser: “The AS 565 Panther.” Stepping up, he placed a loving hand on the craft’s fuselage. “In eighty-two, I commanded one in Lebanon. We survived some tight scrapes.” For a moment, Simon was lost in reverie.

Ava whispered, “Is he for real?”

Paul nodded. “Simon loves helicopters. They’re his children.”

“Does he still fly?”

“Hell, yeah! He’s a legit ace. He keeps all these birds in top condition, and occasionally he takes one for a spin. Whatever else you think of him, never doubt his piloting skills. Simon can really fly.”

Noticing a locked doorway, Nick asked, “What’s in there?”

DeMaj cocked an eyebrow. With a sly grin, he whispered, “Nothing that’s included on the public tour.” He pulled an electronic passkey from his jacket, swiped the door, and ushered his guests into a dark antechamber. When Simon flipped on the lights, they beheld a jet-black aerodynamic machine.

Impressed, Nick whistled. “Is that what I think it is?”

“May I present the RAH-66 Comanche prototype. Assembled in Boeing-Sikorsky’s Stratford, Connecticut, facility, it first flew on January 4, 1996. Only four were completed before the U.S. Congress canceled the program.”

“It must be worth a fortune!”

Pleased to have an appreciative listener, Simon expounded on the topic. “Well, the Comanche is state of the art. The LHTEC engines are shielded against infrared. Its composite airframe incorporates several antidetection features: silent running, stealth faceting, energy-absorbent materials. It’s effectively invisible to radar.”

“And, I presume, illegal for a private citizen to own,” said Ava.

“Officially, this helicopter does not exist.” Simon smiled. “But I have friends in the industry.”

“I’d love to see it fly,” Nick said.

Simon beamed. “I’m free tomorrow after five o’clock. Why don’t we pop over to Naples for some pizza?”

“Are you serious?”

“Of course. I can accommodate two passengers, provided you don’t mind getting cozy. Care to join us, Mellania?”

She demurred.

“But wouldn’t that be an act of war or something? A Comanche has to be loaded with classified missiles and technology,” said Nick.

“Oh, no. We’ll have no problems. True, some design elements are classified, but the U.S. military removed all armaments, countermeasures, and combat equipment long before I took possession. Despite what you may have heard, I’m not in the munitions business.”

Ava and Paul left the hangar together and strolled toward the villa. The main house, perched atop a high precipice, had been constructed to take advantage of the view. Hand in hand, the Americans walked to the cliff and peered over the edge. It was a stunning drop. Hundreds of feet below, waves battered ancient boulders. A boreal wind gusted in from the sea. Ava shivered, visualizing slaves thrown to their death by a sadistic emperor.

“Can we go back?” she asked. “It’s getting chilly.”

Paul took off his coat and draped it over her shoulders. “Follow me.”

He led her through a sliding door into an airy gallery decorated with Hokusai prints. Ava relaxed. It was much warmer inside. She stopped to admire a striking Shirabyŏshi dancer. Something about the woman’s attire sparked a question in Ava’s mind.

“Paul, did you come up with that anagram: hat bag?”

He looked sheepish. “No. I can’t take credit for that. Hatbag was Simon’s code name for our dig in Israel. I had no idea what it meant until he explained. I figured you’d love it because you’re both…”

Her voice turned cool. “We’re both what?”

“Look, don’t take this the wrong way…”

Her eyes narrowed.

“But you remind me of him sometimes.”

Ava scoffed. “I hope you don’t expect me to be flattered.”

“No. I mean, I know you think he’s an evil capitalist.”

“I’m hardly alone in that judgment.”

“Right, and I don’t mean to offend. Obviously, you’re a much better person. I’m just saying you’re alike in some ways. I bet you have a lot of common interests.”

Disgusted, Ava stomped off to bed. Paul started to follow, but another print, one depicting a clumsy chess player, reminded him of Sefu. Out of habit, Paul glanced at his wrist. Was it too late to call the clinic? As Ava vanished into the adjoining chamber, Paul exhaled. Someday she’d get to know Simon. The two of them would probably while away countless hours discussing Tintoretto, Sobek, Charlemagne, and Thales. Then maybe she’d understand.

Midnight found Simon and Nick seated across a chessboard. DeMaj opened with the King’s Gambit, sacrificing a pawn to gain a commanding position. Sipping his single malt, Nick mounted a vigorous counterattack, but on the twenty-seventh move, he faced a dilemma: whether to exchange his active knight for a defensive bishop. After some thought, Nick passed on the exchange and retreated his piece. Pouncing, Simon advanced his queen. “Mate in six,” he announced.

Nick slumped. Then, straightening his back, he began to reset the board. Glancing up, he caught his opponent in a smirk.

“Don’t get cocky, DeMaj. I play better after I take my first lick.”

Simon laughed. “Like Masséna.”

“Who?”

“Marshal Masséna was a brilliant tactician, perhaps Napoleon’s best field commander. Bonaparte said Masséna was useless until the first cannons fired, then he became a lion.”

“Sounds like my kind of guy.”

“Mine too,” Simon agreed. “Nick, you play well, but withdrawing your knight was a mistake.”

“I felt vulnerable.”

“Conquer that fear. Use it to your advantage. Weak players shy away from open, complex positions because they dread the unknown. They tie themselves in knots to avoid exposing their king, afraid the essential piece will be caught in the crossfire, and to be sure, common sense supports this habit. Superlative players, on the other hand, embrace complexity, seizing opportunities to attack from unexpected angles. Create confusion, then let your opponent’s aggression work against him. Tempt him into rash moves by risking something precious. In my experience, a queen standing brazenly undefended often lures the enemy into a fatal error.”

Nick pushed himself back from the table and gave Simon a long, appraising look. After a moment, DeMaj inclined his head and said, “Shall we play again?”