The Cana Mystery

Chapter 16

Regal Constantine rode through his camp near Prima Porta. He dismounted, went into his tent, and allowed a valet to remove his armor. Then, exhausted, he collapsed and ordered a bath. The strategist reclined his head and reflected. It had been an interesting year: Only seven months ago, he gathered this army, crossed the Cottian Alps, and conquered northern and central Italy. Beloved by the people, Constantine advanced slowly along the Via Flaminia, watching the opposition’s morale deteriorate and achieving many victories without bloodshed.

Now he faced a true challenge. His enemy, Maxentius, controlled Rome and the Praetorian Guards. Though the populace despised Maxentius, the city was well fortified, stocked with African grain, and protected by the almost impregnable Aurelian Walls. Constantine’s advisers expected Maxentius to sit tight, as he had during the invasion of Severus in 307 and of Galerius in 308. Constantine knew the city’s defenses were formidable and that they could withstand any siege. A new stratagem was required.

A guard shouted: “Augustus! A message!”

Constantine accepted the letter and, recognizing his mother’s seal, ripped it open. Flavia Iulia Helena was a remarkable woman. Born a stable maid, she had used her wits and charm to rise in society, eventually marrying the governor of Dalmatia. Since his death she’d spent most of her time unearthing relics in Jerusalem.

“Beloved Son,” he read, “I write today from Palestine, near the site of Christ’s tomb. Please accept Bishop Macarius as my emissary and grant him an audience. He brings an offer of certain victory over the forces of evil.”

Constantine raised an eyebrow. Certain victory?

“Macarius carries relics of astonishing power,” she continued. “They can render your army invincible, if its cause is just. Son, I know you believe the Empire should tolerate all religions. To prove your sincerity, swear two things: First, promise to extend the religious freedom you granted Gaul, Spain, and Britain to the entire Empire. Second, promise to honor the Christian God by razing the vulgar temple Hadrian built near Calvary and constructing a grand cathedral in its stead. May divine favor preserve your successes together with the good of the state. May God grant you victory!”

He pondered the unusual offer. His first thought was to disregard it as mere superstition, but he’d learned to value his mother’s counsel. She’d advised his father and helped him achieve great things. He understood her appeal for religious freedom. Helena was a devout Christian, a follower of a faith that was illegal throughout most of the empire. Politically, it would be difficult to legalize Christianity, but if the offer was legitimate…

“Summon the emissary,” Constantine ordered. The guards ushered in Bishop Macarius, who bowed respectfully.

“I’m told you bring powerful relics. Show me.”

Constantine gazed in wonder at the shining disks, each golden as the sun, and listened to angelic voices. Two scribes, one Greek, one Roman, translated the message. When Constantine heard “In this sign, you will conquer,” he knew just what to do. That night, as his troops prepared for battle, Constantine commanded them to paint a new sigil on their shields: chi (X) crossed by rho (P).

Wicked Maxentius brooded in his palace. His situation was dire. The populace was beginning to support that son of a harlot Constantine. Citizens cheered for him, shouting acclamations during circus games. At the afternoon chariot races, spectators taunted Maxentius, chanting that Constantine was invincible. Maxentius knew Rome’s defenses could withstand a long siege, but if the people turned against him, he might not survive.

A messenger approached.

“What news?”

“Master, the keepers of the Sibylline Books have seen a prophecy. It foretells that the enemy of Rome will die tomorrow, on the anniversary of your accession.”

Maxentius was elated. He believed his anniversary to be a lucky day. Confident of victory, he issued bold new orders: “Prepare the army. Tomorrow we march north to defeat Constantine in open battle. We’ll see who is invincible.”

Maxentius crossed the Milvian Bridge, a stone structure carrying the Via Flaminia across the Tiber. Holding the bridge was crucial to defending Rome. He organized his force, which was twice the size of Constantine’s, into long lines with their backs to the river.

Soon, Constantine’s soldiers appeared. Instead of traditional standards, their shields displayed the mysterious new insignia. The army deployed along the length of Maxentius’s line and attacked. It was not a long battle: Constantine’s cavalry routed that of Maxentius. Constantine then sent his infantry, who pushed the rest of Maxentius’s troops into the Tiber. Many were slaughtered or drowned. The disciplined praetorians at first held, but under relentless assault they finally broke. Fearing defeat, Maxentius ordered a retreat. Only one escape route remained: the bridge. Then, miraculously, the bridge collapsed. All of Maxentius’s soldiers were killed or taken prisoner. Maxentius himself drowned in an attempt to swim across the river.

Constantine entered the city in triumph. Jubilant that the enemy of Rome had finally been defeated, crowds celebrated their new emperor’s grand entrance, parading Maxentius’s severed head through the streets. Constantine returned seized property, recalled exiles, released political prisoners, and offered the Senate a role in his government. He forgave Maxentius’s supporters and vowed to extend religious tolerance throughout the empire. In response, the Senate proclaimed him “the greatest Augustus.”

For almost thirty years Constantine traveled with the golden disks and marched under the chi-rho symbol, which came to be known as the Labarum. Thus armed, he achieved victories at Cibalae, Adrianople, the Hellespont, and Chrysopolis. After Constantine’s death, the sacred relics remained in Rome, protecting the Eternal City from evil.

Gabe burst into Jess’s bedroom. She grabbed a towel and covered herself. Gabe hadn’t even noticed that she was naked. He locked the door behind him. “How high is the balcony?”

“What? Why do you—”

“Those men are outside! Can we climb down?”

She shook her head. “I don’t think so.”

Furious, Gabe ran his hands through his hair, trying to think. Jess pointed to her bathroom. “How about that window?”

He raced into the tiny room. Its tiled floor was covered with dirty laundry and towels. Just outside the window was a big swamp oak. One branch looked close enough to reach. Standing on the toilet, he unlatched the window and tried to lift it, but several coats of paint had sealed it shut. After quickly donning jeans and a sweatshirt, Jess rushed to help. She locked the door as Gabe drew a Swiss Army knife from his pocket, flipped it open, and began gouging into cracks. Seconds later the two of them heaved against the pane. Wood split with a loud crack. Holding the window open, Gabe kicked the mesh screen. It bent, snapped off, and dropped. Involuntarily, Jess gulped.

Someone was now rapping on the apartment door.

“Hurry!”

Taking Jess’s hand, Gabe helped her up. Nervously, she poked her bare feet through the opening, then, with a dancer’s grace, eased herself out. Balanced on the sill, she let her heels glide across the dry stucco ledge until they wedged against a decorative corner piece. Gripping tightly, Jess looked down. She’d be lucky to survive, she thought. She studied the oak. Its closest branch was four feet away though it seemed miles. Jess glanced back at Gabe, eyes asking if this evacuation was absolutely necessary. As if in reply, the apartment door crashed open.

“Go, you’ll make it,” Gabe said urgently.

Jess took a breath and jumped.

She hit the branch hard, scraping her cheek and biting her tongue. Rough bark bit into her skin. Terrified, she hugged the tree and tasted warm blood. With supreme effort, Jess overcame her fear and began inching down the trunk. She found a solid foothold and descended the next stage with relative ease, moving from branch to branch. Ten feet aboveground she chose a sturdy limb, let herself hang from it, and then dropped to the ground.

After determining that no bones had broken, Jess watched her heavyset friend try to replicate her actions. Feeling helpless, she stage-whispered encouragement, but it was useless. He’d snagged a belt loop on the latch. The bathroom door gave way and angry voices shouted in Arabic. Desperate, Gabe leaped headlong through the opening, clawed the nearest branch, swung, and tried to wrap his legs around the trunk. Unable to bear his weight, the limb snapped, and Gabe fell three stories.

Inside Simon’s villa Paul strode back and forth, occasionally peering over Ava’s shoulder or out the window.

She raised her eyes from the notebook. “Will you please stop pacing? You’re driving me crazy.”

“What? Oh, sorry. Are you almost done?”

“I told you!”

“I know, I know. Horribly complex, two thousand years old, et cetera, but are you at a stopping place? I really want to go.”

“Not now. Let me finish this stanza.”

He swore. “Will you please just indulge me?”

She looked at him.

“Maybe I’m getting paranoid, but I haven’t seen any security guards around. That feels wrong. Even if Tomás went to Naples, Simon would have left someone.”

Ava opened her mouth to argue. Paul was jumping to conclusions. Then she reconsidered. Paul’s intuition was usually on target. Maybe he was right.

“What do you have in mind?”

“I bet the Piccolo Bar is still open. Can you finish the translation there?”

Ava gave in. She gathered her papers and they made for the gatehouse. As they rounded the final corner, Ava froze. Two men, armed with identical SPAS-12s, patrolled the driveway. She recognized one immediately: He’d followed her in Yemen, and she’d never forget his frightening face. Like a specter from her nightmares, he opened his mouth to reveal sharp, wolfish teeth.

As the man raised his weapon, Paul reacted with lightning speed. Gripping Ava’s arm, he yanked her back behind the building. “Follow me,” he said. “Run!”

Concealed by a retaining wall, they hurried uphill on a narrow path that tracked the cliff’s edge. Far below, waves thundered against crags. Not far behind, the pursuers’ footfalls pounded closer. Paul raced ahead, rounded the final corner, and cut toward the main house, but as he broached the illuminated portico, two silhouettes appeared. Soon he could distinguish their features. The first man, dark-skinned and lean, was a stranger. The second was Sheik Ahmed.

Paul skidded to a stop. Unprepared, Ava slammed into him but Paul barely noticed. Rather, shielding her with his broad body, he backed away from Ahmed. The sheik advanced.

The Americans retreated to the cliff, hoping to escape the way they’d come. Unfortunately, their path was blocked by the men with guns. Backed up against the precipice, they were trapped.

Keeping Ava behind him, Paul lifted his arms and announced, “Okay, Ahmed. You win. Let her go and I’ll surrender.”

The sheik smiled. “How gallant. Sadly, you’re in no position to negotiate.”

“I stole the jars. I’m the one you want. She had nothing to do with it.”

Pleasure radiated from Ahmed’s eyes. He raised his weapon.

Paul’s mind raced. “Wait!” he said. “What about the disks? I know where they’re hidden. I’ll lead you to them.”

Ahmed shook his head. “You’re a miserable liar, Mr. Grant.” Glancing over his right shoulder, he continued: “Besides, my spy confirms that the artifacts were lost at sea.”

Slowly, a third figure materialized out of the shadows to stand beside the sheik. Her posture proud, Mellania gave them a cold smile.

“Surprised?” she asked.

Realizing how thoroughly they had been betrayed, Paul’s shoulders sagged.

The sheik laughed, enjoying Paul’s despair. “You see, Barakah? Never trust a woman. It’s her nature to deceive.”

The wind howled and the surf hammered the rocky shore. Ahmed clicked the safety off his pistol.

Suddenly, Ava shouted. “Wait!”

Paul turned. A vision of courage, she was balanced on the ledge. Long hair blowing in the gale, eyes bright with defiance, she extended an arm to dangle her notebook over the edge.

“I know why your master covets the jars. I know why he forbade you to destroy them. He has a secret. The jars hid that secret for two thousand years, but I deciphered it. Shoot now, and his prize is lost.”

The sheik’s smile dissolved into a sneer. “Insolent girl. You think a schoolgirl’s scribbles matter to him? Our victory is preordained.”

“You know I’m right, Ahmed. He’s vulnerable. He’s scared. Why else send his best agent? Lose the secret, and you fail him. Tell me, what’s the Beast’s penalty for failure?”

Fear showed in the sheik’s eyes. For a second Paul thought Ava’s gambit would succeed. Instead, their enemy regained his composure. “No. We cannot fail. Victory is certain. Kill them. Kill them both.”

As he issued the command, a powerful voice roared in challenge.

“Ahmed!”

From the darkness, Sinan attacked. He took the first gunman by surprise and shoved him off the cliff. The Yemeni reacted faster. He dodged Sinan’s blow, pivoted, and raised his gun, but an instant before it fired Sinan grabbed the barrel, diverting his aim. Sinan ripped the weapon from his opponent’s hands. Like Ariosto’s Orlando in fury, he raised the gun above his head, reared, and clubbed his adversary’s face. Unconscious or dead, the man dropped. Sinan turned. Eyes burning with rage, he charged.

Ahmed fired. His first bullet clipped Sinan’s thigh. The second shot flew wide, but the third shattered Sinan’s wrist and the fourth opened his stomach. He collapsed. With a sadistic smile, Ahmed continued firing, emptying the clip. When the gunshots finally stopped, he ejected the spent magazine. “Finish them, Barakah.”

The lieutenant aimed. Desperate to save Ava, Paul played his final card. Whispering a prayer, he pulled the bishop’s amulet from his neck and held it before them like a shield. The talisman had no effect on the sheik, but when Barakah saw it, he paused. Then, to Paul’s shock, he pointed his weapon at Ahmed. Though Barakah’s mission was incomplete, the sacred amulet signified that it was time to reveal his true allegiance.

Sheik Ahmed’s jaw dropped in disbelief. Then he erupted in a paroxysm of grotesque laughter. Spittle flew from his lips as he raved, “You fool! You weakling! You’ve damned yourself! Can’t you see that the master’s triumph is inevitable?”

Barakah shook his head. In a calm, confident voice, he said, “No. Your master will fall. It is written.”

Fury blazed in Ahmed’s eyes. Nostrils flaring, he said, “You’re blind. Nothing that happens here matters. The infidel leaders have already gathered. Three hours after sunrise, the master will touch a button and blast them all to hell.”

Barakah was unmoved. “There’s still time for you to save yourself. Reveal the master’s plan. Renounce Satan, and your life can be redeemed.”

The wind gusted savagely now, tearing at their clothes. Sheik Ahmed seemed to consider the offer. Then, quick as an asp, he dropped the Ruger, pulled a knife, and whipped his arm around Mellania’s thin neck. Pressing the blade to her jugular, he began to back away.

Barakah raised his weapon. “It’s no use, Ahmed. I’ll kill her. I won’t let you escape. Surrender is your only option.”

The sheik grinned. “Sorry, friend, but that’s a lie. You’re not strong enough to sacrifice her. Your spirit is crippled by mercy.”

Barakah hesitated. Ava was sure he’d pull the trigger. Instead, he lowered the pistol.

Smiling victoriously, Ahmed backed his hostage down the narrow walk. “Prepare yourselves, cowards. Tomorrow, in the bloody aftermath, humanity will crave a strong leader. When the world sees a mushroom cloud, people will beg for safety and security at any cost. Then he shall rise in glory. Then he shall reign!”

As he spoke, a massive shadow rose from behind the cliff, obscuring the stars and casting all into darkness. Mellania screamed in horror. Startled, Ahmed released his captive and turned. He took only a second to comprehend the threat, but that hesitation was fatal. Barakah fired twice. Both bullets slammed home, shattering Ahmed’s rib cage and spinning him around. Barakah fired a third round. It caught Ahmed’s throat, which sprayed dark blood. Gasping, the sheik staggered. He lost his footing, slipped over the edge, and plummeted three hundred feet into the Tyrrhenian Sea.

At Boston Police Headquarters, a uniformed officer carrying a stack of papers entered the dispatch center and announced, “Here’s another fifteen.”

“No kidding.”

He snorted. “How many is that?”

“Faxes? About a hundred.”

“Hell! All alike?”

“Basically. Each hails from a different phone number, but they contain the same warning.”

“Terrorists are attacking Cambridge?”

“Yep. With machine guns. It’s got to be a hoax.”

“Who’d send a hundred faxes as a hoax?”

“Stupid college kids. Some are still angry about the Lite-Brite deal, some just love to prank the police. Did you know they put a squad car on top of MIT’s Great Dome? Here, look at this.” He opened the departmental e-mail. “In the last quarter hour, we’ve received scores of messages with the same subject line. Plus one crazy nine-one-one call.”

“What do we do?”

“I still say it’s a hoax, but we can’t take chances. Call the sergeant detective. If she says roll, we roll.”

The second he knew Ava was safe, Paul ran to help their fallen comrade. He knelt, cradled Sinan’s head in his hands, and tried to administer some aid. Ava watched and then the silent helicopter landed just behind them. A door snapped open. Nick leaped out to assist Paul. Moments later, Simon emerged. Weeping and wailing, Mellania ran to embrace him. Ignoring her, DeMaj hurried to check on Ava. His face livid with concern, he took her hand and asked, “Are you hurt? Did they touch you?”

She shook her head, then pointed at Mellania. “She betrayed us.”

Simon’s jaw clenched. He threw an arctic glance at the Slovakian, his expression revealing infinite contempt. Terrified, Mellania fell back, turned, and tried to run off, but Barakah was on her instantly. He twisted her wrist, lowered his sobbing prisoner to the ground, and secured her arms behind her back.

Once Barakah had her under control, DeMaj directed his attention to Sinan. “How bad is it, Paul?”

“Critical. Call an ambulance!”

Simon was already dialing. He connected with the A.S.L. Anacarpi via a private number and advised them to prep for an emergency patient. Gore flowed from numerous wounds. His ruptured femoral vein and artery fed a bloody pool so deep that it reflected scarlet-tainted moonlight. Paul removed his shirt and began ripping it into strips. He used some cotton to stanch the bleeding and wrapped an improvised tourniquet around Sinan’s leg. Then, using a branch Nick had broken from a sapling, Paul twisted it tight.

“Where’d you learn that?”

“Boy Scouts.”

Just then Sinan coughed blood. Wheezing, he drew a shallow breath. His eyelids fluttered open. Catching sight of Paul, he whispered, “Ahmed?”

“Dead.”

Despite the pain, the Arab smiled. Whispering mektoub, he relaxed his muscles and let his eyes slip shut.

Nick went white. “Is he gone?”

Paul checked Sinan’s vitals. “Just unconscious, but his pulse is very weak. I wouldn’t expect—”

Nick shook his head. “Don’t say it.”

Rather than wait for an ambulance, Simon ordered his chauffeur to bring the Maybach, and they then loaded Sinan into its plush backseat. Nick insisted on riding along, blaming himself for the Arab’s involvement. After impressing the circumstances’ urgency upon his driver, DeMaj passed Nick a roll of five-hundred-euro notes to ensure that the doctors gave Sinan their undivided attention. Wishing the passengers good luck and Godspeed, he watched the car disappear down the road.

With all her might Jess struggled to pull her injured friend upright. “Gabe, please!” she begged. “Try to walk! Help me!”

His reply was a howl. Shards of pink bone protruded from his shin. Jess gagged and fought the urge to vomit. Succumbing to panic, she shivered. Stupid! If only she’d grabbed a phone! In her mind’s eye she envisioned her mobile resting uselessly on the bed table. Then taking a deep breath, Jess cleared her mind of doubt and steeled her will to the task at hand.

“Get up right now, Gabriel,” she ordered. “I will not tolerate this display of weakness. On your feet!” To her surprise, he obeyed. Moaning, Gabe pushed up from the blood-soaked ground, balanced on his good leg, and tried to walk. Seizing the opportunity, Jess wedged herself under his meaty arm, letting him use her body as a crutch.

“Come on now, Gabriel, move! One, two, step! One, two, step! One, two, step!”

It worked. They eased from the slippery ground and onto the pavement. With each stride Jess shouted, insulted, harassed, and cajoled Gabe into going farther. She intuited that if he rested, even for a second, he’d pass out. One, two, step! Her goal was in sight: a tall hedgerow. He could flop down behind it, concealed from view, while she ran for help. It was only twenty feet. If they could reach it before—

Someone yelled. Jess understood enough Arabic to know that she’d been ordered to halt. She turned her head. A bearded man stood on her balcony, aiming an automatic rifle.

Having received Simon’s permission to interrogate Mellania privately, Barakah handcuffed her and led her into the main house. After they were gone, Ava asked, “Is that wise?”

“The lieutenant promised to share any information he obtains,” DeMaj said.

“And you’re sure he’ll keep his word?”

“Why? You suspect Barakah’s a triple agent?”

Squeezing in next to Paul on the loveseat, Ava thought about the question. “No, I trust him. He saved our lives, but Mellania might be able to manipulate him. Ahmed indicated that Barakah has a certain… sensitivity toward women. The interrogation might be more effective if we all participate.”

DeMaj shrugged. “Question her if you want, but I’ll never speak to her again. Besides, she won’t know anything useful.”

“Why not?”

Simon crossed the room to adjust a wall-mounted shoji board autographed by Habu. Once it was level, he said, “Because she’s a traitor. Our adversary would never reveal plans to a traitor, no matter how lovely her exterior. I’d wager that only Ahmed and the master knew the details. The former is gone and I doubt,” he said, gazing at Ava, “that the latter has a weakness for women.”

For Jess, the decision was clear: She wouldn’t cooperate. If a machine gun was fired in the middle of Cambridge, it would summon the police faster than any phone call. Ignoring the man’s orders, she forced Gabe to continue, step by bloody, agonizing step, toward the relative safety of the hedge. Gritting her teeth, Jess cringed, expecting gunshots. None came.

Her spirit soared. “Come on, Gabe. Don’t quit now. Keep moving. One, two, step!” Stealing a glance behind her, she observed the gunman. Instead of aiming his rifle, he was waving furiously. For a moment, Jess was confused. Then something dreadful dawned. He was signaling an accomplice. Her peripheral vision detected movement. Rounding the building’s far corner, a second gunman approached.

Standing behind the wet bar, DeMaj set up three glasses and opened a leaded-crystal ship’s decanter. While Simon poured each of them a double brandy, Paul called Nick. Sinan’s prognosis was bleak; the doctors gave him little chance of survival.

Dispirited, Paul let the telephone drop. Simon gave him a glass and put a comforting hand on his shoulder. “Chin up, Paul. If he’s meant to live, he’ll live. If not, mektoub. It was God’s will.”

Ava frowned. Noting her reaction, Simon said, “Ms. Fischer, have you contemplated the sacred jars’ true significance?”

“Of course. Historically, their importance was immense.”

“No, I’m speaking of their theological significance. Why was the prophecy placed in these artifacts?”

She began to think. A powerful notion entered her mind. Before it crystalized, Simon spoke again.

“In the Gospel of John, Christ utters a remark that at first glance seems out of character. He asks his beloved mother: ‘Woman, why do you involve me? You know it’s not my time!’ Why would Jesus say that?”

The question hung in the air.

“Was it because with Christ’s gift of foresight, he knows the brutal manner in which his human life will end? Perhaps the mortal part of Jesus is afraid.” said Simon.

Paul nodded.

“So, Jesus wants to put off his fate for a bit longer, but that’s not God’s plan. Instead, Christ pushes aside selfish desires and performs his first miracle, initiating a ministry that will transform the world. The miracle at Cana is the moment when Jesus accepts his destiny.”

“How is that relevant?”

“We too have a destiny. We can embrace our fate with courage or we can flee from it in terror. Either way, inexorably, destiny will find us.”

Paul looked at his former boss.

DeMaj sighed. “I know. I know. I’ve always been a skeptical empiricist. Now I’m preaching. Recent events have caused me to, shall we say, reconsider. I’m sure of one thing: Sinan believes in destiny. If he passes tonight, he’ll die content. He kept his vow.”

“What vow?” Ava asked.

“Years ago, he swore to defeat his blood enemy and avenge his child’s death.”

She gasped. “Ahmed killed his child?”

“Sinan’s teenage son was a heroin addict. In 1998 he injected a hot dose. The sheik was his dealer.”

Tears pooled in Ava’s eyes. Paul took her hand. Then he raised his glass. “To Sinan: His friend is my friend, his enemy is my enemy.”

The master rose before the sun. He stood in the dark room and stretched. This would be a day to be remembered. Years of planning and millions invested would finally bear fruit. Today’s bold action would be the capstone to the decades-long strategy of tension he’d helped orchestrate. By tonight, his ultimate goal and birthright would be within reach. Father would be proud!

Though he’d never actually served in the armed forces, the master dressed in a crisp military uniform. He left his private chambers and went out to mingle with the troops. He saw excitement and anticipation written on their young faces. Many suspected the Gruppo’s fabled Plan of Rebirth would begin today, although none knew exactly what that entailed. Smiling, he shook hands with some officers and saluted others. So many fierce patriots! So many beautiful martyrs!

A bit later, Lieutenant Barakah returned. Simon offered him brandy, but the devout Muslim took only water. After he’d quenched his thirst, Ava asked, “What news?”

The Egyptian rubbed his face, visibly exhausted. “Mellania doesn’t know anything.”

“And Tomás?” Simon asked icily. “Did she kill him?”

“No. She slipped GHB into his drink. Your man’s been unconscious for hours, but he’ll recover.”

“What will happen to her?”

Barakah glanced at DeMaj. “With your permission, sir, I’ll turn her over to the carabinieri. She’ll be charged with assault, conspiracy to murder, and violating parole.”

Simon nodded. “Did she say anything about the master?”

“No. She’s never met or even spoken to him. Almost nobody has, except Ahmed. That’s a major source of the master’s power: He’s invisible. My mission was to infiltrate the organization, ascertain his whereabouts, and investigate something he called the Plan of Rebirth. Unfortunately—”

Paul interrupted. “Hold on. Just who, or what, is the master?”

“We’re not sure,” Barakah answered. “Our prime suspect is a shadowy figure some call Don VeMeli, but he’s better known as La Belva.

“Who?”

Simon stood up. “I have a thorough file.” He walked to his desk and tapped keys on his computer until a page emerged from the printer. Ava took it.

“‘Salvatore T. VeMeli, a.k.a. La Belva, born November 16, 1953. Sardinian. A violent drug lord who rose to great prominence in the 1990s, VeMeli is alleged to have killed at least thirty people by his own hand and ordered the deaths of several hundred…

“‘As a teenager, VeMeli began committing murder for hire. After killing a popular athlete, he was forced into hiding. When VeMeli was arrested and tried for that murder, he manufactured an acquittal by intimidating the jurors and witnesses. Later, he worked in heroin refining and export. An efficient, ruthless criminal, he became a major player in narcotics. The profits were vast, and young VeMeli grew tremendously rich.

“‘In 1976, an omen caused La Belva to believe himself destined for greater things, and he began plotting war against his rivals. Throughout the 1980s, he expanded his drug-trafficking network into South America, Greece, and Asia. He invested millions of drug profits in international banks and newspapers. He affiliated himself with Propaganda Due, a right-wing political cabal. In the 1990s, VeMeli’s faction waged a campaign for underworld control. At that time, most dons protected themselves with bribes rather than violence. They were highly visible in their communities, rubbing shoulders with numerous politicians. Don VeMeli’s strategy relied on the “law of misdirection.” He remained hidden and was rarely seen, even by fellow Mafiosi. He orchestrated the murders of high-profile law-enforcement officials on other mobsters’ turf. Whenever a policeman or a well-known judge was killed, more criminals were blamed. In January 1993, he framed a rival for the car-bomb assassination of two respected prosecutors. This act caused widespread condemnation and led to a major anti-Mafia crackdown, resulting in the capture and imprisonment of La Belva’s primary competitors. Consequently, Don VeMeli seized control. In 1994, he entered the political arena. He’s rumored to have bankrolled the extremist Gruppo Garibaldi—’”

Paul interrupted. “Okay, he’s evil and dangerous, but is he the Antichrist?”

Barakah finished his water. “Possibly.” He nodded to Simon. “Obviously, Mr. DeMaj suspects it. I believe it, and my organization has amassed significant evidence that Don VeMeli himself agrees, but could I prove it?” He shrugged.

Ava shook her head. “That’s immaterial. Stay focused on the facts. He’s a terrorist, he has no scruples about committing mass murder, and he’s been plotting a major attack for years.”

Paul had a brainstorm. “Hey! If he thinks he’s the Antichrist, he’d want to attack the Church, right? The cardinals are gathered in Rome. They’re a perfect target!”

“That was our initial assumption too,” Barakah said. “When Benedict announced his resignation, we anticipated that Don VeMeli would be tempted to move against the Vatican. My superiors communicated with the Swiss Guard. Security for the conclave will be the finest on earth. I don’t believe an attack there will succeed.”

Paul smiled with satisfaction until he saw Ava’s face.

“What?” he asked. “What did I get wrong?”

Before she could answer, Simon spoke. “Ms. Fischer picked up on something in the dossier: the law of misdirection. Our foe’s modus operandi is to attack from unexpected directions. Hence, Rome is too obvious. When you wage asymmetrical warfare…”

Something in the way Simon talked reminded Ava of her father. She flashed back to a sunny afternoon in Washington when he’d spent hours helping his precocious five-year-old daughter memorize the periodic table. At one point she erupted in frustration, insisting that the elements should be organized differently. Patiently, Dr. Fischer explained the various considerations and historical precedents. He’d spoken with clarity and care, just as Simon was doing now.

“… and in the current, hypervigilant atmosphere, smuggling a bomb into Vatican City would be virtually impossible.”

“Yeah, that makes sense, but if not Rome,” said Paul, “where? I mean, it could be any place — Jerusalem, Boston, Paris, New York…”

Silence filled the room as everyone imagined the worst.

Paul slammed his fist on the table. “Damnit!”

“I share your frustration. I wish Ahmed had said more,” Barakah said, “but frankly, I’m surprised he disclosed as much as he did. I’ve been working to uncover his agenda for months. This was the only time the sheik revealed any details.”

Anxiously, Ava looked out a window. The morning sun was cresting Mount Solaro. She cracked her knuckles. “Ahmed implied the bombing was imminent. We’ve got to hurry.”

DeMaj agreed. “What else did he say about the attack?”

She searched her memory. “He said it would be bloody. He said people would be afraid and demand a strong, decisive ruler. He said the infidel leaders had already gathered.”

Ava met Simon’s stare. As one, they said: “La Maddalena!”