The Cana Mystery

by David Beckett

  Paul nodded. “I hear you, but Simon’s experts seemed awfully certain. Couldn’t Tintoretto have obtained a valid description from some knowledgeable source? Maybe he found a good sketch preserved in an ancient manuscript. Maybe an older, historically accurate rendering was available in Renaissance Italy, one that has since been lost.”

  Ava’s eyes widened. “Or maybe he actually saw a jar! The legend claims a jar came by sea to Rome, where it was kept hidden . . .”

  She began her examination. For a while Paul watched her work; then he grew bored.

  “We studied them for hours, Ava. We couldn’t find anything.”

  Engrossed, she ignored him. Paul decided to do something useful.

  “I’ll be outside, okay? I want to see how badly I trashed the truck.”

  If she had heard, she gave no sign. Paul shrugged and rested the lantern on the rocky floor. He could find his way back without it. The cave wasn’t very deep. Light filtered in from the entrance.

  Paul exited the cavern, hopped down into the ravine, and found the truck. He’d concealed it under a camouflage tarp that looked to be Gulf War surplus. A methodical inspection revealed that the damage was less severe than he’d reckoned. Although he wouldn’t trust the truck across one hundred fifty kilometers of mountainous terrain, with a few repairs he could drive it back to St. Anthony’s.

  Paul gazed up into the bright azure sky and observed a hawk’s graceful patrol. He took a long pull from his canteen and splashed cool water on his neck. Then, opening his tool kit, he set to work.

  Simon opened his eyes. He wasn’t in heaven. He was in a tent. He remembered now. The Beja caravan had found him bleeding to death in the vast desert. The nomads brought him to a traditional healer who had blessed him and pulled two nine-millimeter slugs out of his body. One had embedded itself in his shoulder muscles, incapacitating his left arm; the other had broken a rib and damaged his right lung. Overall, he’d been lucky.

  His mobile phone rang. Wincing, Simon answered it. “Mr. DeMaj, we got a hit on the American girl. She used a credit card on Kamaran Island. We don’t know if she’s still there. Should we send a team?”

  “I’ll go myself and track her. We can’t afford more mistakes. Lock on to my GPS signal and send the big chopper.” An hour later, Simon was streaking over the Red Sea. He refused to rest until he located the girl.

  “If I find her,” he thought, “I’ll find Paul.”

  By mid-afternoon Paul had the truck running. He drained his canteen and went to fetch Ava from the cave. Sitting in the same position, she appeared not to have moved in two hours. Paul stood behind her. What was she looking at?

  When he touched her shoulder, she jumped.

  “Hey, it’s just me. Time to head back.”

  “Okay,” Ava said, coming out of her trance. She explained that when immersed in a particularly difficult problem she sometimes lost touch with external reality.

  “You are so odd,” said Paul, grinning. They returned the jars to the protective canisters and loaded both onto the truck. Paul hit the ignition, turned around, and ventured down the ravine.

  As they drove, Ava told Paul the results of her analysis. “I’d swear the jars are from the correct historical period. The material is right. The style is right. They look about two thousand years old, give or take a century. I don’t have the capability to determine an exact age myself. I want to try Professor Aitken’s thermoluminescence technique, but we need a special lab for that. Of course, even if they’re from the right era and region, that hardly proves these jars are the lost jars of Cana.”

  Paul nodded. “Yeah, I suppose we can’t be a hundred percent sure. There must have been tons of similar jars bumping around back then, but for some reason, Simon’s experts believed these were authentic. Why would they say that if it wasn’t true?”

  “Maybe they just wanted to please the boss, or maybe they really didn’t want to make him mad. I guess we’ve learned what happens when DeMaj gets angry. Anyway, I agree with you about one thing: The jars lack identifying marks of any kind. No messages, no codes. In fact . . .”

  Ava paused, thinking.

  “What?” Paul sensed that she had an idea.

  “I examined the clay seals. The lids appear to date from the same period, and there’s a thick crust of residue on the undersides. Before you and Simon opened them, I’d say the jars were sealed for several hundred years, at least. I saw no evidence of repeated opening. Besides, who would open the jars, remove the contents, and then reseal the vessels? That feels wrong. No, the evidence supports the hypothesis that many, many years ago the jars were filled with wine, which evaporated very gradually.”

  “So?” asked Paul.

  “So . . . not much,” Ava answered. “I could be way off, but I don’t think any scrolls or codices are missing. I don’t think anyone looted them, because there weren’t any to loot.”

  Back at the monastery they saw the pilgrims’ bus parked near the front entrance. Paul pulled the damaged truck in beside it. He climbed into the back, used his knife to cut the canvas tarp in half, reversed it, and wrapped each canister thoroughly. He secured the canvas covers with bungee cords. Meanwhile, Ava began the interminable process of negotiating fares with the bus driver, a salty old bedouin.

  While they haggled in Arabic, Ava caught the driver eyeing her tanned legs. At first she was embarrassed. She should be wearing something more modest. Then she grew angry. He had no right to ogle her. Finally, she decided to use the driver’s interest to her advantage. She smiled at him and batted her eyelashes. She flipped her hair and stretched her arms above her head, giving him a nice view of her chest. He was putty in her hands. He settled for half his asking price, promised not to leave without her, and swore a holy oath to guard her canvas-covered souvenirs.

  “Mission accomplished,” thought Ava. She turned her back to the driver and went looking for Paul. She spied him sitting in the garden. He’d already packed their meager belongings and Coptic clothing. Now he was thanking Father Bessarion for his hospitality and protection.

  The crowd of real pilgrims, clad in full-length white robes, had just finished praying. Silently, they filed out of the chapel and into the courtyard. Many were strolling about the square, admiring the gardens or filling water bottles from the cistern. Paul smiled when he saw Ava approaching. She seemed quite proud of herself. Clearly, she was aching to tell him a funny story. Then he spotted something odd: A uniformed man was on the roof of the ancient monastery, crouched behind the parapet. He looked like one of Simon’s security guards. The man rammed a magazine into his assault rifle. Paul’s smile vanished.

  “Ava, run!” he roared, vaulting the low wall and racing toward her. The guard raised his rifle and took aim. Ava was a perfect target, standing dead center in the courtyard, motionless, staring at Paul with an expression of bewilderment. She knew something was wrong but couldn’t see the danger. Sprinting, Paul flew across the cobblestones, legs fighting and straining for every last ounce of energy.

  He’d played baseball all his life. He remembered his coach’s words: “Run straight through the base, son. Do not dive. Do not jump. You’re fastest if you run straight through the damn base. Trust me.”

  Paul trusted his coach. He did not dive. He did not jump. He ran directly at Ava, who gaped at him. He kicked with all his might, forcing his body to the limit, and just as he heard the rifle’s report, he ran straight through, tackling her at full speed and wrapping his arms around her waist as he knocked her backward. The machine-gun burst missed by centimeters. Bullets pulverized the area where she’d stood a moment before. Paul felt something hot slice across his calf. It burned like a scorpion’s sting.

  They crashed into a crowd of pilgrims, sending many sprawling. Ava hit the turf hard. Paul could see he’d knocked the wind out of her. He prayed he hadn’t broken any of her ribs, but there was no time to check. He gathered her in his arms and ran through the nearest doorway. Just behind him, a hail of bullets splint
ered the paving stones, spraying razor-edged shards in all directions. Pilgrims, wild with panic, rushed for the exits. A horrific bloodstain marred the ancient masonry, but Paul couldn’t discern who’d been hit. Then he saw two more gunmen fighting to clear a path through the terrified crowd. Only seconds remained.

  “Paul, hurry, this way!” It was Father Bessarion, motioning toward a hallway that led deep into the monastery. Paul followed. He had no choice. In a second, the gunmen would have a clear shot. Bessarion led Paul down the hall and around a corner. Paul stopped to catch his breath.

  “Ava,” he said, panting, “you okay?”

  “Don’t . . . worry . . . about . . . me.” Ava struggled to speak. She was dazed, likely concussed, Paul thought, but she wasn’t bleeding.

  Bessarion led them around another corner. From his pocket he produced a key in the shape of a traditional Coptic cross. He slid it into a hidden aperture and gave it a sharp twist. Paul heard a heavy lock spring, then a section of the wall wedged open.

  “Go through here,” Bessarion commanded. “At the intersection, turn right. That path leads to the front entrance. I’ll try to delay them, but once you leave the monastery, you must make your own way.”

  “I don’t know how to thank you, Father.”

  “Go, quickly,” Bessarion urged, pushing Paul into the passage, “and remember, my son, Gardez bien! Protect what you found!” Then the monk heaved his weight against the door. With a bang, it slammed shut, and the lock dropped heavily into place.

  Paul didn’t hesitate. Lifting the now unconscious Ava over his shoulder, he ran down the passage, turned right, and emerged from a concealed exit about a hundred meters from the front gate.

  The bus was waiting. The bedouin had kept his promise. When the driver spotted them, he waved furiously, urging them to hurry. Paul shifted Ava’s weight across his shoulders and broke into a sprint. His lower leg was bleeding copiously. Ignoring the pain, he drove himself faster and faster. In the distance he heard gunshots. One assailant had taken up a firing position in the tower. Bullets rained down into the gravel.

  “If he has a sniper rifle,” Paul thought, “we’re dead.” Luckily, the gunman didn’t, and at long range an AK-47 isn’t accurate. Paul threw himself inside the bus. The driver slammed the door shut as he stomped on the accelerator. The diesel engine rumbled to life. Slowly the monastery receded, but then Paul noticed two gunmen running toward a khaki-colored jeep.

  “Damn! This overloaded old bus will never outrun that.” He should surrender now and offer to exchange the jars for Ava’s freedom.

  The jeep remained immobile. It wouldn’t start! Laughing aloud, the bedouin driver shifted into high gear. The bus rumbled and thundered across the desert road, leaving mountains of dust in its wake.

  Atop the monastery wall Father Bessarion watched the Americans escape. He heard angry shouts from the men kicking the jeep’s four flat tires and glanced at his grinning novices.

  “You two have a sin to confess?”

  “Forgive us, Father.”

  Smiling, Bessarion gazed out across the sand toward the ever more distant dust cloud. “Farewell,” he whispered.

  Chapter 6

  6

  PARIS, 1462

  King Louis XI was pleased by the emissaries’ report. His young spy in the Vatican had served France ably.

  “How did he corrupt the prophecy?” Louis asked his minister.

  “Sire, the scribe deleted several stanzas and altered others. The true prophecy predicts failure for the pope’s crusade. It foretells that Pius shall fall in Ancona, bereft of allies, to rest in an unmarked grave. These fatal details we have, by our conspiracy, excluded.”

  A smile flickered across the monarch’s features. “Was his Holiness deceived?”

  “Yes, Majesty. We believe so. He ordered our version of the prophecy read aloud at Mantua. He dispatched couriers to the East and revised his strategy on the basis of the false predictions.”

  “Good.” The king harbored much resentment against Pope Pius II. Upon taking the throne, Louis had withdrawn royal sanctions issued by his father, Charles VII. These sanctions had curtailed papal influence in France. In return, Louis had expected the pontiff to support French interests in Naples. “But I was betrayed,” the monarch thought angrily. “And for that, the Church will pay!”

  “What else has been done?”

  “Highness, we altered several lines of translation to suggest that if Pius II personally takes the cross, he can free Constantinople.”

  “But the prophecy does not presage success against the Turks?”

  “Just the opposite, sire. The prophecy foretells that Mehmed will survive a night attack and never convert to the True Faith. It says the sultan’s capital will not fall to Rome.”

  The king trusted the prophecy. He maintained a number of acclaimed astrologers at court and relied on their prognostications.

  So, Louis thought, the pope’s crusade is doomed. He will die in the East. Nothing, then, stands against me. I can break the power of the dukes and reunify France. A proud destiny! “Tell me,” the king asked his ambassador, “what does this prophecy augur for my reign?”

  “It’s a mystery, Highness. It predicts you will expel the English from France not by force of arms, but with goose, deer, and grapes.”

  “Fascinating,” the Spider King reflected. “What could this mean?” Then he offered his decree: “This prophecy is now a treasure of France. Let it be housed in our private library and defended against all enemies.”

  EGYPT, FEBRUARY 2013

  Sheik Ahmed spat in disgust and shouted into the phone: “You impotent dogs let them escape?”

  “The nazarani monks helped the Americans. They warned them and sabotaged our vehicle.”

  “Failure is unacceptable. You understand the penalty for incompetence.”

  “We may yet succeed, insh’allah. I repaired the jeep. We will follow. Perhaps we will overtake them. We know they travel to Masr [Cairo]. I’ve alerted our people there. If we don’t catch them before, they’ll be intercepted the moment they arrive.”

  Paul collapsed into the seat, exhausted. Before he could pass out, a pilgrim tapped him on the shoulder. He presented a first-aid kit and pointed to Paul’s leg, which was bleeding profusely. Together they examined the injury: A bullet had grazed his calf. It was messy and painful, but not serious. Gesturing for his patient to relax, the pilgrim cleaned and disinfected the wound, bandaged it with clean linen, and offered Paul a metal cup full of cold water. Paul drank it down and thanked the man, who never spoke, only smiled.

  Ava regained consciousness on a crowded bus, surrounded by curious strangers. She looked around nervously until Paul eased in beside her. “How do you feel?” he asked.

  “I’ll live,” she replied, “thanks to you.”

  “I thought maybe I broke your ribs.”

  Ava raised both arms overhead and rotated her torso to the left and to the right.

  “Bruised, I think, but unbroken.”

  Relieved, Paul lifted two flowing white robes from his pack. “I think it’s time we tried these.” Ava nodded and they donned the disguises. From a distance the hooded robes would mask their identities. The pair wouldn’t survive close inspection, but it was better than nothing.

  For a time the bus continued north through the desert. Paul limped to the front and thanked the driver for not leaving them behind. Though they lacked a common language, the driver understood and nodded solemnly.

  The bedouin kept a demanding pace, especially given the road’s condition. He seemed to enjoy his role as getaway driver. After one particularly severe jolt, he turned to grin at Ava. They reached a T-intersection, where he swung the bus around to the left, or west, and continued on Highway 26. Majestic mountains towered to their north; empty desert stretched to the southern horizon. Later, a dazzling sunset spread across the Egyptian sky. As darkness fell, they passed Al-Burumbul and came, at last, to the Nile.

  Paul asked th
e driver to drop them in El Wasta, a town of perhaps forty thousand located on the banks of the great river. The bus entered a broad square adjoining the harbor, where an armada of feluccas were moored. Paul unloaded the canisters, safely concealed by canvas, as Ava bade their companions good-bye. The driver told her she was beautiful. He embraced Paul, gave him the first-aid kit, and wished him luck. The driver cried, “Marhabtein!” then closed the door, started the engine, and continued north toward Memphis and Cairo.

  Father Bessarion sat stoically in his chair. He was prepared to endure torture. He would never willingly betray the confidence of anyone who sought sanctuary within the monastery, but he’d read of extreme methods used to extract information from unwilling captives. He wondered if his years of training and mental discipline would enable him to withstand the latest pharmacological techniques.

  Simon entered the monk’s cell and sat down. His shoulder stung where the bandages had been changed. He was in no mood to linger.

  “Father,” DeMaj began, “I require information. Let us concede what is already known. Two Americans, a man and a woman, were here. You gave them asylum and protection. Now they’ve gone, on a bus. The bus goes to Cairo. It will arrive there in a few hours, unless it’s overtaken and intercepted by the men in the jeep, which you sabotaged to help the Americans escape. There is no need to deny this.”