The Cana Mystery

by David Beckett

Bessarion said nothing. He stared at the floor. Simon continued.

  “I must know their plan, Father. I must find them quickly. Their safety depends on it. In addition, I must know if you saw what they carried. Did they discuss this matter in your presence? Did they tell you their intentions?”

  Bessarion raised his eyes to meet Simon’s gaze. He took a breath and then said, “The men with rifles threatened to kill me, and still I told them nothing. I am not afraid to die.”

  Sheik Ahmed walked through the hidden warehouse that his organization used as a refinery. Inside, workers converted poppy plants grown in Afghanistan and Pakistan into raw opium, which workmen carefully dissolved in hot water. Gradually, by adding a powder to the soup, they rendered the mixture alkaline. After filtration, a chemist added sal ammoniac, then collected and dried the precipitate. Distillers heated the solution with acetic anhydride for six hours. Cooled, diluted, and combined with sodium carbonate, the mixture generated crude heroin. Once the product was purified and decolorized, Ahmed’s soldiers stacked brick after brick into shipping crates for transport to the United States and western Europe via Turkey and Sicily.

  Usually the sheik was pleased to observe the operation’s military efficiency. It gave him pleasure to view the construction and deployment of his army’s deadliest weapons in the war against the West, but today his heart was not cheered. For the first time since he was a boy, Ahmed felt fear. Just as he would never tolerate failure from his servants, the master would not tolerate it from him. If the Americans escaped with the jars, he would lose everything.

  Ahmed entered his private office, poured himself a cognac, and waited. He massaged his right arm, a nervous habit. Before long the dreaded call came. The master’s icy voice asked why the two Americans still lived.

  “Master,” Sheik Ahmed said, “we shall have them soon. The Americans are on a bus to Masr. I would have detonated a bomb to kill everyone aboard, but I could not risk damaging your treasures. My men pursue your quarries as we speak. Many more soldiers wait to intercept them at their destination. I have legions of informants in the capital. My spies hold key positions in government, the police, the media, and the military. Our eyes watch the airport and the train depot around the clock. They will not wriggle free from this net.”

  Ahmed waited to hear his doom.

  “I will send someone to assist you,” said the master. “An assassin.”

  Gabe was apoplectic. It had been three days since he’d spoken to Ava, and she was in danger.

  His room was a mess. Not a proficient housekeeper under normal circumstances, for a week he’d ignored the rules of hygiene. Empty pizza boxes and Hot Pocket wrappers littered the floor. Soda cans overflowed the trash bin. The room was beginning to stink.

  Gabe had an idea. He pushed himself away from the computer desk, gathered some garbage into a Hefty bag, and carried it down to the Dumpster. Then he hustled back upstairs and checked his voice mail. Nothing.

  “Damn.” Experience suggested that important calls came the moment he stepped outside.

  “Well,” he thought, “that leaves me only one option.” He’d drop the thermonuclear bomb of telephone call–inducing behavior. For the first time all weekend he strode to the bathroom and turned on the shower. He knew it would take six minutes for the water to reach an appropriate temperature. In the meantime, he checked and rechecked his various e-mail accounts, one after another.

  Several felucca captains sat on an ancient wall, drinking beer or coffee, gossiping and bartering with the townsfolk. Cloaked in her pilgrim’s attire, Ava approached a sailor. In Arabic she asked him politely if he owned a boat.

  “Yes,” he answered, without looking up from his meal. “What do you want?”

  “Passage to Cairo.”

  “How many?”

  “Two.”

  He studied Ava as he picked gristle from his teeth. “One hundred American dollars each, cash. You pay in advance. You bring your own food. We leave tomorrow noon. Okay?”

  “No, I’m afraid not. We must leave tonight.”

  The Egyptian shrugged. “I leave tomorrow.”

  Ava removed three hundred-dollar bills from her wallet. She stepped up onto the wall, held out the money, and announced to all present: “I’ll pay four hundred dollars cash for passage to Cairo, three hundred now and one hundred on arrival. We leave immediately.”

  “Okay, okay, we leave now. No problem,” the captain said, grabbing the bills before one of his competitors could make a better offer. “My name is Akhmim. I take you to Cairo.”

  His felucca was eight meters long and single-masted with a lateen sail. Handmade and decorated with Egyptian eyes, it could hold ten passengers with ease. While Paul and Captain Akhmim brought the Americans’ luggage on board, Ava bought a kilo of melouha (smoked fish), two aish baladi (pitalike rounds of whole-wheat bread), a paper bag of salted pumpkin seeds, several warah’enab (grape leaves stuffed with rice, lamb, and herbs), some oranges, Stella Artois beer, and lemonade. The Egyptian helped Ava onto the boat. Then he and Paul pushed it into the channel, jumped aboard, and navigated through the small, crowded harbor by light of the kerosene lantern.

  Though the winds were against them, the strong current carried the felucca north at a reasonable speed. Before long the city’s sounds and smells faded. Paul and Ava were glad to have an experienced pilot. By the lantern’s modest glow, he adroitly dodged tiny islands, submerged rocks, sandbars, and possibly a crocodile. As Akhmim leaned against the tiller and smoked, the two Americans finally relaxed. Ravenous, they made quick work of the food, reserving only some bread, seeds, and oranges for breakfast. Paul enjoyed two large bottles of beer, then tied the others to the hull and dropped them overboard. He winked at Ava, and then nodded off.

  After sunrise Ava was delighted to observe the sights and sounds of middle Egypt. Ancient temples and monuments became visible in the distance. She watched fishermen draw their nets, enjoying a full harvest. Women washed dishes and laundry in the Nile, as their ancestors had for scores of centuries. Transported, Ava sang, “See the pyramids along the Nile . . .”

  They stopped at a picturesque island for a quick meal and restroom break. By way of apology for demanding that he work through the night, Paul offered the Egyptian some oranges and a river-chilled beer. A non-Muslim, he accepted both gratefully. During lunch the winds turned in their favor. The captain unfurled the sail, and soon they beheld the outskirts of Cairo.

  Just before sunset, Akhmim guided the boat toward the eastern bank and put in near a bustling souk. He needed cigarettes, and Ava needed a telephone.

  After Paul helped her ashore, Ava scouted the area warily. They’d docked on the edge of eastern Cairo, a conglomeration of ancient communities that extended seemingly forever into the fertile Nile Delta. Ava pulled down her hood and looked around until she spied a pay phone. She found Dr. Hawass’s office number and dialed, but she was disappointed to discover that he was on location in the western desert and wouldn’t return for several weeks. Deflated, she returned to the riverfront. Paul was making a valiant effort to buy supper, but his attempts at pronunciation brought only laughter from the street vendors. Ava took over and obtained spicy kebabs of lamb, chicken, and rabbit, along with two liters of bottled water.

  Akhmim returned. Paul gave him the final hundred dollars, as promised, and invited him to share their meal. Between mouthfuls of kebab, Akhmim asked what they planned to do in Cairo.

  “Good question,” Ava answered, glancing about to ensure that no strangers were eavesdropping. “The man we’re looking for is out of town, and there may be people here whom we’d rather not encounter.”

  Paul raised a hand to his brow, shaded his eyes from the setting sun, and looked off into the west. “How far to Giza?”

  Sheik Ahmed paced across his private office. He telephoned his aide, who answered on the first ring.

  “What is your report?” the sheik demanded.

  “We intercepted the bus in Memphis.” />
  “And the Americans?”

  “They were not on it. They were dropped off somewhere.”

  Somewhere? Ahmed stopped pacing. His jaw clenched in anger. “Did you question the driver?”

  “He refused to answer. He is a bedouin. He swore a sacred oath to protect them.”

  Sheik Ahmed had experience with obdurate bedouins. The driver would not crack easily, if at all, but there was no need to waste time breaking him. He had more expedient means at his disposal.

  “Interrogate the infidel pilgrims,” he commanded.

  “We tried. None will talk. The driver says the pilgrims took a vow of silence.”

  Ahmed exhaled. Was this aide incompetent or corrupt? In truth, it made no difference. The penalty for each was the same. Ahmed would impose judgment soon. For now, he must continue to rely on the worthless dog, but he was unable to keep the tone of disgust out of his voice: “A vow of silence means they cannot speak, but they can still write. Begin executing pilgrims. Continue until someone breaks his vow or deigns to write you a note. Call me the moment you learn where the bus left them.”

  He clicked off and then dialed for his chauffeur: “Prepare the car.”

  It seemed he must direct this operation in person.

  Captain Akhmim apologized that he could take them no farther. He must return to his family in the south, he explained, before his wife found a younger man. Nevertheless, he offered to negotiate passage for them by motorboat.

  He hopped ashore and disappeared into the crowd of Cairenes. Less than fifteen minutes passed before he reappeared with a teenager. This boy, named Sefu, and his brother, Ammon, owned and operated a fine boat, Akhmim reported. Considerably faster than the blue-and-white water taxis, it was large enough to accommodate the Americans and their heavy baggage. For a reasonable fee the boys would be happy to transport the couple to Giza, Rosetta, or even as far as Alexandria. Paul thought the price sounded fair, though he was sure it included a fat kickback for Akhmim. He shook hands with Sefu, who departed to fetch his brother.

  When Paul saw their boat, he knew instantly that the young Egyptians shared his love of big engines and custom hot rods. The hand-painted, cabinless, converted panga skiff had a semi-V hull and racing stripes. Its thunderous Evinrude V-6, 225 HP motor growled astern. Watching from the dock, Paul noted with approval the bow’s hydrodynamic sheer and flare. He smiled when he saw a repurposed ’65 Chevy intake, carb, and valve covers. The boys had improvised a supercharger! This sleek watercraft was built to run at full tilt.

  While Ava went back to the souk to buy a change of clothes and toiletries, the teens helped Paul transfer the couple’s things onto the speedboat. As they awaited her return, Paul asked the boys some basic mechanical questions. He was delighted to discover that they spoke fair English. Soon the three of them were engrossed in a lively discussion of hydrofoils, ISKY cams, radial engines, dual-point distributors, Indian motorcycles, and Formula One racing.

  When Ava returned she was astonished to find the three joking and carrying on like long-lost buddies. She’d heard Paul’s distinctive laughter from half a mile away and, naturally, he’d neglected to wear his hood. No lookout could miss his boisterous antics and handsome American face.

  Ava sighed. “We’re the world’s worst smugglers.”

  When they spotted her the three new friends jumped up to help her onto the skiff. Once she was safely aboard, Sefu ignited the powerful engine and roared off toward Giza, leaving, Ava thought, a rather unnecessarily large wake.

  The voyage to Giza was brief. Even so, as they approached University Bridge, Ava dropped fast asleep with her head on Paul’s shoulder. She’d been awake for quite a while. Given his injuries, Paul thought, he could use some rest too. He directed Ammon to put in near the Giza Zoo, and he paid the boys for their time. They agreed to meet at that spot the following day. Slinging a backpack over each shoulder, Paul carried them and the still-dozing Ava to a luxury hotel, where he deposited her on a leather couch in the lobby. Explaining that his wife had sipped one too many mai tais, he requested a room for the night. The hotel had a vacancy. Paul checked them in as Mr. and Mrs. Jones from Indianapolis and paid cash.

  As he helped Ava into the elevator, she snapped to consciousness and grabbed his arm in a panic. “Where are the jars?”

  “It’s cool. I told Ammon and Sefu to keep them for us.”

  “Those boys? We hardly know them!”

  “I think I know them. They gave me their word. Besides, Simon’s people are probably looking for an American couple traveling with two conspicuously big, heavy packages. If we brought them, we could be identified.”

  Ava admitted there was logic to his reasoning, though it terrified her to trust such recent acquaintances. Regardless, the deed was done, and she was too tired to argue.

  Paul read her look. “Hey, if Ammon and Sefu steal the jars, it’s my responsibility, okay? Maybe they’ll sell them to a museum, where the jars probably belong anyway. Maybe they’ll sell them to Simon or his drug-lord partner. It’s a gamble, I admit, but life is a series of gambles. Tonight I’m betting those boys are honest.” Then he added, grinning, “And I’m also betting you could use a hot shower.”

  “Ohhh,” she moaned, “that sounds spectacular.” She hadn’t taken a real shower in days.

  He unlocked the door and held it open for her. The palatial room offered a beautiful view of the Giza pyramids.

  “Wow. How much was this?” she asked.

  “Well,” he said, “it wasn’t cheap, and I’m running out of cash, but we might have been spotted haggling for a better deal. Besides, I haven’t slept in an honest-to-goodness bed in weeks. It’s been all tents and deserts and monasteries.”

  Ava wasn’t listening. She’d just noticed that despite the fine artwork, flat-screen TV, brass fixtures, and marble bathroom tile, the suite had only one king-size bed.

  “Ah, hell,” Paul muttered when he realized what she was thinking. “My fault. I told them we were married. They didn’t even ask how many beds. Sorry. Look, you take the bed, I’ll crash on the floor. Just toss me some of those really soft pillows.”

  “No,” she replied. “I’m not a helpless damsel in distress. We’re both adults and equals. There’s no logical reason why one gender should be forced to—”

  “Ava,” he interrupted, exasperated. “This is Africa. I’m not sure feminism applies. You’re taking the bed, and that’s the end of it.” He departed for the bar, letting the door slam behind him.

  Ava thought: “Fine. If he wants to be a chauvinist jerk, I’ll certainly take the bed. In fact, I’ll enjoy it.” She located an A/C outlet and plugged in the satphone charger. With luck, she’d reach Gabe tonight or tomorrow.

  After locking herself in the ritzy bathroom she undressed and cranked the shower to maximum, filling the room with steam. The hotel provided a variety of botanical soaps and shampoos, of which she took full advantage.

  Two hours later Paul returned to find a squeaky-clean Ava perched on the corner of the bed, wearing nothing but a towel.

  “Oops!” he said, flustered. “Sorry. I didn’t know you were . . . I mean, I’ll come back in a few—”

  Ava raised her hand for silence, stopping him mid-stammer. She’d noticed a light blinking on the satphone. When she turned it on, the screen reported one new text message: “Just checking in. I met James. Everything’s proceeding by the book. Text back when you get this.”

  Her brow furrowed. Something was up. She showed Paul the message.

  “What is it?” he asked.

  “A text from my friend, but it sounds off. I don’t know anyone named James.” Ava sensed there must be a hidden message. She didn’t see it immediately, but some codes had to be broken the hard way. Her mind began crunching possibilities. She disassembled the sentences, shuffled the sequence of words, rearranged words into anagrams, counted letter frequency, substituted numbers for letters . . .

  “Your communications are compromised.” Paul s
aid suddenly.

  Ava looked up in surprise. “What?”

  “Star Trek II: The Wrath of Khan.”

  “Never saw it.”

  “You’ve never seen Star Trek II? It’s the best of the whole series. Maybe that’s your problem. Too much Thucydides, too little Kirk.”

  “Just explain the stupid reference.”

  “Captain Kirk is trapped on the Genesis planet with that lady scientist, Dr. Marcus or whatever. The one he impregnates.”

  Ava stared at him blankly.

  “Anyway, Spock is on the Enterprise and needs to tell Kirk that Ricardo Montalbán is listening to their phone calls. Spock says he’s doing everything by the book, like Kirstie Alley would do. Kirk knows that ‘by the book’ means ‘to assume the enemy is listening.’ So your friend’s saying someone hacked into your communications.”

  That made sense. Gabe loved sci-fi movies. He’d assume she’d seen Star Trek II.

  “If he says enemies are listening,” Ava observed, “we can bank on it.”

  She could hear him breathing in the dark room. It didn’t sound as though he was asleep.

  “Paul?”

  “Mmm?”

  “What are we going to do?”

  “You tell me.”

  “We can’t stay here. We have to keep moving.”

  “No kidding. You should see what they charge for whiskey.”

  Ava giggled. “I mean we have to leave the city.”

  “I know. We will. We’ll leave tomorrow, okay? I’ll take care of it.”

  “How?” she asked, remembering Yemen. “Simon’s henchmen will be watching the airport, the train station, maybe the buses. We can’t even go to the police.”

  He sighed. “That’s why we’re leaving by boat.”

  “What do you mean? With those teenagers?”