The Cana Mystery (18 page)

“For money. When they arrived at the hotel, they were desperate. They promised me a great deal of cash for a discreet room, but after I saw the newspaper, I realized the offer wasn’t enough.”

“Why did you transport them to the harbor?”

Nick stiffened, pretending to be offended. “They were my guests. I owed them a certain duty of hospitality, regardless of the circumstances.”

The lieutenant nodded. Then he turned to look at Ahmed, who was deep in contemplation. Barakah knew the sheik was trying to decide if Nick was lying. His story rang true and fit with every known fact. Informants had seen Nick’s jeep carry the Americans and their precious canisters across town to the harbor. Soon afterward, Nick had driven an empty jeep back to the hotel. But the Egyptian sensed this dapper casino manager knew more than he let on.

Ahmed appeared to have reached a decision, but before he could speak, Nick asked:

“May I make a suggestion?”

Surprised, the sheik said, “What?”

“The fugitives must have bribed their way onboard a vessel. I don’t believe they’d be stupid enough to remain here. Examine the passenger manifests of every ship that departed the eastern harbor today. Question the immigration officials. There can’t be too many possibilities.”

The sheik smiled. “Why would you help me?”

“All Egypt knows crossing Sheik Ahmed is suicide, but that he rewards those who aid him. You’ll catch the American thieves eventually. They will die, so I’ll never collect the sums they owe me. Perhaps by assisting you, I can avert a total loss on my investment.”

Paul and Ava went into the immigration office and found the diplomatic line. It wasn’t long before an English-speaking agent scanned their passports and asked perfunctory questions. In due course, the almighty computer beeped, granting them permission to enter Malta. A second agent inquired about their luggage. Paul handed him the printed receipt. The man read it carefully and gave Paul an appraising look. Then he returned the document and waved them through the line. The two Americans left the building and walked into the picturesque city of Valletta.

Ava spied a pay phone. She called the hotel that Nick recommended and reserved a room. Then she called Dr. Clarkson at the university. He was surprised and delighted to hear from her, insisting they meet for a drink at a tavern called the Two Gods, in the town of St. Julian’s. While Ava and Clarkson chatted, Paul stepped into the Bank Ċentrali ta’ Malta and traded their remaining Egyptian pounds for euros. At the Bieb il-Belt, or City Gate, they hailed a cab for Sliema. As they transferred the canisters into the vehicle, the driver muttered “
Haqq ix-xjafek
” (damn the devil). Paul didn’t understand the words, but he got the gist. Grinning, he passed the cabbie an extra ten euros along with the hotel’s address.

As the taxi navigated the maze of narrow streets, Paul admired the architecture.

“What’s the city called again?”

Ava replied, “Valletta, named for the knight, La Valette.”

In the rearview mirror she saw the cabbie nod, impressed. Paul’s expression implied that the name was unfamiliar.

“Jean Parisot de La Valette, knight of St. John. He was grand master during the Great Siege.”

“The Great what?”

Ava sounded surprised. “Don’t you know about the siege of Malta?”

Paul leaned back. “Okay. Go ahead. I know you’re dying to tell me.”

“The Ottomans invaded Malta in 1565. Back then the island was held by the Christian Knights Hospitaller, a.k.a. the Knights of Malta or the Sovereign Order of St. John. The first attack was on a fortress called St. Elmo. The Turks thought Malta would fall quickly, but due to the knights’ bravery and tenacity, Fort St. Elmo held out against incredible odds. The Ottomans leveled it eventually, but the fierce defense bought time for reinforcements to arrive from Italy. As a consequence, the island withstood the siege. After the battle, La Valette commissioned a new city on the site where Fort St. Elmo once stood, and lay the first stone with his own hands. He’s buried here.”

The taxi dropped them off at the Waterfront Hotel. They registered under aliases, paid in cash, and told the porter they’d handle their own luggage. After ensuring that both canvas covers were still securely in place, Paul loaded the canisters into the hotel’s service elevator and took them up to their floor. As Ava held the door, Paul carried the canisters across the threshold and scooted them into the closet.

“That’s a creative hiding place,” Ava remarked dryly.

“I doubt they’d fit under the bed,” Paul said.

“Whatever. You stay here and guard the jars. I’m going shopping.”

A few hours later, Ava returned. In her bags were cotton slacks, sandals, a conservative silk blouse, and a white dress. Nothing too formal, but appropriate, she felt, for a meeting with important churchmen. She rode the elevator up. From outside the room she could hear the TV blasting an Italian soccer match. Ava unlocked the door, eager to show Paul her new clothes. He was snoring.

She considered waking him, then decided against it. With a sigh, she walked to the bathroom and turned on the shower. They had hours until the meeting with Dr. Clarkson. Paul could sleep.

At the Internet café, Gabe ordered an espresso from the barista, a pretty redhead with heavy black eye shadow. He carried the hot drink back to his workstation and almost spilled it when he saw the screen—an IM from
DURMDVL:
“Contact successful. Transmission confirmed as secure. A is OK. Cleared Malta immigration/customs hours ago. Expects update/advice from us soon. What 2 send?”

Gusts of cool Mediterranean air swept through St. Julian’s. Paul and Ava strolled past a bewildering variety of bars and nightclubs catering to the lively mix of tourists, natives, and hustlers. Moving with the crowd, Ava enjoyed a fleeting sensation of anonymity. Near the St. Rita Steps, leading from Baystreet to St. George’s Road, they located the Two Gods. The peculiar tavern’s exterior was bedecked with carved and painted Egyptian figures, colors and edges softened by years of weathering. Paul could tell Ava loved it already.

Inside, the comfortable smells of pipe tobacco and old mahogany welcomed them. Timeworn wooden stools, benches, and tables were distributed throughout the pub. Regular customers watched soccer on the ancient television. A stocky, middle-aged bartender introduced himself as O’Hagan and asked what they’d like to drink. His accent sounded Irish.

“I’m not sure,” Paul said. “What do you recommend?”

“We’ve some good Maltese brews. Have you tried Blue Label or Hopleaf?”

“Both sound good.”

“Or Lacto, a nice milk stout?”

Ava tried to hide her reaction, but the words
milk stout
turned her stomach. She was embarrassed to appear so narrow-minded. Grinning at her discomfort, the bartender asked, “What’s your usual drink?”

“Stella Artois,” Paul said. “Do you serve that?”

“Of course. Two euros for a draft.”

They accepted and took their mugs to a quiet table. Paul sipped his beer.

Ava sat back. “I like this old place. The decor is interesting, and for once the bartender didn’t check my ID. It must be these new clothes. I look more mature.”

Tactfully, Paul refrained from mentioning that Malta’s drinking age was sixteen.

She glanced up. Local TV was reporting on the Italian election. Anti-immigration marches had sparked riots in Sicily. Angry men shouted slogans at the camera, expressions of intense personal hatred masquerading as public activism. Ava shuddered.

“What’s wrong?” Paul asked.

“Those guys really give me the creeps.”

He scanned the bar. “Where?”

“No. On TV. The Italian right-wingers.”

He twisted until he saw the screen.

“Who? Berlusconi?”

“No. The Gruppo Garibaldi.”

His expression implied that additional details would be appreciated.

“Nationalists. Extremists. Reactionaries who make Berlusconi look like Bertrand Russell.”

“Wow. Are they popular?”

“Somewhat. Thanks to all the recent scandals and instability, extremists will probably win a few seats in parliament.”

He shook his head. “Unbelievable. You’d think the Italians would’ve learned from Mussolini.”

“They did, mostly, but just like the disgusting skinheads and neo-Nazis back in the States, some idiots never learn.”

Twenty minutes later a sharply dressed man walked through the door. His attire and manner seemed out of place in the smoky tavern, but he wore a broad smile. Paul guessed it was Laurence Clarkson. Ava jumped from her seat to greet him, shook his hand enthusiastically, and introduced Paul.

“
Bonswa!
” said Clarkson.

Paul replied, “Hey, nice to meet you. I like this place. Do you, um, come here often?”

Clarkson laughed. “Oh, heavens no, but most taverns in this town are too loud for civilized discourse. Plus, it seemed highly appropriate, given that you came from Alexandria.”

Grinning, Clarkson paused, waiting for him to get the joke.

Paul didn’t. In desperation, he turned to Ava. She rescued him.

“Of course! Don’t you remember? The ship St. Paul took from Malta to Syracuse was Alexandrian. It was named the
Two Gods.

“Oh. Okay,” said Paul. “I get it now. Good one.”

Clarkson elaborated: “The referenced gods were surely Egyptian: Osiris and Re. It’s said that the
bas
of Osiris and Re met in Mendes and united. You’re familiar with the stela of Ramesses IV, in Abydos?”

Ava nodded. Paul suppressed a yawn.

“The inscription establishes that the two gods ‘speak with one mouth.’ Furthermore, a relief in Nofretari’s tomb reads, ‘Re has come to rest in Osiris and Osiris has come to rest in Re.’”

Ava contributed, “And throughout the Egyptian Book of the Dead, Osiris and Re appear united. In passages, their names seem interchangeable.”

“Exactly!”

Before they could continue, Paul spoke up, “Speaking of gods, we have some important business with the Catholic Church. Can you tell us who’s in charge here?”

“Archbishop Cremona heads the archdiocese, but he’s busy in Rome. Aren’t these exciting times? All Malta is breathless with anticipation, wondering who’ll be the next pope. In Cremona’s absence, Bishop Garagallo has authority. I’ve met him. He’s quite nice. Why do you need to see him, if you don’t mind my asking?

“Oh, just general ecumenical questions. Nothing interesting.”

Clarkson seemed puzzled. Then he smiled.

“Yes. I suspect Bishop Garagallo is extremely knowledgeable about matters such as scheduling Catholic weddings and satisfying Maltese marriage requirements.” Clarkson turned to Paul and extended his hand. “I congratulate you, sir. In addition to her obvious beauty, your betrothed is an exceptional scholar, blessed with an intellect of the first rank.”

“Wait, I think you misunderstood—”

Ava interrupted. “Paul, he knows already. We might as well admit it.”

“Huh? Oh! Okay. Yeah. You’re a tough man to fool, Professor. You saw right through our story.”

Clarkson shook Paul’s hand vigorously. “Call me Laurence. And there’s no need for concern. Your secret is safe with me.”

For some hours, Ava and Laurence discussed recent developments in archaeology and philology. The two academics covered a ragbag of topics, often finishing each other’s sentences. Eventually Clarkson announced his departure. He rose, toasted their health, and finished his drink. Then he said, “I envy you two. Malta is a beautiful, romantic island. Just the place for young lovers.”

He hugged Ava, gave her his mobile number, and begged her to call if she needed anything. Then he said, “
Ha pjacir!
” (enjoy yourselves), and bade the couple a good night.

“So, when’s the wedding?” Paul asked.

Ava grimaced. “Obviously, he shouldn’t know why we’re here. So, I decided to perpetuate his misconception. Why disabuse him of a perfectly plausible explanation? It’s easier than making up something.”

Paul considered it. “Okay, that was smart. Of course,” he reflected, “if we’re on the front page of tomorrow’s paper, it was all for naught.”

“True, but I’m confident the media here won’t be taken in by those lies.”

“Hey, I’ll drink to that,” said Paul, finishing his beer. He rose from the table. “Want another?”

“Sure, but when you get back, let’s make plans for tomorrow. I want to see the bishop as soon as possible.”

Paul nodded, then walked to the bar. He flagged down O’Hagan and ordered two more beers.

“Where are you from?” asked O’Hagan, filling mugs from the tap.

“We’re Americans. We met in Boston.”

“Is she your girlfriend?”

“Yeah, something like that.”

“Damn. You’re lucky, lad. She’s dead sexy.”

“That she is.”

The bartender set two mugs in front of Paul along with his business card.

THE TWO GODS TAVERN, ST. JULIAN’S

IMHAR O’HAGAN, PROPRIETOR

“Just call if you need anything. I can set up tours, car rental, scuba diving, you name it.”

“Cool. Thanks.” Paul pocketed the card, flipped O’Hagan a five-euro coin, and took off with the frothy beers.

Gabe’s pride finally succumbed to his insatiable curiosity. He simply had to know how
DURMDVL
snuck a message through to the satphone undetected. Humbly, he sent an e-mail asking for the inside dope. A lengthy response arrived almost instantly. In it,
DURMDVL
reminded Gabe that his phone bots had detected reverse-transmission probes from two entities. One probe was relatively crude. Gabe’s defensive software blocked it before it could access his phone’s memory. The other, originating within DeMaj Corp’s notorious crypto section, was a sophisticated spy program. The DeMaj probe tried to clone Gabe’s phone. It would have enabled DeMaj to read new text messages (incoming and outgoing), record calls, and download anything (photos, movies, texts) saved in memory. The program monitored the target phone continuously, alerting DeMaj anytime it sent or received a call or text.