The Cana Mystery (35 page)

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.”

N
EAR
C
ALA D’
I
NFERNO,
I
TALY

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—’”