The Cana Mystery (38 page)

Ava took a breath, then marched across the platform to the microphones. Nervous, she tapped one. It was active. Standing alone, center stage, she felt utterly exposed. Seconds passed. The crowd, distracted for a moment by her dramatic entrance, began to grow restless. Someone whistled. Others murmured. Sound techs flashed her the thumbs-up, urging her to speak. Ava’s throat constricted. Her heart pounded. She stole a backward glance. The musicians were loitering nearby, smoking and passing a bottle. Bagelton’s face betrayed equal parts greed and curiosity. And there, standing guard, was loyal Paul. His warm eyes met hers, and he smiled. All her fears vanished. At that moment, Ava realized she was hopelessly in love.

She opened her notebook, cleared her throat, and began to speak.

Simon remembered his mother. He was four and she was teaching him to read. He saw her long, elegant finger glide across the yellowed pages of a paperback filched from the used bookstore. When prompted, he tried to pronounce the magical words. She helped him sound out the most difficult. Together they consumed all types of books, but he loved adventure tales the most:
The
Song of Roland, The Death of Arthur, Robinson Crusoe,
Huckleberry Finn;
Dumas, Stevenson, Kipling, Tolkien, H. G. Wells, Jules Verne. Often, his exhausted mother fell asleep before a story’s conclusion, leaving her precocious son to finish it alone. As she dozed, he would read each word aloud, sure she was dreaming about the characters and desperate to know each story’s end.

Simon took this precious memory, locked it back deep within his heart, and refocused his mind on the present. His cockpit radio was tuned to a live broadcast from the protest. Over the air Ava’s confident voice began to proclaim the prophecy. He smiled: such a brave, brilliant young woman. He coaxed the Comanche into a steep bank, flew low behind a granite hillock, hovered, and scanned the radar. Four blinking icons represented the Italian helicopters he’d eluded. The Comanche’s advanced tactical avionics provided a detailed description of each Mongoose’s position, bearing, speed, and weapon status. His adversaries had separated into a standard military search pattern. DeMaj calculated he had forty seconds, perhaps a minute, until they pinpointed his location.

Then, a fifth icon appeared. It wasn’t searching for him; rather, it was flying directly toward Ava, and it was armed with a heat-seeking missile.

“Fire!” Don VeMeli shouted at his subordinates. “Why don’t you fire?”

“A moment longer,” said the copilot. “It’s difficult to attain missile lock on such a weak heat source. These weapons were designed for antitank combat.”

At starboard, the sun was a disk of burnished gold. Wincing from the glare, the master shielded his eyes. “I don’t care if it locks. Precision is unnecessary. Destroy the whole stage.”

“Sir, you don’t understand. If the missile won’t lock, it won’t arm. It wouldn’t detonate.”

Don VeMeli bristled with rage. “Imbecile! Use the guns then. Do whatever it takes!”

“Right away, sir.” Flicking a switch, the pilot aborted the missile launch, swooped down into cannon range, and reduced speed. Below them, a young woman was shouting strange words into a microphone. As the helicopter maneuvered for a clear shot, Don VeMeli whispered, “We have you now.”

Then the copilot screamed. Don VeMeli looked east, and for a second saw his doom.

Almost silent, invisible to radar, and hidden by the brilliant sun, DeMaj had advanced with impunity. Achieving tactical surprise, he flashed out of the morning sky and bore down upon his target. One final time he urged the Comanche’s engines to maximum thrust and then attacked his enemy’s flank, rushing forward like a divine wind. He hoped his mother would be proud. With a joyful heart, he looked forward to seeing her again. Just before impact, he caught the devil’s eye. Smiling, Simon whispered, “
Shah mat.
”

Paul moved the instant he saw the helicopter. It was painted military green and was fully armed. As it circled, Paul dropped his makeshift club and rushed forward. He didn’t dive. He didn’t jump. He ran directly at Ava and tackled her from behind. The impact knocked her off her feet, scattering her papers. Paul and Ava flew three rows into the crowd, where a cluster of astonished protesters broke their fall. Despite the collision, Paul heard no complaint, because at that moment, the sky exploded from a massive detonation. He felt searing heat on his back. If a piece of shrapnel found them, it would be fatal. Keeping Ava’s body underneath him, he held his breath, clasped his hands, and prayed.

Chapter 18

18

The helicopter’s impact had created an enormous fireball, and the flaming debris demolished the makeshift stage. Like a bonfire, it blazed for hours. Several protesters were injured, hit by shrapnel or doused with burning gasoline. Many more were hurt in the rush to escape, as terrified activists and concertgoers stampeded away from the flames. A young boy’s shoulder was shattered. An Italian girl, trampled by the hysterical crowd, required surgery and a middle-
aged man from California suffered a stroke. Nevertheless, not a single bystander died. The press dubbed it the “miracle at La Maddalena,” and Ava couldn’t really disagree.

Despite this good fortune, the Italian government remained embarrassed by the incident, which became a political hot potato. Galeazzo Grandi and the reactionaries blamed “foreign elements” and “outside agitators
.
” In a press conference, Grandi stressed Simon’s North African roots and his connections to the Arab world. Other right-wing politicians lamented that military security had been hamstrung by bleeding-heart peaceniks and civil libertarians; the Left characterized the episode as “yet another example of capitalist oligarchs stifling political speech and repressing the right to free assembly.” Newspaper editorialists demanded greater restrictions of citizens’ ability to purchase military hardware.

Paul and Ava were detained by the U.S. Secret Service. Held for a week and denied access to legal counsel, they were questioned separately at first, then jointly. Ava was furious about the gross infringement of her constitutional rights. Paul was so thankful to see Ava alive that he would have signed any confession they offered.

At first no interrogator credited their story. As time passed, however, each new fact tended to corroborate the Americans’ account. At that point the character witnesses began their campaign. On behalf of the Church, the indefatigable bishop Garagallo championed the couple’s cause with vigor. Professor Clarkson organized a candlelight vigil, while Gabe and
DURMDVL
flooded every congressional office with texts, tweets, and e-mails. Nick pulled strings, utilizing his network of wealthy business connections. Ava’s father called in favors, as did Paul’s many influential relatives. Jess, eyes blazing with indignation, made a particularly forceful appearance on MSNBC. But it was the discovery of the missing warhead, hidden in the basement of a luxury hotel, that finally turned the tide. Paul and Ava were perfunctorily thanked, released, and reminded in the most severe terms of their binding legal and moral obligations to keep silent about the matter.

B
UENOS
A
IRES,
M
ARCH 13, 2013

On a late-summer afternoon in the Argentine capital, the sun was just setting when the news broke: Catholic leaders had astounded the world by selecting Jorge Mario Bergoglio, former archbishop of Buenos Aires, to be the next pope. In the city’s many bars and cafés, joyful crowds gathered to toast and cheer. A happy chaos filled the streets, as the overwhelmingly Catholic population celebrated—some praying, some pointing at screens showing live broadcasts from Rome.

The new pope wasted no time in breaking with tradition, taking the name Francis. According to Church spokesman Thomas Rosica, the pontiff selected this name to reflect the “special place in his heart for the poor, for the disenfranchised, for those living on the fringes and facing injustice.” The new pope’s choice also represented his opposition to violence because “Francis loved peace.”

Later, Pope Francis delivered an inspiring message: “When we don’t walk, we are stuck. All of us must find the courage to walk in the presence of God. Only in this way can the Church move forward.” He extended his blessing to everyone, including non-Catholics, saying, “You are of different religions, but you are all children of God.”

R
OME,
M
ARCH 19, 2013

Ava ran hard, and as she ran she wept. She’d left the hotel in the morning, jogged out into the Piazza della Rotunda, and circled the ageless Pantheon. Passing Bernini’s
Elephant and Obelisk
in the Piazza della Minerva, she took the Via del Piè di Marmo east to the Collegio Romano. She kept up a spirited pace, hoping strenuous exercise would dispel the tempest roiling within her. Instead, Ava’s mind replayed an endless loop of frightful images: a man chasing her in Yemen; a policeman smiling as he shot Sefu; the throng of anti-immigrant rioters intoxicated by rage; and Sheik Ahmed’s madness. She relived the terror she experienced when La Belva’s helicopter exploded and the dizzying blend of guilt and gratitude she felt on learning of Simon’s final sacrifice. With a cringe, Ava recalled her litany of petty insults. By what right had she judged him? Who was she to judge anyone?

Cutting north, she ran toward the Piazza di Sant’ Ignazio. There, in the shadow of the baroque Jesuit church, Ava paused, winded. Reaching for her feet, she stretched. Rays of sunshine reflected off the rooftops. Dappled Italian light began to warm the street. A dog barked as the first wave of shopkeepers emerged, readying their quaint stores and cafés for a busy day, the Feast of St. Joseph. Ava smiled. Her sadness finally ebbed and was replaced by a sense of purpose.

She resumed her course, pushing to complete another circuit. What’s done is done, she realized, and can’t be undone. Mistakes cannot be erased, but perhaps they can be redeemed. Rather than hiding in academe, Ava vowed to embrace life, utilizing her gifts and abilities to make a better world. Inspired, she felt better—good enough to attempt one more lap.

A sweaty, exhausted Ava flashed her room key to the hotel doorman. She crossed the lobby, smiling again at its graceful arched ceiling, red tile floor, and clean, whitewashed walls. In the room she found Paul stuck on the phone, just as she’d left him. With his free hand, he waved a greeting, then pantomimed a mouth yammering endlessly. Simon’s death had generated a host of complications. His will named Paul as the executor, tasking him with distributing DeMaj assets to a select group of charities. In addition, by a quirk of Italian law, Paul had become Mellania’s guardian. A nonresident alien, she’d been paroled into Simon’s custody after her previous arrest, and upon his death she’d become a ward of his estate. Thus, despite Paul’s duty to testify for the prosecution at Mellania’s trial, he’d begun the arduous process of finding her a good criminal lawyer. Ava recommended hiring the cheapest attorney in the phone book.

Covering the mouthpiece with his palm, Paul stage-whispered, “I’m sorry. It shouldn’t be much longer.” Ava shrugged, removed her new pink Reeboks, and retreated into the marble bathroom. She stripped away her sweat-soaked clothes and stepped into a relaxing shower.

An hour later she reappeared looking clean and pretty. Paul sat slumped behind the desk, still holding the phone to his ear. He’d ordered brunch: A platter of
salame di Aant’Olcese
(coarse-ground, aged Genoa salami mixed with salt, black pepper, garlic, and white wine), a brioche, butter, fresh fruit, and sliced tomato sat untouched on the marble-topped table. Ava lifted a bottle of fruit juice from a silver bucket and poured herself a glass. After waiting a suitable interval, she crossed the room, took the phone from Paul’s hand, and hung it up.

“Time to eat,” she announced. He smiled at her.

Halfway through the meal, Paul said, “I spoke to Nick last night. Sinan’s recovering. He’ll be okay. Nick will stay with him until he’s out of the hospital.