The Cana Mystery (5 page)

Except for the clove cigarettes, which he quit that year, and the fact that he’d risen to become a resident tutor himself, Gabe remained essentially the same sweet-natured guy. He was a little taller and heavier but just as bright, quirky, innocent, and lovable.

“My contact never showed at the airport. I need to find him and all I have is a phone number. I’m not even sure what continent he’s on. Can you help?”

“When was the last time you spoke?”

“Right before I left Boston.” When was that? It must have been at least twenty-four hours before, but she couldn’t be sure with all the time-zone changes. To Ava it seemed that a week had passed.

“Give me the number. I’ll work backward. Try to use GPS. You’re probably within signal-intercept range of Agios Nikolaos.”

“Of what?”

“Nothing. Forget I said it. You don’t want to know. Maintain plausible deniability.”

“Okay. Just try, Gabe. That’s all I ask.”

“I will, but if I can’t find anything, will you take the next plane home?”

“Maybe,” Ava replied, adding silently, “unless they’re still watching the airport.”

“I found him,” Gabe announced a short time later.

“Brilliant!”

“Or at least I found his phone. I can’t be certain he’s there. I have a satellite image of the location and the coordinates. It’s in Egypt, very remote. There appears to be some kind of settlement. Just a village, I guess, at the foot of Al-Qalzam Mountain. The closest town might be Al Zaafarana. Does any of that ring a bell?”

Ava ignored the question. “What’s the best way to get there?”

“Just a sec.” She knew his tone: frustrated. He thinks I should come home now, she thought. He’s probably right.

“I can book you a flight from Sana’a to Cairo. From there, I’m sure I can find ground transportation to the coordinates. Do you want—”

“No,” she said, remembering the close call at the airport. “I prefer not to fly. Egypt is just across the Red Sea. Can you find me a boat?”

“Call me back in thirty.”

Ava had every confidence that somehow Gabe would come through. I’m really going to owe him, she thought. Relying on Gabe was becoming a habit. Once, in college, he worked all night helping Ava translate Rongorongo glyphs. She worried they might lose touch after graduation, so she was thrilled to learn he’d be staying in Boston for grad school. For the hundredth time Ava wondered if that had been a coincidence. She knew Gabe could hack into any university’s admissions department, but with his credentials every top school wanted him anyway. Gabe had written a revolutionary program for her Ph.D. project on the Great Vowel Shift, a subject of interest to linguistics scholars and students of language evolution. Enthusiastic at first, lately she’d begun questioning if that subject would be her life’s work. “I guess that’s why I’m here,” she mused, “to find my calling.”

A half hour later, Gabe had a solution. “Hire a truck. Have the driver to take you to Al-Salif. It’s a fishing village just a few hours to your west. Of course, getting there might not be cheap.”

“No problem,” Ava lied. She had only about eight hundred dollars in cash, and she assumed few Yemeni truckers for hire took credit.

“I found a contact running fishing boats off Kamaran Island.” Where did he find these people? “He’ll meet you at the Al-Salif harbor. Look for a boat with two moons on its prow.”

“Two moons. Got it. You’re an angel!”

“Aw, shucks.”

“Oh, Gabe? Do the two-moons guys take plastic? I mean, can I pay with my AmEx?”

A pause, then: “It’s already done. A substantial amount of euros was transferred to their German bank, to be held in escrow. They’ll receive the access code after they deliver you safely to Egypt.”

“How did you—”

“Plausible deniability, Ava. Maintain plausible deniability.”

She arrived at the Red Sea port of Al-Salif just in time to witness a sunset of lyrical beauty. She paid her driver and walked to the harbor, seeking a boat with two moons on the prow. Were they full moons? Half moons? Crescent moons? Gabe hadn’t specified. Ava feared she’d never find the proper watercraft. As it turned out, she needn’t have worried. The mustached Yemeni captain spotted her easily. Few American tourists visited Al-Salif. Furthermore, Ava remained conspicuously garbed in her flimsy tank top, running shorts, and sneakers. She resolved to obtain culturally appropriate
—and warmer—attire at the earliest opportunity.

The captain ferried her across the bay to Kamaran Island. Because they couldn’t depart until morning, he offered her accommodations in a traditional Tihama hut, just steps from the seashore. Ava was charmed. Islanders played music and cooked on the beach. She met several Europeans who’d come to scuba-dive on the reefs and around historic shipwrecks. They were having a grand time and invited her to join them. As she mingled, a donkey wandered over and sniffed her neck. She wondered how she must smell. It had been awhile since she’d washed. An island boy, wearing a faded San Antonio Spurs jersey, gave her the thumbs-up sign and said: “America!”

Ava responded in fluent Arabic.
“Salaam aleikum,”
she said, and asked him if there was a clothing store nearby. Surprised, he pointed to the dive shop.

She attempted to purchase a change of clothes, but the shop sold only bathing suits and T-shirts. Ava shrugged and bought one of each. At least they were clean. She wandered back to the beach and accepted a plate of grilled fish. Sitting on a stone bench appointed with colorful, embroidered cushions, she watched dolphins splash happily in the bay. The food was succulent and delicious.

After dinner Ava hiked among the ruins of a Portuguese fort predating the island’s sixteenth-century Ottoman conquest. She found a private spot, removed the satphone from her backpack, and called the hotel in Sana’a. Claiming a family emergency, she asked the receptionist if the staff could store her luggage until she returned.

“That won’t be necessary,” came the answer. “Your husband collected your belongings this afternoon.”

“My husband?”

“Yes, ma’am. He sounded extremely concerned. Can you give me your location? Is there somewhere he can reach you?”

Ava hung up. Drained, she retired to her hut and crawled under the mosquito netting but couldn’t stay asleep. Wild camels roamed the island’s interior. Whenever one snorted or bucked, Ava snapped awake, certain that evil men had found her.

At dawn the captain was surprised to find his American passenger packed and ready. He and a crewman helped her cross the narrow gangplank. After they cast off, he showed Ava to a tiny cabin, then left. Ava yawned. The jet lag and stress were catching up with her. All morning she’d been making cognitive errors, speaking ungrammatically, misjudging distances. She closed the cabin door and turned the latch, locking herself in. The bunk was wedged against the gunwale and smelled of dried fish. Outside, she heard gulls’ cries. Waves washed gently and regularly against the hull. As the boat entered the Red Sea, Ava nodded off.

When she woke up, the boat was in the Gulf of Suez. Ava went on deck to bask in the glorious afternoon sun. As they passed the ancient lighthouse at Ras Gharib, she watched the ship’s wake trace a long, chalky path over the sapphire swells.

At dusk they docked at Al Zaafarana, on the Egyptian coast. The experienced crew snuck her ashore with little fanfare and no difficulty. After thanking them profusely, Ava called Gabe to confirm her arrival. She handed the phone to the captain, and Gabe transmitted the authorization code, releasing the funds held in escrow. The captain smiled.

Satisfied that Ava was safe, Gabe told her that he’d reserved a room for her at the Sahara Inn. “Thank you so much,” she said warmly. In the hotel’s gift shop, Ava exchanged a substantial portion of her dwindling cash for some conservative khaki shorts, a white T-shirt, and sunglasses. She found her room, bathed, and slept. The next morning, she rose early and hired a taxi for the ride inland.

“Ava? Ava! What are you doing here?”

“What do you think I’m doing? Going on safari? You invited me! You paid for my stupid plane ticket!”

“But why are you in Egypt? You’re supposed to be in Yemen. How the hell did you find me?”

“I have friends in high places. Now you answer my questions. Why didn’t you meet me at the airport? Why are you hiding in a monastery? And most important, why is someone following me?”

Paul’s face clouded. “What man?” Ava saw that he was greatly disturbed by her questions, and Paul didn’t scare easily. This wasn’t good. She was becoming more and more frightened. It didn’t feel like an adventure anymore. Ava dropped the tough act.

“A dangerous-looking man intercepted me in Sana’a. He must have known my flight number. He followed me to my hotel, but I lost him in the Salt Market.”

Paul was stunned. “Ava,” he said, “it’s all gone to hell. I don’t understand what’s happening. People have been killed. I hoped that if I didn’t show at the airport, you’d just turn around, fly home, and rack up a few thousand frequent-flyer miles. I don’t want you to be in danger.”

“Wait, did you say killed?”

“At least seven people are dead. Two were just kids. It’s awful.” Paul looked like he might cry. Ava was terrified now. He continued, “It’s all about the damn jars. I had no idea he’d go so far. I mean, I thought we were friends. I knew he was ambitions, but this is beyond ambition. He’s obsessed! I never—”

“Wait a second, Paul. Are you talking about the jars from the legend?”

“Yes,” he said. “We found the lost jars of Cana. They exist. They’re real.”

Chapter 4

4

“Tell me everything!” Ava’s fears were overtaken by her curiosity. This might rank among the greatest historical, archaeological, even religious finds of the past two hundred years. The jars were, theoretically, a direct link to Jesus Christ. This could be the seminal moment of her academic career, the basis for an award-winning book, a professorship, even tenure. Hungry for details, she pressed Paul to relate the tale.

“I don’t know much. I’m sorry, Ava. I don’t know the history. I don’t even know where Cana is.”

“Just tell me what happened.”

“At our excavation in Israel, the diggers found part of a mosaic beneath an ancient church floor. It contained a map.”

She was intrigued. In a hoarse voice, she asked, “Can you describe it?”

“It was oriented east, toward the altar. Simon said it was dedicated in AD 540. The intact section shows the region between southern Lebanon and the Nile Delta, from Alexandria all the way to the Sinai.”

Just then Paul noticed Ava wobbling. Taking her arm, he helped her into a chair and fetched a cup of water. Once she could breathe again, Ava couldn’t contain her excitement, “That map is a major find,” she said. “It predates the Persian conquest!”

Paul shrugged. “If you say so. Anyway, the mosaic depicts several historical sites—Jericho, Nablus, Ashkelon, Bethlehem—a bunch of names in Greek. There’s also a peculiar location hidden deep in the Red Sea Mountains. It had no name, just an illustration of two jars. Simon was obsessed with it. He dispatched a full archaeological team to that location, about eighty kilometers from here. Last week they found something. I was with Simon when he got the call. He was ecstatic. He kept saying, ‘Are they intact? Are they sealed? How many are present?’ He went nuts when they couldn’t answer his questions. He canceled all our meetings. We jumped into his helicopter and flew to Egypt. By the time we landed they’d cleared the entrance to an ancient fortress. Underneath the stone structure were some caves connected by a network of tunnels. Simon was so focused. The jars must be worth a staggering amount of cash.”

“If genuine, they’re priceless,” Ava said. Then she frowned. She knew Simon was an unscrupulous businessman. A high-tech mogul, he had a reputation for dubious ethics, antitrust violations, bribery, and seven-figure court settlements. Arrogant and outspoken, he’d notoriously lobbied the SEC and the IRS to investigate his competition, but Ava was shocked that he’d stoop to smuggling antiquities. If the jars were found here, they were rightfully Egyptian property.

“How much could he get for them?” Paul asked.

Ava’s brow furrowed. “Some collectors would pay millions in secret, but he’d have a lot of trouble selling the artifacts without getting caught. He’d risk becoming an international criminal.” Ava deliberated for a moment and then announced, “He doesn’t plan to sell.”

“Huh? I don’t understand.”

“DeMaj is a billionaire. He wouldn’t care about another few million. He has too much to lose. He wants the prestige. If he’s discovered the lost jars, his name will go down in the annals of archaeology. He’ll be mentioned in the same sentences as Howard Carter, Hiram Bingham, and Heinrich Schliemann.”

“Do you think?” From his tone, it was clear that Paul didn’t quite buy it, but he knew Ava well enough to recall that her deductions were almost never wrong. People in her world learned not to contradict her without an extremely good reason.

Ava’s eyes narrowed. It wasn’t about money. That didn’t fit the profile. Simon was no stranger to controversy. He denied that global warming was a serious problem, he moved thousands of high-
paying American jobs offshore, and he consorted with all manner of unsavory people, but DeMaj was indisputably shrewd. Surely he’d performed a cost-benefit analysis. The potential profit from selling on the black market couldn’t justify the risk of getting caught, losing his investment, and going to jail. “Do you disagree?” she asked, ready to dissect any counterargument.

“No, I . . . I’m sure you’re right. I just didn’t realize he was doing all this archaeology stuff to be famous. I mean, he’s already famous. He’s been on the cover of
Wired
and
Forbes.
He dates supermodels. He’s talking about buying an NBA team.”

“It’s a different kind of fame. This discovery would garner respect from academics, museums, and universities. All the ivory-tower intellectuals who complain about his politically incorrect outlook would be forced to bow and scrape, to acknowledge his colossal contribution to our knowledge of the ancient world.”