The Cana Mystery by David Beckett Page B

thirty-six kilos of gear in his backpack. Secretly, she was grateful he’d insisted on carrying her equipment. She’d argued and called him sexist, but he had remained firm. When he reached up to help her down from the rocks, Ava smiled. Paul could be an obnoxious, unreconstructed paternalist, she thought, but he was helpful on a hike.
    He removed a gas lantern from his pack, lit it, and ventured into the cavern. Ava followed.
    “Check this out,” he said, playing the light over a smooth section of the cave’s interior. Ancient graffiti became visible. Ava could see words painted and carved into the surface. “Can you decipher it?” Paul said.
    She translated: “Here it overtook me . . . that I fell down for thirst. I was parched, my throat burned. I cried ‘This is the taste of death.’”
    “Creepy!”
    “Don’t joke, Paul. Someone might have died here.”
    “Nah. There’s a spring only five hundred meters away. I’m sure he was fine. Here they are!”
    He directed the light into the cave’s deepest recess. It reflected off something metallic.
    Ava gasped.
     
     
    Within his island stronghold, the master was confident. Over the course of many years, he’d learned that no complex plan conforms perfectly to expectations. To succeed, a commander must adapt to circumstances. Hence, Ahmed’s update presented no cause for alarm. Regardless of the unforeseen developments, the sheik would complete his mission soon, dashing the order’s last hope. He smiled, knowing victory was within reach.
    Roderigo noted his boss’s expression. “News from Egypt?”
    The master gestured ambivalently. “A few trivial inconveniences, but the plan continues as scheduled.”
    “Are you concerned about the woman? The translator?”
    “Not at all. Our agents report that she’s a bookish academic, mere prattle without practice. Ahmed will eliminate her, and our American cell will tie up the loose ends.”
     
     
    Hands on her hips, Ava circled the ultramodern titanium-and-acrylic canisters and scrutinized them from all angles. Paul helped Ava unpack her things and showed her how to release the artifacts from the protective canisters. He lifted the jars and described how he and Simon had carefully removed each lid and found the jars to be empty.
    Her eyes never left the artifacts. “Of course, I’ve every confidence in Simon’s mental acuity as well as that of his archaeological team,” she said. “Lord knows, they’re the best brains money can buy. Still, I’m not sure it adds up.”
    “What’s wrong?”
    “They look the way I expected them to look.”
    “And that’s bad?” asked Paul.
    “Yes, because they’re too . . . listen, in archaeology things don’t often turn out as expected. My mental picture of the jars comes from Tintoretto’s famous Wedding Feast at Cana . Have you seen it?”
    When Paul didn’t reply, Ava glanced up.
    “Surely you visited the Gardner Museum, back in Boston?”
    He rubbed his neck. “No, I never . . . wait. I saw that on television. There was a big art heist, right? Didn’t the crooks pretend to be cops?”
    “Yes. In the early nineties, criminals disguised as Boston police stole a Rembrandt, a Vermeer, a Manet. Thankfully, they missed the Tintoretto. It’s one of my favorites. Anyway, you said OSL testing proved that these jars have been buried under Egyptian sand for at least fourteen hundred years. If that’s true, how would Tintoretto know what to paint? I admit they’re not identical—these are closer to the barrel-shaped kratars from the Temple Mount—but Tintoretto’s depiction is correct in several key details.” She gestured toward the artifacts. “Notice the hollow trumpet bases and the simple rims. I’d say these jars were turned on a lathe and finished with a hammer and chisel.”
    She circled the jars again, crouched, then asked, “What would you estimate: thirty-two, thirty-four inches?”
    Before Paul could answer she went on: “Less than three feet