“Do you think he will?”
“I’m not sure. Ammon told me the driver was trustworthy. I want to believe it.”
At the mention of Ammon’s name, Ava’s face darkened. Her mind raced back to poor Sefu, fighting for his life in God-knows-what hospital. Lost in this dismal thought, she was oblivious to the footfalls of a man approaching her from behind.
“You look like hell!” a voice boomed.
Ava almost jumped out of her shoes. She spun around to see a handsome man, blond hair en brosse, wearing a custom-tailored tuxedo. He looked Ava up and down.
“My apologies, mademoiselle. I was referring only to that fellow.”
“Don’t bother, Nick,” said Paul, grinning. “Ava hates men.”
“Just the stupid ones,” she retorted.
“Then how do you tolerate this knucklehead?” Nick said, clapping Paul on the shoulder.
“Shut up and help me with the luggage.”
“Whatever you say, Mr. Francona.”
Taking care not to soil Nick’s immaculate tux, the former ballplayers hefted the canisters onto a brass dolly and guided it through the hotel’s service entrance. Ava followed them into a bustling kitchen.
Once they were inside, Nick closed and locked the door. Pointing to their bloodstained cloaks, he said, “You can’t just stroll through the lobby like that. Someone will call the police.”
Ava and Paul shared a glance. Obviously they were eager to avoid that experience. They took off their pilgrim clothing and Nick tossed the tattered cloaks into the incinerator.
“Better?” Paul asked.
“Much better,” Nick answered, appraising Ava’s tiny running shorts and bikini top, which were too chilly for the cold night air. “You look like you just came in from the beach.”
She dug into her backpack, found an oversized T-shirt, and pulled it over her head.
“Can we see our room now?”
Nick led them upstairs to a beautiful suite. As the men rolled in the dolly and unloaded the canisters, Ava admired the antique furnishings. She pulled open the curtains and gasped at a panoramic view of Alexandria’s Great Harbor. Directly across the water glowed the Qaitbey Fortress. Far down the corniche to the east was the modern Bibliotheca, built in 2002. To the west, minarets towered above the El-Mursi Abul Abbas Mosque complex.
“Just dial zero for anything you desire, Ava. Champagne, wine, whiskey, you name it. I told the concierge to put your charges on my comps.”
“Thanks, Nick.”
“My pleasure, mademoiselle.”
“Yeah, thanks,” Paul said. He took Nick by the arm and led him from the room.
Once they were outside, Nick said, “Let me guess. Her father is in the Mafia. No, the CIA.”
“It’s not like that.”
“Sure. First you call out of the blue using a fake name. Now you show up covered in blood, with a half-dressed teenage sexpot, and I’m not supposed to ask questions?”
“She’s not a teenager. She’s our age.”
“Fine. Whatever. That hardly explains—”
“Nick, it’s complicated. We need somewhere to hide for a day or two, just long enough to figure out everything. I’m sorry about this.”
“Don’t get me fired, okay? I like this job.”
“Gracias. You’re a true friend. I owe you.”
“No kidding.” With a wink, Nick handed over the keys, then vanished into the elevator.
Gabe previewed his post for the umpteenth time, reworded it, and struggled to avoid sounding stupid or desperate. With his mouse, he guided the cursor over the publish button and then hesitated. He rarely contributed to this forum, certainly nothing like this. His post was an admission of weakness. He anticipated the responses. Someone would flame him, he just knew it. He detested being in this position, but Gabe needed help, his reputation as a great hacker notwithstanding. If anyone could help, it would be this site’s readers, who tolerated no poseurs. When posts were deemed stupid or insulting, consequences ensued. He knew of cases in which a devastating worm or virus had been inflicted on a newbie who violated protocol. For years Gabe had been a member of this insular community. He’d formed relationships of sorts with the regulars. Though he’d never met any face-to-face, he knew their tastes in music, movies, TV, books, and food. He understood their political philosophies (most were hard-core libertarians), and he’d learned to appreciate their savvy programming suggestions. After a final review, he transmitted his message.
Paul returned to the room, entered without knocking, and surprised Ava undressing for a bath.
“Sorry!” he said, retreating into the hallway. “I’ll give you some privacy.”
He turned to leave, then heard her voice.
“You can stay.”
“Come again?”
With a shy smile: “If you don’t mind, I’d like you to stay. Walking around the hotel, someone might identify you. And besides,” she said, lowering her eyes, “I’ll feel safer if I know you’re here.”
Paul was touched. Despite his stupid mistakes and all the trouble he’d caused, Ava still trusted him to protect her.
“Oh, okay. Sure. Of course I’ll stay.”
Ava shut the bathroom door. The antique porcelain tub was her favorite type, with little feet and an old-fashioned chain stopper. She filled the bath with piping-hot water, added aromatic salts, dropped her towel, and slipped inside. As the warmth loosened her muscles, Ava inhaled deeply and then forced all the air from her lungs. Most of her stress left with it. She reclined and for the first time in days shaved her legs. They were, she observed with satisfaction, now nicely tanned.
As Ava rested her head against the cool ceramic, her mind drifted, flowing from topic to topic until drawn back, inevitably, to the sacred relics and three unresolved questions: Where was the message? Were these the real jars? How could she be sure? Recalling the personal and professional embarrassment Dr. King suffered after presenting the dubious papyrus, Ava shivered. Counterfeit artifacts had ruined many a promising career. In 2004, authorities determined that an ivory pomegranate thought to have adorned King Solomon’s Temple was phony. Ava knew well the sagas of the so-called James Ossuary and the Tablet of Solomon (a.k.a. the Jehoash Inscription), two major finds that were exposed as frauds. According to police, they’d been manufactured in a master forger’s workshop, inscribed by an Egyptian craftsman, and sold through a well-known antiquities dealer. Those fakes had been sophisticated enough to fool many experts, including some at the Sorbonne. Forgers even found a way to subvert the carbon-dating process, adding bits of gold and ancient charcoal under the patina. In all three cases, archaeological provenance was lacking.
That wasn’t a problem here. Paul saw the jars buried in the cave. He’d helped disinter them, but, Ava reasoned, Paul was no expert. Could he tell how long they’d been buried? What if someone buried the jars sixteen years ago, not sixteen hundred years ago? Ava closed her eyes, lost in thought.
The onyx Mercedes prowled into Rosetta just as the sun was setting, burnt orange on a cloudless horizon. Despite the windows’ tint, Lieutenant Barakah was momentarily blinded by the glare reflecting off the Nile.
A name floated back to him from across the years: Aker, god of sunset and sunrise. Aker’s ideogram was twin lions back-to-back, the sun hovering between them. Barakah couldn’t recall the lions’ names, but he knew they represented yesterday and today. No tomorrow. Interesting, he thought. At that moment, the car slowed to a stop. Sheik Ahmed commanded: “Find out what happened to the boat, then meet me at the Mahaly Mosque’s front steps in two hours.”