“So, what then?”
“I’m meeting Nick at Monty’s Bar after his shift. Maybe he knows someone who can smuggle us out of Egypt.”
Ava’s posture stiffened. She was silent for a moment. Then she announced: “No. For centuries, Europeans have stolen Egypt’s priceless relics. I’m not going to participate in that crime. Looting antiquities is illegal and immoral.”
“I don’t want any loot! I’ll happily give the jars to the first institute or museum you choose. Once we get out of Egypt.”
“And go where? Libya? Yemen? Tunisia? Saudi Arabia? Where will they be safe from Simon?”
Paul sagged into his chair. Brilliant ideas weren’t his strong suit. He had no grand strategy. He knew only that, somehow, he must keep them safe. He clung to what Father Besserion had said: “Protect what you found.” He’d accepted that charge, and his heart told him the jars would never be secure in Egypt. Suddenly Paul had a brainstorm. The more he thought about it, the more he liked it. Smiling, he sat up and turned to Ava.
“You said the jars are priceless if they’re authentic, right?”
“Yes, but we can’t simply assume—”
“Hear me out, please. The jars are either real artifacts or worthless junk. If they’re worthless, no one cares if we take them.”
“Sure, but if they’re real—”
“If they’re real, then they’re Jesus’s property! I mean, the true lost jars of Cana should belong to Christ’s heir on earth, a.k.a. the Catholic Church!”
Ava opened her mouth to disagree, and then paused. It was a novel argument. If Jesus took the jars from Cana to Capernaum, presumably they belonged to him. Wouldn’t the pope have a claim to Christ’s property, regardless of where it was unearthed? Of course, the argument’s basis, which Paul assumed as fact, was a biblical account. Not everyone accepted that version of history. Even Ava, with her Catholic upbringing, regarded most Bible stories as, in Einstein’s words, “honorable, but primitive legends.” She had no idea how the World Court would rule on the subject.
“Let’s assume you’re right. What then?”
“I propose that it’s our legal and moral duty to transport the jars to a nearby Catholic country and deliver them to the appropriate bishop, archbishop, or whatever. While the cardinals are busy electing the new pope, history experts can determine the jars’ authenticity. Assuming they’re real, international lawyers can sort out who gets them. Maybe they belong in Egypt, maybe they go to Rome, but no matter how the court rules, we’ll be okay. We never claimed ownership or sought compensation. We just relied in good faith on our plausible, albeit unorthodox, legal interpretation.”
Ava smiled. “That’s very clever, Paul.”
His shoulders lifted, and for an instant joy sparkled in his eyes. Then he turned away and shrugged.
“Ah, well, even a blind squirrel finds acorns—”
“Anyway,” she said, “what should I wear?”
“What?”
“What should I wear to Monty’s? Nick burned my robe, and I presume the bikini is inappropriate.”
Paul grinned. “I’ll call the concierge.”
Sheik Ahmed and Lieutenant Barakah arrived at the police station just after ten at night. While his underling questioned the cops, Ahmed commandeered an office and opened the telephone directory. He found the number of the local newspaper, called, and asked for the managing editor. The receptionist put him on hold. As he waited, Barakah entered the room. Seeing the sheik on the phone, Barakah apologized and turned to leave. Ahmed shook his head and motioned for the lieutenant to sit. Then someone picked up.
“Who the hell is this?” demanded the prickly editor.
“This is Sheik Ahmed.”
The editor gasped and juggled the phone. Instantly his tone became obsequious. “Oh, Sheik! I’m so sorry. I had no idea! No one mentioned… I would never—”
“Apology accepted. Now listen carefully. I have breaking news that you’ll want to publish in tomorrow’s paper.”
Gabe exited Lowell House and turned left onto Mt. Auburn. It was an exceptionally foggy night. Wet, snow-free asphalt glistened, reflecting streetlights. Humming, Gabe crossed the empty street, stopped at an ATM, and slid his card into the slot. At that moment, he sensed someone watching. He’d been mugged once in South Boston. He knew robbers try to catch people at bank machines. Warily, he glanced back into the mist: No one there. With a sigh of relief, he withdrew eighty dollars. Outside the CVS, he nodded to the Champ, a homeless man who frequently sought refuge there.
“Hey, bro,” said the Champ. “Got any change?”
“Not yet,” Gabe replied, but I’ll hook you up in a sec.” He went into the store and proceeded directly to the frozen section, seeking ice cream: Vermonty Python. Then he stopped, shocked. The entire freezer was empty.
“Yo!” he yelled to the long-haired clerk. “What’s up with the ice cream?”
“Aw, dude! The freezer is totally wack. All that stuff melted.”
“Great.” Gabe sucked in a breath and pressed two fingers against the bridge of his nose. It wasn’t his day. Should he go home and eat Pop-Tarts? No, that sounded gross. As he scanned aisles of junk food, he noticed a bearded man across the street, watching him through the fog. “Odd,” Gabe thought. “He doesn’t look like a student. He’s not nearly drunk enough.”
Chuckling, he grabbed a bag of Cheetos, then changed his mind. Maybe he could get a pastry at Tealuxe, just a few blocks away. He dropped the Cheetos, left, and, still lacking change, handed the Champ twenty dollars.
“Damn! Thanks, bro.”
Gabe smiled. Feeling virtuous, he continued north on JFK and passed Cardullo’s Gourmet Shoppe, wishing it was open. As he neared the intersection, his peripheral vision caught a flicker of movement. He looked over his shoulder. Oh, hell. The bearded man was walking behind him. Gabe wondered: “Is he following me, or am I just paranoid?”
Involuntarily, his pace quickened. He darted around the corner and turned right onto Palmer. Breathing heavily, he leaned against the brick building and waited. Moments later, the bearded man appeared. Their eyes locked. This was no coincidence. The man reached under his shirt and began to withdraw something. Gabe didn’t wait to find out what. He turned and ran. The bearded man gave chase.
Gabe had a head start, but he was out of shape. He couldn’t outrun anyone. Years ago he played Ultimate Frisbee, but since graduation he’d spent most afternoons and weekends working on the computer. Ava frequently invited him to run with her, but he was always too embarrassed to accept. Now he wished he had.
Heedless of traffic, he dashed across Church Street, raced past Starbucks, and turned into the adjoining parking lot where, to Gabe’s horror, a tall brick wall blocked further progress. Desperate to escape, he leaped onto a car’s hood, stepped onto its roof, and vaulted himself over the wall. Frightened, he tumbled into a dark churchyard. Seconds later he heard the car creak as his pursuer copied his maneuver. Gabe stood and tried to flee, but his shoe caught on a gravestone, dropping him face-first onto the cold, damp earth. He waited in terror, anticipating gunshots. Instead, rapid footfalls passed within inches of him. Holding his breath, he listened. The steps grew distant as the bearded man continued running. In the gloom, he didn’t see me fall, Gabe realized.
He kept perfectly still. Soon he heard angry voices speaking Arabic. Two men argued and then departed. He remained motionless for a half hour, afraid to betray his position. When he could wait no longer, he rose, cautiously, and looked around. Seeing no one, he crept out of the churchyard and headed back to Lowell House. Taking a circuitous route, using backstreets and watching at every corner, it seemed to take an eternity to reach the dorm. Gabe yearned to get inside, lock the door, and strip off his wet clothes. Nearing Mt. Auburn, he inched up to the corner. He poked his head around the edge and took a peek. It was just as he feared. Two men waited outside of Lowell.