“I believe you, but I’m sure you’ll understand that given the circumstances, a man in my position cannot meet publicly with… fugitives.”
Paul was glad the man hadn’t called them criminals. “Yes, Father. We understand. Nevertheless, we are eager to meet. What do you suggest?”
“Are you familiar with the Catacombs of St. Paul?”
“No.”
“They’re a complex of interconnected caves located in Rabat, on St. Agatha Street. The last tour begins at four thirty, but if you can meet me later, I’ll arrange for the gate to remain unlocked.”
“I’m sure we can find it, Excellency.”
“Good. Meet me in the chapel at eight. Bring the jars. Please come alone, and tell no one of our meeting.”
Paul returned to the table. Something about the telephone call bothered him, but he wasn’t sure what. He told Ava the bishop was willing to meet. She was elated. Then he asked, “I assume you’ve heard of these catacombs?”
“Of course. St. Paul’s Catacombs represent the earliest archaeological evidence of Christianity on Malta. They contain numerous tombs and important murals, the island’s only surviving evidence of late-Roman and early-medieval painting. It’s an important historical site as well as a tourist attraction.”
“Won’t it be too dark to see much at eight o’clock?” asked Paul as he tasted the fish.
“Paul, it’s a cave. It’s dark all the time.”
He laughed. “Right. I’ll bring a torch, then.”
Ahmed’s phone rang. He checked the caller ID and fear gripped him. It was the call he dreaded. He dismissed his entourage, closed the office door, and then picked up. “Master?”
“The Americans are in Malta. You must complete your mission. I cannot tolerate another delay. The girl is adept at solving puzzles. She may uncover the secret.”
Paul and Ava walked back to the hotel and prepared for an excursion into the catacombs. Ava obtained directions from the concierge while Paul purchased a small flashlight from the gift shop. They went upstairs to change. Ava donned khakis, a T-shirt, and running shoes. Looking for his blue jeans, Paul opened the closet. He paused. The two canvas-covered canisters were still hidden inside. Noting his posture, Ava asked, “What’s up?”
“Garagallo said to bring these to the meeting.”
“And?”
“And… I don’t think we should. They’re much safer up here. If the bishop accepts our deal, he can send someone to collect them. Or he can come himself. Either way, I don’t think we should haul them halfway across the island. It’s an unnecessary risk.”
“If you feel strongly, then I agree,” Ava said.
They caught a cab to Rabat, an ancient settlement several kilometers inland. The taxi dropped them in the parish square outside St. Paul’s Church. Less than one hundred meters down St. Agatha Street, they found the catacombs. The site was closed for the evening but, as promised, the gate was unlocked. The two Americans stepped inside. Paul turned on his flashlight. Its bright beam revealed the entrance to a sizable labyrinth. Steep steps led down into a central gallery from which passages branched off in several directions.
“Spooky!” said Paul.
Ava hit his arm. “Hush! Show some respect. These are tombs.”
“Sorry,” he whispered. Taking her hand, he guided her into the large chamber. Divided by a central pillar, the room opened into a bewildering series of tunnels. Immediately to their right, a wide corridor beckoned.
“Which way to the chapel?” Paul whispered. Ava shrugged. She had no idea.
“Guess we’ll find out.”
Paul ventured into the passage. After walking twenty-five meters, they entered a tall crypt with a raised plinth. Hewn from the natural rock were two circular tables and two semicircular benches. Ava whispered that the site must have been used for meals during the ancient festival of the dead. Then Paul stopped in his tracks. At the end of the chamber was an apse containing a variety of small amphorae and two large stone jars. Both were unsealed. Their heavy stone lids rested on an adjoining shelf. Eyes wide with wonder, Paul turned to Ava and in a hushed voice asked, “Are those what I think they are?”
His question confused her for a moment. Then Ava understood. Out of respect for the dead, she struggled to suppress her laughter. She took his wrist and redirected the flashlight’s beam to a sign near the apse. In several languages, it read: examples of period stonework and ceramics.
“Honestly, you didn’t think those were the other lost jars, did you? They’re not even from the right century! Look at the carving style—”
“Whatever,” Paul said glumly. From his tone, Ava worried that she’d really insulted him. She was relieved when his usual smile reemerged.
They continued down the passage until they reached a dead end.
“Damn. Looks like we took a wrong turn,” Paul said. He led her back to the main chamber and played his flashlight over the wall signs. One indicated that the chapel was to their left. They followed the arrow and descended deeper into the catacombs. Down a few more steps was a wide room. Ava could see why it was called a chapeclass="underline" A shadowy recess at its far end resembled an altar. Walking slowly in the dim light, she approached, drawing closer until a loud voice called out, “Did you come alone?”
Ava spun around. A tall, robed figure materialized out of the gloom. She tried to answer, but found she couldn’t. Paul spoke for her.
“Bishop Garagallo? Hi, nice to meet you. We came alone, as you requested.”
“Excellent. It’s nice to meet you, too. Now Paul, I told you to bring the jars. Where are they?”
In that instant, Paul realized what had been bothering him. They’d never said the artifacts were jars! Paul needed time to think. He stalled.
“The jars? Oh, they’re safe. They’re in a very safe place.”
“Where?”
Paul looked at Ava. She was embarrassed. His intuition told him something was very wrong. The bishop shouldn’t know about the jars. He couldn’t know. Unless. Paul hunted for a decent response. Then he heard Ava.
“I apologize, your Excellency. We left the jars—”
“In the other cavern,” Paul finished. “We left them over in the other cavern. You see, it’s my fault. I got us lost. We took a wrong turn, and, you know, those things can get very heavy. I can show you where they are. I’ll lead you to them. Come this way.”
Ava stared at him. She had no idea what he was doing, but she trusted him enough to play along. Paul turned and walked out of the chapel. Unsure of what to do, he tried to formulate a plan. Suddenly, he had an idea. When they reached the main chamber, he turned. “Watch your step, Father. You know Malta’s reputation for poisonous snakes.”
“What?” The bishop was confused. “Snakes? Certainly. I’ll watch out for them.”
Paul saw Ava stiffen. She knew. The real Maltese bishop would have caught the reference. She looked directly at Paul, fear written on her face. “Ava, you look a little cold. Why don’t you wait for us outside? The bishop and I can carry the jars—”
“No, I don’t think so.” From the folds of his robe, the man produced a pistol equipped with a silencer.
He pointed the gun at Ava. “Move away from the stairs. Stand next to him.” Ava was shaking. She backed into Paul. He looped his arm around her waist and pulled her close, but for once his touch didn’t calm her.
“You’re not Bishop Garagallo,” said Ava.
The man smiled.
“Look,” said Paul, “you can have the jars. We won’t make trouble. If you let her go, I’ll help you carry them out.”
The man smiled again. “First, show me the jars. Then we’ll negotiate.”
The three of them continued down the corridor until they came to the room with the stone tables and benches. Paul knew they’d both be killed as soon as the impostor had what he wanted. Playing for time, he tried to distract the man with chatter.