Paul and Ava ran through Rabat until they reached St. Paul’s Church. They cut across the parish square and continued north. Every time they passed an alley Ava’s heart stopped. What danger lurked there? The sheik? The police? Simon? Another assassin? Hand in hand they ran hard for an additional quarter mile. It was cathartic. The night air tasted sweet after the dank catacombs. The exercise cleared Ava’s head until, with effort, she could think rationally.
They paused to rest on a stone bench beneath a statue of two lovers embracing. After catching her breath, Ava said, “Paul, someone betrayed us, someone who knew we were in Malta.”
“Right, and it’s a short list. Sinan knows we’re here, but I’m confident he wasn’t the one. If he planned to sell us out, why fly us over from Egypt?”
Ava nodded, so Paul continued. “And we didn’t get pinched at immigration, so it wasn’t Gabe’s hacker friend.” Ava agreed with this assessment too. Then Paul asked, “Could it have been Clarkson?”
Ava’s expression hardened. “That’s ridiculous. I contacted him, not the other way around. What are the odds that the one person I call in Malta is an agent for Simon and Sheik Ahmed? Half a million to one? Clarkson has no idea why we’re here. We never discussed the jars. Plus, he’s a tenured university professor with a stellar academic reputation.”
“What difference does that make? Are tenured professors morally superior to us normal people?”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes,” she replied coldly. “I’m sure.”
“Then who do you think it was?”
“Could it have been Nick?”
Paul was hurt. He stood and glared at her. “No,” he said, and began walking toward Mdina.
Ava called after him. “Wait! Are you sure? How well do you know him?”
Without slowing, he shouted back, “He’d never rat us out.”
“Hey! Will you just listen? It’s not impossible. Think! He might have had no choice. What if they captured him? Tortured him? Injected him with drugs?”
Paul stopped. He took a deep breath and waited a few seconds. Then he faced Ava. “Okay, I admit it’s possible. Every person we mentioned might have been captured, tortured, or drugged. By that standard, everyone’s a suspect, but the assassin called us at the tavern. Nick couldn’t have known about that. The first we heard of Two Gods was from your pal Clarkson after we landed on Malta.”
Ava thought it over. He was right. She took his hand. “I’m sorry,” she said quietly.
Paul lifted her hand to his lips and gently kissed it. In a warm voice he said, “Nick’s a good friend. He wouldn’t betray us. I know it in my heart.”
Ava smiled. Then her mind buzzed with an idea. “Paul, you nailed it! The traitor was someone who knew to call us at the tavern. And the only place you gave out that number—” Her memory flashed back to the young man behind the huge black desk, the man who’s ears pricked up when she mentioned historical artifacts and kept asking how much they were worth.
Paul’s jaw set as he reached the same conclusion. He finished her sentence: “The only place I gave out that number was at the bishop’s office. I left it for his assistant.”
Fury radiated from his body like heat from a blast furnace. His fists tightened as he whispered, “That greedy little worm is going to pay.”
Gabe sat on Jess’s sofa, telling her all that had transpired since Ava called from Yemen. Hesitant at first, he gave only cursory details, but as Jess pressed for specifics, his explanation became increasingly elaborate. When he described helping Ava escape across the Red Sea, Jess hugged him and praised his cleverness. After that, he brimmed with confidence. His description of being chased by the bearded men took a few liberties with the truth: He neglected to mention falling on his face and implied that he’d evaded capture by stealth and cunning, but from the skeptical light dancing in Jess’s eyes, Gabe suspected he’d crossed the line between poetic license and balderdash. As he recounted his conversations with durmdvl, he paused, remembering he needed to send an e-mail as soon as possible.
“Can I borrow your computer?” he asked.
“Sure.” She disappeared for a moment and then emerged from the bedroom carrying an old Dell Inspiron 1525 laptop. Gabe would have preferred something with a bit more firepower. Regardless, he booted it up and began programming the secure-communication protocol. He sent an encrypted message to durmdvl, giving his current location, describing the limited computer hardware, and warning that others knew Ava was in Malta. He couldn’t think of any way to protect her, but Ava should at least be warned that the secret was out. When he finished typing, Gabe leaned back on the sofa, yawned, and fell asleep.
On the way to El Alamein, Nick stopped at an ATM. His suite would be free of charge, but he’d need a little cash for extras. Before making a withdrawal, he decided to check his balance. He wanted to leave enough in the account to pay Sinan everything he was owed. He keyed in his PIN and hit the balance inquiry button. Nick estimated he had about six grand saved, give or take a few hundred, but when he read the receipt, his eyes bulged in amazement. $76,427! “What the hell is going on?” he thought. Wasting no time, he withdrew the maximum allowed, hurried back to his jeep, and resumed his journey.
The Greek’s Gate is a vaulted tunnel that cuts through Mdina’s southern wall. As rain began to fall, Paul and Ava hurried through this dramatic stone archway and entered the noble city. By flickering lamplight they beheld conventual churches, medieval palaces and historic squares. Any other night Ava would have insisted they stop and appreciate the city’s intoxicating mix of Norman and Baroque architecture, especially the magnificent Palazzo Vilhena. Instead, they rushed through, suspicious of every shadow. Inguanez Street led them to Bacchus, a popular restaurant.
“Maybe we can get a taxi here,” Ava suggested.
“Good idea. Ask them to call one. I’ll check that no one followed us.” He started away.
“Paul!” He looked back. “Please be careful.”
He returned to her, squeezed her shoulder, and nodded. Then he darted across a narrow alley and disappeared from view. Ava walked downstairs into Bacchus and signaled to an attractive hostess. Her name tag said maria.
“Kif inti?” asked Maria, smiling.
“Ma nitkellimx tajjeb bil-Malti” (sorry, I don’t speak much Maltese). “Taxi?”
The hostess sensed that Ava was having a difficult evening. Probably fighting with the boyfriend, Maria thought. She switched to English and complimented Ava on her pronunciation. Maria explained that cars, except emergency vehicles, wedding limos, and hearses, were forbidden in Mdina, but she could call the taxi service and have a car wait just outside the gates.
Ava nodded, and Maria disappeared into the kitchen. When she returned, she said a cab was on its way. As Ava was thanking her, Paul appeared. His look communicated that he’d seen no one. Waving and saying “Sahha” to Maria, the couple left. As she watched them go, Maria smiled and abandoned her initial assumption.
In St. Publius Square, a crew was busy dismantling the stage where musicians had performed an open-air concert. Warily, Ava and Paul crossed the piazza. They exited Mdina through the Notabile Gate, a massive arch festooned with elaborate sculptures and statues. After crossing a stone bridge, they spied their taxi waiting near the bus terminal.
Jogging through the first raindrops of an approaching thunderstorm, they got to the cab. The driver opened his window a crack. Paul gave him their hotel’s name and address. The cabbie nodded, unlocked the doors, and invited them to enter. After his two wet passengers slid into the backseat, he put the car in gear and headed east.