As they strolled along the canals, Simon said, “Nick, you have a reputation as an honorable man, one who appreciates directness. Therefore, I’ll just ask: Where are your friends?”
“Sorry to disappoint you, Mr. DeMaj, but I couldn’t say.”
“Call me Simon.”
“Okay, Simon. As I said, I don’t know where they went. At the moment, I’m more concerned about myself. It’s not easy to escape the long arms of Sheik Ahmed. I hear good things about McMurdo Station. Do you know if they have a casino?”
Simon stopped, turned to face Nick, and looked into his eyes. With an earnestness Nick knew was virtually impossible to fake, Simon said, “I know you’re bound by loyalty. You’re trying to protect your friends, but the situation has evolved. They’re in greater danger than you realize. It’s not hopeless. I can help them, but they won’t survive unless I find them first.”
“You’d help them?”
“I possess the means to rescue them and the resources to keep them safe.”
“Sure, but why would you? You know Sheik Ahmed. You understand what he’s capable of. Why endanger yourself?”
“I got Paul and Ava into this mess; it’s my responsibility to get them out. Plus, if Ahmed gets his hands on the artifacts, there will be hell to pay — for everyone.”
As they veered down the path back to the suite, Nick noticed the Egyptian boy waiting outside. Nick thought, “He’s probably packing heat, too. There’s no way I can take them both.” Needing time to think, he temporized: “Okay, Simon. You’ve got a deal. Just let me collect my belongings; then I’ll do what I can to help you.”
Simon nodded and allowed Nick to enter. The boy followed him inside, but Simon stayed in the doorway, watching. Nick tossed his suitcase onto the bed. He folded his Paul Stuart sports coat, button-down shirts, and khaki slacks with the precision of a department-store clerk. Socks and underwear were rolled and stashed in zipper pockets; toiletries were assembled in a black dopp kit.
Then Nick stopped packing and smiled. Simon felt a pistol’s cold barrel press against his occipital lobe.
“Sinan!” yelled Nick. “It’s about damn time! Did you get lost, or what?”
Paul and Ava photographed each side of both disks using the world phone’s built-in camera. It was a basic device, but the pictures looked all right. After transmitting the images to durmdvl, Paul noticed that the phone was running out of juice.
“We need to leave it plugged in overnight.”
He unhooked the charger and pocketed it, and they left the computer center. On the way to Clarkson’s office, Paul asked, “So how much do we tell the bishop?”
Ava thought, then: “Nothing at first. Let’s meet him, talk to him, and get a sense of his character. Remember that Zeke, his personal assistant, contacted the killer. I doubt the bishop was involved, but we can’t be sure. Even assuming that Garagallo’s innocent, having an untrustworthy employee in such an elevated position gives me reason to doubt his judgment.”
Paul nodded. Ava went on: “I’ll ask Clarkson to keep everything confidential for now. If after meeting Garagallo in person we decide he’s legit, we’ll hand over the jars.”
“And the disks?”
Ava ran her fingers across the worn, nondescript backpack that held the two priceless objects. She knew it wasn’t wise to keep them, but the disks were her discovery and she didn’t want to surrender them before finishing her analysis. “We won’t mention the disks until we’re sure we can trust the bishop,” she said.
When they reached the professor’s office, their conversation ceased. Ava knocked. Clarkson unlocked the door and welcomed them inside. The telephone rang a moment later. It was the bishop. The professor put Garagallo on speakerphone and made the full round of introductions. Everyone exchanged pleasantries. Then Ava gave a recap of what transpired in the catacombs, excluding any mention of the artifacts. Even over the phone, the bishop’s anger was unmistakable. After using surprisingly profane language to characterize his assistant’s conduct, Garagallo said, “I cannot begin to express the depth of my embarrassment and rage over this incident.”
“Thank you, Excellency,” Ava replied. “We know this wasn’t your doing.”
“Be that as it may, on behalf of myself, the archdiocese of Malta, and the Holy Church, I apologize for this act of betrayal and take full responsibility. I thank Almighty God that you both survived the attack. Please accept my word that the guilty parties will meet justice forthwith.”
The conversation was brief. Garagallo intended to call Chief Justice Silvio Camilleri, as well as John Rizzo, the commissioner of police. The bishop hoped to persuade them to shift the investigation’s focus from Paul and Ava to Zeke. The bishop continued, “In the meantime, I can extend a formal offer of sanctuary. I hope all three of you will honor me by dining in my home tonight. We’ll prepare a traditional Maltese feast.”
They accepted his invitation. Clarkson wrote down the bishop’s address in Valletta. Then they bade him farewell and prepared to leave.
Bishop Garagallo’s palatial home occupied an entire building in the city’s historic district. Ava estimated the residence to be at least two hundred and fifty years old, predating the island’s Napoleonic conquest. Before the professor could ring the bell the door opened and a handsome gentleman with gray hair and a dignified bearing greeted them. Ava saw intelligence in his eyes, and Clarkson’s smile of recognition reassured her that this man was the bishop, not another impostor.
Garagallo invited them to come inside and prepare for dinner in his guest rooms. Paul and Ava accepted gratefully. After receiving keys from the housekeeper, they climbed the stairs, unlocked the doors, and found two fully appointed suites. While Ava washed, Paul plugged in the phone charger. Shortly thereafter they descended the grand staircase. Spotting his American guests, Garagallo asked, “Won’t you join me for an aperitif in the sitting room?”
Surprised by the offer, Paul grinned. “I thought drinking was a sin.”
The bishop laughed. “No. Our Lord and Savior drank alcohol on many occasions. In fact, Christ’s first public miracle was turning water into wine at the Wedding of Cana. The Church teaches us to avoid intoxication because it is a form of gluttony and because it can lead to sin, but drinking is not forbidden.”
Each carrying a glass of sherry, they joined Professor Clarkson in the richly appointed sitting room. A cheery blaze crackled in the hearth, where a set of andirons, forged into miniature Dobermans, held the logs. Opposite the fire an interior wall was dominated by a striking fresco. Entranced, Ava said, “Raphael?”
“Yes. A reproduction, of course. It’s The Meeting between Leo the Great and Attila. Do you like it?”
Ava nodded.
“I’m very pleased. It’s one of my favorites.”
Paul examined the wall painting. “Is that Attila?”
“Yes. Why do you ask?”
“I don’t know. I guess I expected Attila the Hun to look more demonic or monstrous. Wasn’t he called the Antichrist?”
“Attila was known as the flagellum dei, or Scourge of God. He was a powerful warrior. Countless thousands were slain at his command, but are you familiar with the particular scene Raphael has portrayed?”
Paul wasn’t.
Garagallo explained: “In AD 452, Attila invaded Italy and threatened Rome. Flavius Aetius’s army was vanquished; thus, no earthly power could prevent a Hunnic conquest of the Eternal City.”
He approached the painting and pointed to a regal figure astride a white horse. “Pope Leo the Great, shown here with Consul Avienus and Prefect Trigetius, rode out to meet Attila in Lombardy, near the city of Mantua.”