“And I know you consider Simon a friend…”
“No,” Paul corrected her. “Not anymore.” He looked as serious as Ava had ever seen him. “Not after what happened to those boys.”
“That’s what I mean. We have to call the police.”
“The police? I don’t think that will help.”
“It’ll be okay, Paul. You can turn yourself in, testify against Simon. We’ll hire a good lawyer—”
“Oh, no. It’s not that. I’m not worried about getting arrested. I’m worried about getting shot! The cops all work for Simon. He’s in cahoots with Sheik Ahmed, the heroin kingpin who controls the chief of police. We can’t go to the cops, Ava. The cops did the killing.”
The monks opened an unused guest room to which Ava could retire. She located a washbowl and rinsed the ubiquitous sand from her face and hair. She attempted to call Gabe, but the satphone’s battery was dead. Sprawled on an ancient pallet, she tried to sleep, but her mind sizzled with the day’s events. She was sad about those poor boys and disappointed about the missing scrolls. She knew the jars were a historic find. The artifacts’ mere existence necessitated a major rewriting of history texts. Of course, she regarded tales of a sacred, unreadable prophecy as mere superstition, but, religious agnosticism notwithstanding, Ava couldn’t deny harboring enormous curiosity about a secret message connected to the biblical apostles. Lost in such thoughts, she faded into a fitful sleep.
Simon waited at the rendezvous site. Irate, he began to pace. He glanced at his Swiss watch. The glowing hands indicated that it was close to midnight, meaning the sheik was more than an hour late. Finally, Simon heard an engine. A Range Rover approached with its lights off, navigating by dim moonlight. It parked and the driver exited. He’d come alone.
“It’s about damn time,” DeMaj growled. He was unaccustomed to waiting for anything or anyone. This man worked for him. Simon had paid the sheik handsomely to influence the local authorities. “Your goons made a mess of my operation. Where have you been?”
Sheik Ahmed Qasim Hasan ignored the question. He pulled a cigarette from his case, lit it, and regarded Simon coldly. “Where are the jars?”
DeMaj was disconcerted. What did Ahmed care about the jars? Was he trying to blackmail him? Make a play for more money?
“I don’t have them,” Simon answered honestly. “I don’t know where they are now.”
The sheik nodded and dragged on his cigarette before flicking it into the sand. He exhaled slowly. “Then you are no longer useful.” He pulled a Ruger SR9 from his pocket, aimed, and shot Simon twice in the chest.
Ava woke to the sound of monks chanting in Coptic, as their predecessors had for fifteen centuries. She relished the rare opportunity to hear people speak the ancient tongue phonetically similar to that of the pharaohs. Minutes later, a novice delivered pita bread, dates, honeycomb, and a pot of delicious red tea. She savored the feast and, thoroughly rejuvenated, resolved to make the day productive. She and Paul would elude the crooked cops and report Simon’s crimes to the legitimate authorities. As she washed and dressed, Ava found herself singing: “When Israel was in Egypt’s land, let my people go…”
Later, she wandered up to the tower, invigorated by the cool air. It would grow warm in a few hours, but early mornings were lovely. She’d never been anywhere so quiet. In the traditional Coptic monastery, televisions and radios were forbidden. Visitors were required to switch off mobile phones. Guest rooms provided no electricity, only oil lamps, woodstoves, and candles. Ava longed to check her e-mail and charge the satphone, but otherwise she enjoyed the rare peace and stillness.
For a silent hour she watched the sun rise over rugged mountains. It amazed her that humans had lived here for thousands of years, maybe tens of thousands. The Israelites might have passed through this region centuries before Jesus’s birth. She visualized Charleton Heston as Moses, raising his arms to part the waters. From this high vantage point, Ava gazed into the distance and observed the vast Red Sea stretching from horizon to horizon, miles upon miles of water and waves. It seemed unthinkable that any force could divide it, but maybe someday Bob Ballard would find the pharaoh’s chariots preserved on the seabed. Who could say? People thought the Iliad was fiction until Schliemann found Troy.
She returned to her room. As she was pouring a second cup of hot karkade tea, Ava heard Paul’s voice echoing off the courtyard stones. She looked down from the balcony and saw him talking with a distinguished-looking monk. They were laughing and smiling like old pals. Paul might be a goofball, Ava thought, but he could charm anyone. He had an athlete’s grace and the self-confidence of a man to whom life had always been generous. She envied the ease with which Paul recruited friends. He would probably be comfortable introducing himself to presidents and prime ministers. Too bad he’d have nothing intelligent to say.
“So, as you can see,” Father Bessarion continued, gesturing expansively, “we have several beautiful gardens, a library with more than seventeen hundred handwritten manuscripts, a mill, a bakery, five historic churches…”
“Everything here looks pretty historic,” remarked Paul, earning an eye-roll from Ava. Although appreciative of the private tour, she was anxious to leave the monastery as soon as possible. They’d be found eventually. If Gabe could track Paul’s location, so could Simon DeMaj.
“Egypt’s monasteries are the oldest in the world,” the monk said. “It began with the Essenes, pious hermits who withdrew from society to pursue a contemplative life. You may know of them from the Dead Sea Scrolls. Many believe the Essenes influenced the development of early Christian monasteries in Egypt.”
“Really?” asked Ava, momentarily intrigued. “I thought the monasteries were built to escape—”
“Roman oppression?” Bessarion finished her question. “Yes, that’s also true.” Turning to Paul, he explained: “Julian the Apostate revoked the religious freedom granted by Emperor Constantine. The Romans began persecuting Egyptian Christians, seizing their homes and land.”
“Cujus regio, ejus religio,” Ava observed.
“Exactly. ‘Whose rule, his religion,’” Bessarion said, looking at her with approval. “Many believers fled to monasteries for protection. That’s why most resemble fortresses. As you can see, ours was surrounded by a fortified wall. We still have a defensive tower.”
Ava studied the protective structures. She imagined the monestary under siege in ancient times.
“How long have you been here?” Paul asked.
“This monastery was founded by St. Anthony the Great in AD 356. In fact, his sacred tomb is very near here.”
“Awesome. You mean the St. Anthony?” asked Paul.
“Yes. You know of him?”
“I do,” Paul said, much to Ava’s surprise.
“Excellent,” said Father Bessarion. “Perhaps then you know that he founded monasticism, and that he was born here in Egypt, near Heracleopolis, in 251. He lived to be a hundred and five years old, perhaps even older.”
“We should all be so lucky,” Paul said.
“Be careful what you ask for. He was tormented his entire life by temptations from the devil,” replied the kindly monk, glancing at Ava meaningfully.
Paul smiled. “You know, it’s an odd coincidence. My mother taught me to pray to St. Anthony whenever something was lost. And now, just a few kilometers away from his grave, we found the lost—”