Paul regarded his former boss carefully. Simon was an accomplished diplomat. He could dissemble with great skill when necessary, but he had never lied to Paul. Furthermore, Simon revered the memory of his mother. In all the time Paul had worked for him, DeMaj never invoked her name in vain. Paul began to think he might have been mistaken. Then he realized: If Simon didn’t order the guards to shoot, Paul shouldn’t have taken the jars, and all the horrible things that had happened since then were his fault. His shoulders sagged.
Simon read his thoughts. “No, Paul, what you did was right. After you left, I learned Ahmed had been playing me the whole time. He’d ordered his men to kill everyone, including us, rather than lose the jars. If you hadn’t acted as you did, they would have won.”
As he spoke, Simon unbuttoned his shirt and revealed two ugly bullet wounds. “Later that night, Ahmed shot me. He left me in the desert to die.”
Confused, Paul rubbed his scalp, wondering if all he’d just seen and heard was an elaborate con. Was he hallucinating? Had he been drugged? To hell with it, he decided. Hallucinations or not, his friends trusted DeMaj and Paul trusted his friends. Nick, Sinan, and Ammon were good people. Each in his own way was smart, cagey, and perceptive. If all three believed Simon’s story, it was probably true. Paul exhaled. “Okay. Where are we?”
“Capri. This is my villa.”
“Where’s Ava? Is she safe?”
“Yes. She’s sedated. I flew a doctor, one of the best in Europe, here from Rome. He treated Ava last night and recommended she rest for a while. Her body endured a terrible shock. It was a close call.”
Nick walked over to Paul and and clapped him on the shoulder. “Your lady will be fine, hermano. She’s just sleeping.”
Paul locked eyes with Ammon. “And Sefu?”
The Egyptian smiled. “Very good! He has many new girlfriends.”
Paul was mystified. Nick laughed. “Look, it’s complex. Why don’t we explain over lunch?”
At the mention of food, Paul’s stomach rumbled. He’d eaten nothing since dinner with the bishop and was beyond ravenous. The group proceeded down into the villa’s kitchen.
Designed for no-nonsense cooking, the room contrasted sharply with the household’s ornate aesthetic. A central island supporting an enormous hooded grill dominated the cooking area. Stainless-steel appliances glinted below cedar cabinets. When they entered, Simon’s chef opened the brick oven, releasing a combination of aromas. He withdrew a sizzling cast-iron tray of pasta ‘ncasciata, over which Paul salivated. Nick watched in amazement as his friend devoured two servings of the baked macaroni casserole filled with ground beef, eggplant, mortadella, salami, hard-boiled eggs, tomato, basil, and grated pecorino. As they ate, Paul’s friends brought him up to speed on all that had transpired since they’d parted company. Ammon described how DeMaj had found him crawling through the riverbank muck, attempting to escape the corrupt authorities. Simon revealed that the cops knew Sefu’s location and offered Ammon a choice: Fly to the hospital and rescue Sefu or remain in the mud and try to avoid capture. Although he suspected a trap, Ammon opted to fly. Simon had kept his promise to help Sefu, thereby earning Ammon’s trust.
“Where’s Sefu?”
Nick grinned. “He’s recuperating on the mainland. It’s an exclusive clinic, frequented by models and actresses who want confidential lipo, nose jobs, and… enhancements.”
As Paul laughed, a tattered baseball cap appeared on the table.
“Shokran,” said Ammon, solemnly.
Paul nodded at the earnest young Egyptian. For a moment, neither spoke. Then Paul smiled, accepted the woefully threadbare hat, and slapped it atop his shaved head. Everyone resumed eating. Between bites, Nick told them how Simon and Ammon had tracked him down in Egypt and convinced him that Ahmed was the true threat. Over dinner, DeMaj had persuaded Nick and Sinan that joining forces against the sheik vastly increased their collective odds. Suddenly, Nick fell silent. A moment passed before Paul realized he was the only person still eating. The others were staring past him. He turned to look. There, framed in the doorway, stood Ava.
In a rapturous instant, all of Paul’s doubts and pain vanished. His heart pounded in his chest and his jaw tightened. Ava shivered. Jumping from his chair, Paul rushed to her. As he neared her, she began to sob. They embraced. Tears ran down her cheeks. Holding her fragile body against his chest, Paul whispered, “Ava, I’m so sorry. I didn’t know what else to do. I know you’re upset. I know how much they meant to you, to archaeology, to history. I’m really, really sorry. I just couldn’t think of anything—”
She pressed a finger against his lips, imploring him to hush. Shaking her head, Ava tried to speak, but the words caught in her throat.
Then DeMaj stepped in. “Why are you apologizing?”
Paul weighed his options. At this point he couldn’t see a reason to keep the disks’ whereabouts secret. He was fairly certain that, thanks to him, the sacred artifacts were lost forever. Of course, if anyone could retrieve the disks from the sea, it was DeMaj. Perhaps Simon wanted the disks for himself. Maybe he’d sell them on the black market. Neither outcome, though, would be worse than the current situation. Then Paul looked down at the woman in his arms. No matter what else happened, Ava was alive. Simon had helped save her. For that single act, even a thousand golden disks were an insufficient reward. Paul lifted his head.
“I lost the artifacts.”
“What artifacts? The jars? You lost the jars?”
“No. Ava solved the puzzle. Inside the jars she found two gold disks inscribed with symbols and ancient writing, but I lost them in the storm. They were in my backpack, and it sank to the bottom. I’m sorry.”
Paul was devastated by Simon’s reaction. He’d seen his boss in some tight spots, but Simon had overcome every problem and adversary. Now DeMaj’s face turned pale. His usual ferocious gaze seemed infected by despair. After several seconds, he spoke in a whisper.
“We’re doomed.”
DeMaj turned and walked listlessly from the kitchen. Then Ava collapsed.
Nick helped Paul carry Ava back to her room. After they laid her on the bed and covered her legs with blankets, Paul asked, “What was that? Why did Simon freak out?”
“He believes in the legend of the lost jars. He says we need them to fight the Antichrist.”
Paul made a face.
“Hey, you asked, I answered, okay? You know him better than I do, but I’ll tell you this: It’s no bluff. DeMaj takes the concept of Armageddon seriously.
Paul shook his head. “Wow. I never pegged him as religious. In fact, I thought he was an atheist.”
“Apparently, he made some kind of Damascene conversion out in the desert.”
Nick left, but Paul stayed with Ava. He clicked on the TV and set it to mute. After zapping through a dozen stations, he settled on Bloomberg News. The NASDAQ was way down, but the dollar was up versus the euro. The Red Sox had begun spring training. Outside the G8 Summit, in La Maddalena, activists gathered to demonstrate. Carrying signs that demanded tax the rich! make them pay! hundreds of protesters had marched through the city, occupied a central piazza, and erected a stage. A free concert was planned under banners proclaiming: putting people before profit.
He heard Ava move. Her eyes fluttered opened.
“Paul?”
“I’m here.”
“Where are we?”
“Capri. You’re safe.”
She took his hand and smiled. Then Ava laughed.
“What’s funny?” he asked.
She pointed at the TV, then kept laughing until that segued into a hoarse coughing fit. On screen, a passionate, balding middle-aged man addressed the crowd outside the G8 Summit. He shook his fist for the cameras and yelled into the microphone.