Read Online The Cana Mystery by David Beckett - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: David Beckett
Ads: Link
thermoluminescence technique, but we need a special lab for that. Of course, even if they’re from the right era and region, that hardly proves these jars are the lost jars of Cana.”
Paul nodded. “Yeah, I suppose we can’t be a hundred percent sure. There must have been tons of similar jars bumping around back then, but for some reason, Simon’s experts believed these were authentic. Why would they say that if it wasn’t true?”
“Maybe they just wanted to please the boss, or maybe they really didn’t want to make him mad. I guess we’ve learned what happens when DeMaj gets angry. Anyway, I agree with you about one thing: The jars lack identifying marks of any kind. No messages, no codes. In fact . . .”
Ava paused, thinking.
“What?” Paul sensed that she had an idea.
“I examined the clay seals. The lids appear to date from the same period, and there’s a thick crust of residue on the undersides. Before you and Simon opened them, I’d say the jars were sealed for several hundred years, at least. I saw no evidence of repeated opening. Besides, who would open the jars, remove the contents, and then reseal the vessels? That feels wrong. No, the evidence supports the hypothesis that many, many years ago the jars were filled with wine, which evaporated very gradually.”
“So?” asked Paul.
“So . . . not much,” Ava answered. “I could be way off, but I don’t think any scrolls or codices are missing. I don’t think anyone looted them, because there weren’t any to loot.”
Back at the monastery they saw the pilgrims’ bus parked near the front entrance. Paul pulled the damaged truck in beside it. He climbed into the back, used his knife to cut the canvas tarp in half, reversed it, and wrapped each canister thoroughly. He secured the canvas covers with bungee cords. Meanwhile, Ava began the interminable process of negotiating fares with the bus driver, a salty old bedouin.
While they haggled in Arabic, Ava caught the driver eyeing her tanned legs. At first she was embarrassed. She should be wearing something more modest. Then she grew angry. He had no right to ogle her. Finally, she decided to use the driver’s interest to her advantage. She smiled at him and batted her eyelashes. She flipped her hair and stretched her arms above her head, giving him a nice view of her chest. He was putty in her hands. He settled for half his asking price, promised not to leave without her, and swore a holy oath to guard her canvas-covered souvenirs.
“Mission accomplished,” thought Ava. She turned her back to the driver and went looking for Paul. She spied him sitting in the garden. He’d already packed their meager belongings and Coptic clothing. Now he was thanking Father Bessarion for his hospitality and protection.
The crowd of real pilgrims, clad in full-length white robes, had just finished praying. Silently, they filed out of the chapel and into the courtyard. Many were strolling about the square, admiring the gardens or filling water bottles from the cistern. Paul smiled when he saw Ava approaching. She seemed quite proud of herself. Clearly, she was aching to tell him a funny story. Then he spotted something odd: A uniformed man was on the roof of the ancient monastery, crouched behind the parapet. He looked like one of Simon’s security guards. The man rammed a magazine into his assault rifle. Paul’s smile vanished.
“Ava, run!” he roared, vaulting the low wall and racing toward her. The guard raised his rifle and took aim. Ava was a perfect target, standing dead center in the courtyard, motionless, staring at Paul with an expression of bewilderment. She knew something was wrong but couldn’t see the danger. Sprinting, Paul flew across the cobblestones, legs fighting and straining for every last ounce of energy.
He’d played baseball all his life. He remembered his coach’s words: “Run straight through the base, son. Do not dive. Do not jump. You’re fastest if you run
Paul nodded. “Yeah, I suppose we can’t be a hundred percent sure. There must have been tons of similar jars bumping around back then, but for some reason, Simon’s experts believed these were authentic. Why would they say that if it wasn’t true?”
“Maybe they just wanted to please the boss, or maybe they really didn’t want to make him mad. I guess we’ve learned what happens when DeMaj gets angry. Anyway, I agree with you about one thing: The jars lack identifying marks of any kind. No messages, no codes. In fact . . .”
Ava paused, thinking.
“What?” Paul sensed that she had an idea.
“I examined the clay seals. The lids appear to date from the same period, and there’s a thick crust of residue on the undersides. Before you and Simon opened them, I’d say the jars were sealed for several hundred years, at least. I saw no evidence of repeated opening. Besides, who would open the jars, remove the contents, and then reseal the vessels? That feels wrong. No, the evidence supports the hypothesis that many, many years ago the jars were filled with wine, which evaporated very gradually.”
“So?” asked Paul.
“So . . . not much,” Ava answered. “I could be way off, but I don’t think any scrolls or codices are missing. I don’t think anyone looted them, because there weren’t any to loot.”
Back at the monastery they saw the pilgrims’ bus parked near the front entrance. Paul pulled the damaged truck in beside it. He climbed into the back, used his knife to cut the canvas tarp in half, reversed it, and wrapped each canister thoroughly. He secured the canvas covers with bungee cords. Meanwhile, Ava began the interminable process of negotiating fares with the bus driver, a salty old bedouin.
While they haggled in Arabic, Ava caught the driver eyeing her tanned legs. At first she was embarrassed. She should be wearing something more modest. Then she grew angry. He had no right to ogle her. Finally, she decided to use the driver’s interest to her advantage. She smiled at him and batted her eyelashes. She flipped her hair and stretched her arms above her head, giving him a nice view of her chest. He was putty in her hands. He settled for half his asking price, promised not to leave without her, and swore a holy oath to guard her canvas-covered souvenirs.
“Mission accomplished,” thought Ava. She turned her back to the driver and went looking for Paul. She spied him sitting in the garden. He’d already packed their meager belongings and Coptic clothing. Now he was thanking Father Bessarion for his hospitality and protection.
The crowd of real pilgrims, clad in full-length white robes, had just finished praying. Silently, they filed out of the chapel and into the courtyard. Many were strolling about the square, admiring the gardens or filling water bottles from the cistern. Paul smiled when he saw Ava approaching. She seemed quite proud of herself. Clearly, she was aching to tell him a funny story. Then he spotted something odd: A uniformed man was on the roof of the ancient monastery, crouched behind the parapet. He looked like one of Simon’s security guards. The man rammed a magazine into his assault rifle. Paul’s smile vanished.
“Ava, run!” he roared, vaulting the low wall and racing toward her. The guard raised his rifle and took aim. Ava was a perfect target, standing dead center in the courtyard, motionless, staring at Paul with an expression of bewilderment. She knew something was wrong but couldn’t see the danger. Sprinting, Paul flew across the cobblestones, legs fighting and straining for every last ounce of energy.
He’d played baseball all his life. He remembered his coach’s words: “Run straight through the base, son. Do not dive. Do not jump. You’re fastest if you run
Similar Books
