Free The Cana Mystery by David Beckett Page A

unbroken.”
    Relieved, Paul lifted two flowing white robes from his pack. “I think it’s time we tried these.” Ava nodded and they donned the disguises. From a distance the hooded robes would mask their identities. The pair wouldn’t survive close inspection, but it was better than nothing.
    For a time the bus continued north through the desert. Paul limped to the front and thanked the driver for not leaving them behind. Though they lacked a common language, the driver understood and nodded solemnly.
    The bedouin kept a demanding pace, especially given the road’s condition. He seemed to enjoy his role as getaway driver. After one particularly severe jolt, he turned to grin at Ava. They reached a T-intersection, where he swung the bus around to the left, or west, and continued on Highway 26. Majestic mountains towered to their north; empty desert stretched to the southern horizon. Later, a dazzling sunset spread across the Egyptian sky. As darkness fell, they passed Al-Burumbul and came, at last, to the Nile.
    Paul asked the driver to drop them in El Wasta, a town of perhaps forty thousand located on the banks of the great river. The bus entered a broad square adjoining the harbor, where an armada of feluccas were moored. Paul unloaded the canisters, safely concealed by canvas, as Ava bade their companions good-bye. The driver told her she was beautiful. He embraced Paul, gave him the first-aid kit, and wished him luck. The driver cried, “ Marhabtein! ” then closed the door, started the engine, and continued north toward Memphis and Cairo.
     
     
    Father Bessarion sat stoically in his chair. He was prepared to endure torture. He would never willingly betray the confidence of anyone who sought sanctuary within the monastery, but he’d read of extreme methods used to extract information from unwilling captives. He wondered if his years of training and mental discipline would enable him to withstand the latest pharmacological techniques.
    Simon entered the monk’s cell and sat down. His shoulder stung where the bandages had been changed. He was in no mood to linger.
    “Father,” DeMaj began, “I require information. Let us concede what is already known. Two Americans, a man and a woman, were here. You gave them asylum and protection. Now they’ve gone, on a bus. The bus goes to Cairo. It will arrive there in a few hours, unless it’s overtaken and intercepted by the men in the jeep, which you sabotaged to help the Americans escape. There is no need to deny this.”
    Bessarion said nothing. He stared at the floor. Simon continued.
    “I must know their plan, Father. I must find them quickly. Their safety depends on it. In addition, I must know if you saw what they carried. Did they discuss this matter in your presence? Did they tell you their intentions?”
    Bessarion raised his eyes to meet Simon’s gaze. He took a breath and then said, “The men with rifles threatened to kill me, and still I told them nothing. I am not afraid to die.”
     
     
    Sheik Ahmed walked through the hidden warehouse that his organization used as a refinery. Inside, workers converted poppy plants grown in Afghanistan and Pakistan into raw opium, which workmen carefully dissolved in hot water. Gradually, by adding a powder to the soup, they rendered the mixture alkaline. After filtration, a chemist added sal ammoniac, then collected and dried the precipitate. Distillers heated the solution with acetic anhydride for six hours. Cooled, diluted, and combined with sodium carbonate, the mixture generated crude heroin. Once the product was purified and decolorized, Ahmed’s soldiers stacked brick after brick into shipping crates for transport to the United States and western Europe via Turkey and Sicily.
    Usually the sheik was pleased to observe the operation’s military efficiency. It gave him pleasure to view the construction and deployment of his army’s deadliest weapons in the war against the West, but today his heart was not