“So, you were banging a good Muslim girl, huh? I thought it was these foreign women who had no morals. You know, the problem with people like you is your sense of honor is restricted to your own mother, wife and daughters. Lieutenant, it is people like you who give Allah a bad reputation and if there is a hell, I expect your little corner is particularly hot.”
Yusuf lowered his weapon, leaned close to the Lieutenant’s ear and whispered, “Two of these prostitutes have already identified your police chief as a regular customer. So, tell your boys to back off, load them up and go home right now, or Ankara and my friends in the army are going to make the torture of Laurence of Arabia look like foreplay by comparison. As for that lying son of a donkey you call a police chief, tell him I hope he enjoyed his time with the girls because I am going to see to it that he is surrounded by nothing but boys for the next ten years in a state penitentiary. Abuse of power and abetting organized crime are not going to sit well with a jury of good Muslims.”
The Lieutenant turned to his men and addressed them in a shaky tone, “It’s alright, men. The Captain is under a lot of stress right now. No harm done. Leave the women. They are material witnesses in the case. We’ll let counter-terrorism take them back to Ankara.”
The men grumbled, but put their weapons down. In two minutes, they had all loaded up in their white and blue mini-vans and were driving away. Yusuf turned back towards the villa just in time to see the first rays of the sun rising over the mountain.
“Murat!”
“Yes sir.”
“What did the men find in that tunnel?”
“Sir, it comes out near the beach. The exit was very cleverly disguised as a culvert. There are footprints leading down to the beach and into the water. It looks like they may have boarded a boat.”
“I’m not taking any chances. Any word from the Navy base?”
“There’s a chopper on the way, and they have sent two boats. Özer says that the bus for the women should be here within fifteen to twenty minutes.”
“Call the governors of Zonguldak and Düzce. I want roadblocks on every highway and have them send Bekir’s picture to every roadblock team.”
><><><
Twenty-five nautical miles north of Turkey’s Black Sea coast, the sun rose on a small boat carrying eight men who pulled alongside a container ship under the flag of Qatar. The FAL rifles slung on their backs, the grenades on their belts and the wetsuits made them look like a team of commandos. A ladder was lowered over the side and one by one the men climbed up.
“As-salamu alaykum.”
“
Wa Alaykum As-salam.
Thanks for picking us up ahead of schedule.”
“My pleasure, Bekir. Run into a little trouble?”
“Yes, but with Allah’s favor we gave them the slip.”
“The favor and protection of Allah is the only thing that can explain why you’re still alive.”
“
Alhamdulillah.
May Allah be praised.”
“So, what are our orders, Bekir? Do we head straight for Moldavia?”
“Yes. Can your crew be trusted?”
“All of the grunts are Gagauz Turks who graduated from our schools in Moldavia.”
“So, they are all converts?”
“Yes. Our schools are tremendous evangelical tools.”
Bekir smiled. “Every idea’s time comes sooner or later. It’s our turn now.”
L
ONDON
, E
NGLAND
Raindrops raced chaotically down the window pane where Ian stood looking out on a grey sky. He stared broodingly at the tiny crumbs of water sliding in stalls and starts down the glass, gathering strength as they huddled with like-minded molecules until they finally gathered the critical mass that sent them plunging headlong to the ground. The rolling black clouds he watched through the ordered chaos of the drizzle splattered pane had blotted out a beautiful summer day in London. Normally, this would have been enough to dampen his spirits, but today his mood was an unusual mixture of melancholy and mirth.
Ian turned away from the window, stared at the wooden lockbox sitting on the table, and reached in his pocket for the key. This was what had buoyed his spirits. Yesterday’s discovery had reignited his desire to complete a personal quest and renewed his enthusiasm. And yet staring out the window at the storm, he felt that the water falling from the heavens meant to douse his newfound fervor. Memories of the dreary, overcast day when his wife, Patricia, had passed away threatened to come rushing in like a flood removing the silt that had accumulated in his soul over the last two years and finally buried the grief of separation. For two years, he had muddled through his classes and shelved all his projects until time and numbness interred his sorrow.
He fingered the key in his hand.
What’s the point if Patricia’s not here to share it with?
It was a negative train of thought and he knew it wouldn’t take him anywhere worth going. He had been down that track before, had lived there for almost two years. He saw another train of thought going the opposite way and, with the desperation of a homeless hobo, he hopped unto it instead.
Your misery doesn’t honor her memory. Get on with your life.
There was a fresh pot of Ceylon tea on the table and the whole afternoon to examine this miraculous find, the first lead he had had in years. But this train was suddenly thrown off track by a ringing doorbell. Ian sighed. Intrusion. Again. He sat motionless contemplating whether or not to answer it. A voice from the other side made up his mind for him.
“Ian, it’s me, Judith.”
One could hardly hope for a more charming intrusion.
He walked quickly to the door, slipped the deadbolt and opened it in a crack.
“Judith? I had no idea I was expecting you.” The feigned reproach made her smile.
“Were you expecting someone else?” she rejoined. “If you were, I need to know now.”
Ian was accustomed to her directness.
“Of course not. Who would a grumpy old professor like me be expecting on a Saturday afternoon?”
He moved aside and opened the door. She entered like a cloud of honeysuckle and jasmine, hung her umbrella in the entry and slipped off a purple rain coat to reveal a sleek black dress that hugged a body toned by constant exercise. She was forty-nine going on thirty-five, almost fifteen years his junior.
“I’m surprised you braved the rain. It’s been pouring,” he said, trying to move the conversation to something safe and neutral while he cleared the fog that always descended on his mind when he was with her.
“It’s rain, Ian, and I’m Irish.”
If he hadn’t known her better, the austerity dripping from her voice like a leaky roof would have felt like a slap in the face. It was all the harder to take coming from a creature of such surpassing beauty and it wasn’t just her sparkling blue eyes, or her curly locks of thick, black hair; it was her intellectual passion and boundless curiosity.
“You didn’t think a little water falling from the sky could keep me from our weekly tea, did you? Besides, I’m dying to know what you found at the sale. It was awfully cruel of you to run off without me. Sending me a text on your way to the airport was absolutely heartless.”
She smiled as she said it, her way of driving the knife edge of her displeasure even deeper.
“Well, I only found out at the last minute myself. A friend of Charles heard about it from a bookseller in Amsterdam. Charles was in London, so he called in for tea and told me I should move on it immediately. I was on the evening plane. If I’d had more forewarning, maybe I could have arranged something.”
“I’m surprised you didn’t, knowing how much I love Amsterdam. Oh well, it can’t be helped. I hope you have some tea on.”
“As a matter of fact I do,” he replied. She was already heading towards the kitchen.
“Well, are you going to tell me whether your week away from me was worth it?”
“Amsterdam was incredible. So vibrant, so full of energy and life.”
“Did it make you feel younger than I do?”
Ian felt his cheeks getting hot. She continued. “Did you find anything in our field?”
“Our field . . .” His voice trailed off. “What could I find in our field? Our field is a dead end. If there is one thing I have often regretted, it is my choice of a field.”
Her gasp literally sucked the oxygen out of the air.
“Ian, you can’t be serious. History is a sacred trust. The future of civilization lies with those who have the keys to the past. We are the guardians.”
“Are you sure that isn’t just a mantra we keep chanting to our narcissistic egos in an attempt to put a good face on our irrelevance? History is important. It’s Byzantine history that isn’t. Think about it. Babylon predates the Byzantine Empire by one thousand years and wrote its history on clay tablets, yet there are more Babylonian sources than there are documents from the Byzantine Empire. Research requires sources, Judith, and we have none to speak of. Besides, you are hardly in the field anymore.”
“Once a historian, always a historian. It’s not my fault I was selected to be the UK special representative on the UN Committee for the Protection and Promotion of Diversity in Cultural Expression. That was a door that history opened for me. What is it you’re always saying? ‘History and philosophy are the prerequisites for policy and therefore politicians.’ I’m sure you said it better.”
“True enough.”
“So, the trip was a waste?”
“Not exactly. I was able to purchase a collection of personal correspondence ranging from 1604 to 1738. They are mostly Dutch and Spanish, but there are a couple of interesting pieces in
Aljamiado.
I’ll need to have them translated.”
“What makes you think they might be relevant?”
“According to the bookseller, they were part of a private collection held by a Morisco descendant. He was unable or unwilling to provide further details.”
“That sounds promising. Anything else?”
“Strangely enough, I also found a couple of Byzantine manuscripts.”
“I hope you were able to acquire them.”
“Yes, I was. Thanks to Charles, I was the first buyer to show up. It was weird though. If you recall, at every sale for the last three years, someone has beaten me to the punch, purchasing everything of interest before I was even able to view them. Well, thanks to Charles, this time I got there first. Still, when I arrived, the seller said he had only just published the details of the sale on the Internet and had received an offer almost immediately to buy everything—sight unseen for the full asking price. He only agreed to sell them to me because he had not yet responded to their email.”
“Excellent!” Her enthusiasm charged the air with electricity. “I know how disappointed you were at missing the other sales. Maybe these letters will hold some clue.”
“Maybe, but I’m beginning to wonder who these people are? It’s not normal.”
“Probably just some collector. You don’t seem overly excited,” she remarked as he poured her a cup of tea.
“The personal letters may prove interesting, but the manuscripts are known works. They bring nothing new to the field, and what we need is something new. The Roman Empire continued in the East for one thousand years after it had fallen in the West, and yet the northern Barbarians left more in Rome than was able to survive in Constantinople. Where are the archives of one of Earth’s greatest empires? Less than two thousand works have survived the ravages of time and tyranny, and we must content ourselves with hashing them over and over and over again.”