These were not conscious thoughts as much as they were projections of his subconscious triggered by his surroundings and then flashed onto his mental viewer. Almost instantaneously, they created a sense of mystical serenity. This was, however, promptly shattered by another thought.
This is the pride of a nation, not the glory of God. Does the One for whom the heavens are a throne and the earth a mere footstool need a building to dwell in?
It was absurd in the extreme.
It was not for God that kings built temples, churches and mosques, but for themselves. They were the ultimate public relations tool, like today’s corporate social responsibility projects, but on a grander scale. They galvanized sentiments of national and religious pride, reinforcing a sense of identity that made people willing servants. Their strength lay in the heavy spell cast on the people by their awe-inspiring dimensions and the aura of spirituality created by liturgy, hymns, vestments, ritual and tradition.
Suddenly, he felt a dark shadow cross his mind and a wave of nausea washed over him, tying his stomach in knots. It was overpowering. It was frightening. And, it was not the first time he had felt it. His lips began to move in silent prayer as his mind went back ten years to the beginning of his spiritual life.
The first time it had happened was on the Night of Power during the month of Ramadan. He had gone to the Sultan Ahmet Mosque for the
teravih
prayers. This splendid mosque had evoked in him an even greater sense of majesty and pride than the church he sat in now. That night he had recited his prayers with as much fervor and faith as he had at any time in his life. The experience was nothing short of magical and everything required to induce the spell was present—the rhythmic chanting of the Holy Qur’an, a vast multitude of worshippers bowing in reverence towards Mecca, the beautiful blue interior of the mosque with its exquisitely decorated tile, and an awareness that millions of the faithful had performed their religious duties before him in this magnificent mosque.
He had kneeled there for almost two hours praying and meditating. When it was over, he had simply sat there basking in the afterglow of this sublime experience. That was when the ‘prodding’ began. He knew of no other way to describe the steady stream of questions, prickly, disturbing questions. Questions that demanded honesty. Questions that made his heart quiver with fear. Questions that sent him spinning headlong into a whirlpool of doubt.
Where the questions came from was an enigma. At the time, he thought maybe a wicked
jinni
had whispered them in his ear. They were not new questions. They were the same issues raised by Sufi mystics for centuries. He had spent the entire night wrestling with them just like Jacob had wrestled with the angel. And, when morning came, he was the one crying uncle. He had no choice. It was submit or die. He submitted.
Yet, for all of the disturbing questions of the night and the spiritual turmoil they caused, his eyes were opened. No sooner had he accepted the truth than he was plunged into a different, more sinister encounter. Up until that time, he had never experienced what could be described as tangible evil, but when he rose from his knees, an overwhelming sense that he was in the presence of a malevolent being washed over him. He had a keen sense of malice, ill-will and hatred directed at him. This feel of spiritual animosity was completely foreign to him. It was then that he realized he had somehow switched sides.
CHAPTER
65
I
STANBUL
Gilbert looked down at his watch. It had been twenty-five minutes since the last call. He was standing across from the famous Blue Mosque. He had told the taxi driver to wait. As soon as the call came, he wanted to be mobile. It was a beautiful, sunny day, and the weather had brought the tourists out in droves.
The phone rang. He turned and got back into the taxi.
“Okay,” he said. “Let’s go.”
As the taxi pulled away from the curb, he answered the phone.
“Hello.”
“Listen to me carefully. You will do exactly as I say or tomorrow your wife and children will be dead. Return the money by electronic funds transfer to the same account by sunset tonight, and you can pick up your family at 10:00 pm on the beach outside of the village of Kisirkaya in exchange for the document.”
Gilbert was ready for the pressure.
“You need to work on your listening skills,” he said quietly.
“Excuse me?” said the voice on the other end of the line.
“All this stress has muddled your tiny little brain. My family will be returned at sunset in exchange for the document and our promise to return the G.O.B. The money is not part of the deal.”
“Who the . . .”
“Hell do I think I am?” said Gilbert, cutting him off and finishing the sentence. “I’m obviously not the idiot you thought I was. Or, maybe I am, but your IQ is just so much lower than mine that you let a moron like me make off with sixty-two million dollars. I’ll let you decide which of these propositions is correct. However, in view of the possibility that number two is true, I’ll make this real simple and use as many single-syllable words as possible so you’ll understand.”
He had given this a lot of thought. It was a gamble on cultural values and he hoped it was going to pay off.
“We’re both men, and men, like us, we like women. I’m young, and as you know, I’ve just come into a fair bit of money, which makes it easy to get another wife and start over. In fact, I might get a couple of wives and start my own little harem, so stop jacking with me. The money is not part of the bargain.”
“Impossible, you give me no guarantee whatsoever!” protested Ahmet.
“None at all,” replied Gilbert calmly. ”But then you said earlier today that you could have me assassinated within a week, so if I don’t return the money, you shouldn’t have any problem finding me.”
“Your demands are too great.”
“If you hadn’t killed my father, I would never have known the true value of this piece of paper. Now that I do, you’ll have to pay for your mistakes.”
There was silence. Ahmet thought about what Kiyomi had said about her affair with Gilbert. Maybe the American really didn’t care. It was a risk he couldn’t take.
“And if I refuse,” Ahmet said finally.
The tone of his voice told Gilbert that his threat was hitting home. He was using the man’s own cultural values as a shield, deflecting his demands and refusing to be held hostage to his own values. It was working.
“Then, you go back and tell your boss that he’s been framed, I turn over all of the information I have to the CIA, disappear with your money and start a new family while you waste precious resources trying to track me down. Even if you end up killing me, it’s a lose-lose proposition, and at best, it’s a win-lose proposition with me in the winning column. I’m offering you a win-win solution, but this is my last offer. I’m not going to let you jerk my chain. Give me a ‘yes’ or I terminate this call and throw the cell phone in the nearest trash can.”
Again there was silence.
“Now, I want to speak to Ginger.”
The silence continued.
“Okay,” said Gilbert. “Have a nice life . . .”
“Wait!” said the voice quickly. “Just a minute.”
There was more silence, but he heard static on the line for several seconds and then Ginger’s shaky voice.
“Gilbert? Are you there?”
Gilbert could feel a lump beginning to form in his throat. This was no time to appear weak though.
“Yes, I’m here. Are you okay?”
“I’ve been better, but your timing couldn’t have been.”
“Have they hurt you?”
“Not yet, but I’m afraid they were about to. One of these animals tried. . . .”
Her voice broke and she began sobbing uncontrollably.
“Tried what? Listen, it doesn’t matter. This is about to end. You just hang in there and nobody is going to get hurt. Isn’t that right?” he asked, clearly addressing the man on the other end of the line.
The line clicked again, and the man’s voice returned.
“Now, you are satisfied that your wife is safe?”
“Satisfied she’s alive, which is not the same as safe, you bastard. And, if I talk to her and you’ve touched her or any of the kids, and I mean in any way, the deal is off,” replied Gilbert.
“Fine. Tonight, be at the beach east of the village of Kisirkaya on the Black Sea north of Istanbul fifteen minutes before sundown. Bring the document. No document, no deal. Come alone and don’t involve the authorities. If you return the Gospel of Barnabas as promised, you will have nothing to fear from us. If you cross me, I will not leave a single member of your family alive. That is my promise.”
“Can you give me directions?” asked Gilbert. “I don’t know my way around. At least spell the village name for me.”
“Mr. O’Brien, someone in your line of work should be able to use something as simple as Google Earth.”
“Not if I can’t spell it.”
“K-i-s-i-r-k-a-y-a.”
“We still haven’t been properly introduced,” continued Gilbert. “You know my name. What is yours?”
His answer was a dead line.
Gilbert opened the phone and removed the battery. Then he turned to the taxi driver.
“Take me back to Taksim.”
“But, you want tour of history district, no?”
“Change of plans. I need to go back to Taksim.”
He sat in the back seat, turning the conversation over in his mind.
Where is Kisirkaya village? Why did they choose it?
He pulled another phone from his pocket and dialed Gary.
“Hey Gary, the other phone is gone. Use this one now. The transfer is on.”
“When?”
“I’ll give you the details when I get to the hotel. Look, we’re going to need a second car. We need to arrange a rendezvous point where we can switch cars quickly without being seen, a shopping mall with a multi-storey parking garage would work best. I know they are going to track us until the original G.O.B. is returned. We have to assume they mean to kill us when it is, so we have to make sure we ditch any tail and find any tracking device they may have planted. Have Gwyn get a new set of clothes and shoes for everyone since that would be the most likely place to put one, and we won’t have time to look for it.”
Gilbert terminated the call. The taxi turned right and began driving along the sea towards the first bridge. Out the window was a massive complex of mosques and religious schools dating back to the Ottoman era. Further ahead was the famous Spice Market. A vast crowd, mostly tourists, covered the sidewalks, and colorfully dressed men in traditional garb carried big vats on their backs, offering passersby plastic cups of sour cherry juice. He could still remember the taste from his childhood when the whole family had visited the city on one of his dad’s research trips. It was like liquid cherry pie and the whole family had fallen in love with it. In fact, Zeki had even sent them a crate of it for Christmas one year.
As they neared the bridge, he could see a line of street vendors with an appetizing assortment of tomatoes, peppers and parsley lining the front of their carts and a selection of kebabs on a grill in the back. He remembered all of the fond times he had enjoyed here in this city. It had been a magical month in his childhood. Everything had seemed so exotic and everyone was so friendly.
Have they changed or am I just seeing a different side to them? Or is this whole thing just a fluke, a cosmic coincidence with no meaningful correspondence to reality?
The taxi driver turned left onto the bridge and Gilbert began rolling down the window. The smell of the sea and the sharp cry of gulls were refreshing. There was a walkway on the side of the bridge and a few fishermen wetting hooks. He started looking for a gap in the line of pedestrians so he could make a clean throw. About sixty-five yards from the end of the bridge, he saw his chance and flung the phone he had used to set up the transfer into the choppy blue waters of the Golden Horn.