Celik smirked. “The local police have been well paid to look after our interests. They paid a cursory visit and were kept away from the warehouses.” The police investigators reminded him of the assault by the NUMA men, and he subconsciously rubbed the spot on his head where Pitt had clubbed him.
“Those Americans will pay for their intrusion,” he said in a guttural tone. “But we have more important matters to address first.”
Maria braced for the onslaught over the failure at Jerusalem, but the expected outburst never materialized. Celik quietly gazed out the forward window, eyeing the empty dock.
“Where is the
Sultana
?”
“I left it in Beirut to complete the repair work. The crew will bring her to Istanbul in a few days.”
Celik nodded, then stepped close to his sister.
“Now, tell me, Maria, why did the mission fail?”
“I am uncertain myself,” she replied calmly. “The primary charge failed to detonate. It was set with multiple fuzes, and I am positive it was staged properly. There must have been outside interference. Even the secondary charge should have produced more damage. I suspect the Israeli archaeologist who was killed may have somehow disabled some of the charges.”
“The results were disappointing,” Celik replied, suppressing his usual vitriol, “but I am thankful for your safe return.”
“We put the Lebanese smugglers ashore in Tripoli on the voyage back, so the Israelis have nowhere to search and no trail to follow.”
“You have always covered your tracks well, Maria.”
Despite his unusually calm demeanor, she could see the distress in his face.
“How is the Mufti faring?” she asked.
“He is campaigning like a professional politician and has won the public support of some key members of the Grand National Assembly. But he is still trailing in the polls by at least five percentage points, and we have just days to go before the election.” He looked at her with an admonishing gaze. “The Jerusalem attack failed to give us the boost that is necessary for us to win.”
“Perhaps it is beyond our control,” she said.
Maria’s words suddenly released the anger that Celik had kept bottled up.
“No!” he shouted. “We are too close. We must not fail to seize the opportunity. The restoration of our family empire is at stake,” he said, nearly tasting the power of his own planned ascension. The mad eyes were suddenly ablaze, and his face pulsed red with fury. “We cannot let this chance slip through our fingers.”
“The Golden Horn?”
“Yes,” he replied, opening his attaché case and pulling out a map. “The intercept must occur tomorrow night,” he said, handing her a folder. “Enclosed is the target ship’s schedule and route. Can you be ready?”
Maria looked at her brother with trepidation.
“Yes, I believe so,” she said quietly.
“Good. There is a team of Janissaries waiting to board the ship who will act in support of the operation. I will be counting on you.”
“Ozden, are you sure you want to do this?” she asked. “The risks are high. It will mean the death of a great many of our own countrymen. And I fear the repercussions if we don’t succeed.”
Celik stared at his sister with a gaze born of delusion, then nodded firmly.
“It is the only way.”
53
A
BEL HAMMET WATCHED THE RAYS OF THE SETTING SUN sparkle like balls of fire atop the loafing waves of the Mediterranean. Standing on an open bridge wing, the Israeli ship captain watched the sun drop beneath the horizon, ushering in a welcome evening breeze. Sucking in deep breaths of the cool air, he swore he could detect the smell of Turkish pine trees from the shoreline ahead. Peering over the distant prow of his vessel, he could just begin making out a few twinkling lights along the southern Turkish coast. Temporarily refreshed, he stepped back onto the bridge of the
Dayan
to complete his watch.
At just under a hundred meters in length, the
Dayan
was a relatively small tanker, certainly minuscule in comparison to the supertankers that plied oil from the Persian Gulf. Though sharing most of the characteristics of the crude carriers, she had actually been purpose-built for a slightly different cargo: fresh water. Spurred by a recent trade agreement, the Israeli government had three identical vessels constructed to transport water to its dry and dusty shores.
Sitting two hundred and fifty miles across the Mediterranean from Israel, Turkey was one of the few countries in the arid region that actually possessed a surplus of fresh water. Controlling the headwaters of both the Tigris and Euphrates, as well as other rich highland rivers, it sat on a strategic resource that would only grow in importance in the coming decades. Tapping it as a new export, the country had agreed to sell a tiny fraction of its water to Israel in a trial trade deal.
Dayan
carried just over a million gallons, and Hammet knew its contribution to Israel’s water supply was a drop in the bucket, but the biweekly commutes across the Med ultimately added up. For him, it was easy sea duty, and he and his nine-man crew enjoyed the work.
Standing in the center of the wheelhouse, he studied the ship’s progress on a navigation monitor.
“Engine back two-thirds,” he ordered the helmsman. “We’re forty miles from Manavgat. No use in us arriving before daybreak since the pumping facility won’t be manned any earlier.”
The helmsman repeated the order as the speed was reduced on the ship’s single engine. Riding high on the sea with an empty hold, the tanker gradually slowed from twelve knots to eight. As midnight approached a few hours later, the executive officer appeared on deck to relieve the captain. Hammet took a final scan of the radar system before turning in.
“There’s a vessel coming up behind us off our port flank, but otherwise the seas are clear,” he told the exec. “Just keep us off the beach, Zev.”
“Yes, Captain,” the man replied. “No midnight swims tonight.”
Hammet retired to his cabin a deck below and quickly fell asleep. But he awoke a short time later, feeling something amiss. Shaking away the cobwebs, he realized that the ship’s engine was not throbbing and shuddering through the deck as usual when under way. He thought it odd that no one had come to wake him if there was a navigational problem or mechanical issue with the ship.
Slipping on a bathrobe, the captain exited his cabin and climbed a stairwell up to the bridge. Stepping into the darkened wheelhouse, Hammet froze in shock. A few feet in front of him, the executive officer was lying facedown in a small pool of blood.
“What’s going on here?” he barked at the helmsman.
The helmsman stared back at him in wide-eyed silence. Under the dimmed lights of the bridge, Hammet could see that the young man had an ugly gash across the side of his face. The captain’s vision was suddenly diverted out the forward window, where he noticed the lights of another vessel shining dangerously close to the tanker’s port beam.
“Hard right rudder!” he shouted at the helmsman, ignoring a rustling behind him.
A tall figure emerged from the back wall, dressed in black, with an ebony ski mask covering his head and face. In his hands, he held an assault rifle, which he raised to shoulder height. The helmsman ignored Hammet’s command, merely staring as the gunman stepped closer. Hammet turned and looked just in time to see the rifle whipping toward his face. He heard the crash of the gun’s stock strike him on the side of the jaw an instant before a flash of pain surged through him like a bolt of lightning. He felt his knees buckle, and then the pain vanished as everything turned to black and he joined his executive officer flat on the deck.
54
R
IDLEY, MY FRIEND, COME IN, COME IN.”
The Fat Man’s voice sounded like sand in a mixer as he welcomed Bannister into his Tel Aviv apartment for the second time in as many weeks.
“Thank you, Oscar,” the archaeologist replied, strutting in with an air of confidence that had been notably lacking on his last visit.
Gutzman led him to a sitting area, where a thin, well-dressed Arab sat at a nearby desk, reviewing some documents. He looked up, eyeing Bannister with a suspicious stare.
“That is Alfar, one of my curators,” Gutzman said with a derisive wave of his hand. Catching a look of caution in Bannister’s face, he added, “Do not worry. His ears are safe.”
Gutzman reached his favorite sitting chair and tumbled into it without grace.
“Now, what is of such importance that you have called on me again so soon?” he asked.
Bannister spoke quietly, buttering up his victim for the kill.
“Oscar, you know as well as I that hunting for history is at best a speculative business. We may search for days, weeks, or even years for that one monumental discovery and still come up empty. Sure, along the way there may be important finds and occasionally the exciting piece that taps the imagination. Most of the effort usually ends up going for naught. But there is always the chance of that rare instance where the stars are in alignment and one is very, very lucky to find a singular gift from the heavens.”
He leaned forward in his chair for effect and stared into the Fat Man’s eyes.
“Oscar, I believe I may be on the verge of such a find.”
“Well, what is it, my boy?” Gutzman wheezed. “Don’t toy with me.”
“I was just in London for a short visit and happened to call on an antiquities dealer I’ve known for a number of years. He recently acquired a cache of items stolen years ago from the Church of England’s archives,” he lied, pausing, again for effect.
“Go on.”
“A portion of the material contained original artwork, jewelry, and artifacts liberated from the Holy Land during the Crusades.” Bannister looked cautiously back and forth across the room, then added in a low voice, “Included in the works was an original copy of the Manifest.”
Gutzman’s eyes inflated like balloons.
“Are . . . are you serious?” he rasped. He tried to contain his excitement, but his face turned flush with exaltation.
“Yes,” Bannister replied, producing an intentionally poor photocopy of the papyrus document. “I have not seen the original myself, but I’ve been assured that it is authentic.”
Gutzman studied the page for several minutes without uttering a word. Only the ruffling of the page in his unsteady fingers disturbed the silent room.
“It exists,” he finally said in a hushed tone. “I cannot believe by God’s good graces that it has come to be.” The old man then looked at Bannister sternly. “This dealer, he will sell it to me?”
Bannister nodded. “Given the nature of his acquisition, he is forced to sell it quietly. That is why he has priced it at only five million pounds sterling.”
“Five million pounds!” Gutzman cursed, propelling himself into a coughing fit. When he recovered his breath, he stared into Bannister’s eyes.
“I will never pay that,” he said, finding a strong voice.
Bannister paled slightly, not anticipating the response. “I suspect the price may be negotiable, Oscar,” he stuttered. “And the dealer indicated he would have the document carbon-dated at his expense.”
Having purchased artifacts from grave robbers to politicians, Gutzman knew how to get his price. More than that, he knew when he was being played, and the hesitation in Bannister’s voice did not go undetected.
“Stay here,” the Fat Man said, rising unsteadily from his chair and leaving the room.
He returned a moment later with a thick binder. Gutzman sat down and opened it, revealing a collection of photographs encased in plastic sleeves. Ancient artifacts of assorted age and style, large and small, appeared in the photographs. Bannister recognized statues, carvings, and pottery that he knew were worth hundreds of thousands of dollars. Gutzman flipped to the back of the binder, then removed several photos and handed them to Bannister.
“Take a look at these,” the Fat Man huffed.
“Part of your collection?”
“Yes, from my storehouse in Portugal.”
Bannister studied the photos. The first showed a small collection of rusty swords and spear tips. The second photo showed an iron military helmet that Bannister recognized as a Roman Heddernheim type. A thin bronze panel containing the image of an eagle, a scorpion, and several crowns appeared in the next photo. The final image was of an object undistinguishable to Bannister. It appeared to be a large, angular mass of metal that was twisted and warped on one side.
“A rare collection of Roman armament,” Bannister said. “I’m guessing the eagle and scorpion reliefs are part of a battle standard?”
“Very good, Ridley. It’s not just any standard, however, but the emblem for the
Scholae Palatinae
, the elite Roman guards of Constantine the Great. What do you make of that last object, my friend?”
Bannister studied the photograph again but shook his head.
“I’m afraid I don’t recognize it.”
Gutzman smiled in minor triumph. “It is the bronze ram from an imperial galley ship. Based on its size, it likely came from a Liburnian
bireme
.”
“Yes, I see it now. The business end has been flattened by contact. Where on earth did you find this?”
“It was lodged in the hull of another vessel, a fourth-century Cypriot raider, if the story is to be believed. The damaged vessel ran aground and sank in a protected area of soft silt. A number of the artifacts were remarkably preserved. It wasn’t long before the wreck was picked over by local divers, well before the state archaeologists arrived on the scene. A wealthy collector snatched up most of the items before the authorities knew what had been removed.”
“Let me guess who the wealthy collector was,” Bannister said with a smirk.
Gutzman let out a gurgled laugh. “A fortunate tip that came my way, in this particular instance,” he said, grinning.
“They are extremely nice pieces, Oscar. But why are you showing them to me?”