The ceramic container was about twice the size of a cigar box, its flat sides emblazoned with a blue-and-white design that matched the lid. The box felt heavy for its size, and Pitt carefully tucked it under one arm before kicking toward the surface.
A steady afternoon breeze was building from the northwest, pestering the water with whitecaps. Giordino was already aboard the Zodiac, yanking up the anchor, when Pitt appeared. He kicked over to the rubber boat and handed Giordino the box, then climbed aboard and stripped off his dive gear.
“Guess you owe that fisherman a bottle of ouzo,” Giordino said, starting up the outboard motor.
“He certainly put us on an interesting wreck,” Pitt replied, drying his face with a towel.
“Not an amphora-carrying Bronze Age wreck, but she still looked pretty old.”
“Possibly medieval,” Pitt guessed. “A mere child, by Mediterranean wreck standards. Let’s get to shore and see what we’ve got.”
Giordino gunned the motor, driving the Zodiac up on its keel, then turned toward the nearby island. Chios itself was two miles away, but it was another three miles up the coast before they entered the small bay of a sleepy fishing village called Vokaria. They tied up at a weather-beaten pier that looked like it had been built during the Age of Sail. Giordino then threw a towel down onto the dock, and Pitt laid out the two artifacts.
Both items were covered in a layer of sandy concretion, built up over centuries underwater. Pitt located a freshwater hose nearby and carefully scrubbed away some of the layered muck on the ceramic box. Free of grime and held aloft under the sunlight, it dazzled the eye. An intricate floral pattern of dark blue, purple, and turquoise burst against a bright white background.
“Looks a bit Moroccan,” Giordino said. “Can you pop the top off?”
Pitt carefully worked his fingers under the overhanging lid. Finding a light resistance, he gently forced it free. Inside, the box was filled with dirty water, along with an oblong object that glittered faintly through the murk. Pitt carefully tilted the box to one side, draining it.
He reached in and pulled out a semicircular object that was heavily encrusted. To his shock, he could see that it was a crown. Pitt held it up gingerly, feeling the heavy weight of its solid-gold construction, the metal gleaming from portions that were free of sediment.
“Will you look at that?” Giordino marveled. “Looks like something straight out of King Arthur.”
“Or perhaps Ali Baba,” Pitt replied, looking at the ceramic box.
“That shipwreck must be no ordinary merchant runner. You think it might be some sort of royal vessel?”
“Anything is possible,” Pitt replied. “It would seem somebody important was traveling aboard.”
Giordino took hold of the crown and placed it on his head at a rakish angle.
“King Al, at your service,” he said, with a wave of his arm. “Bet I could attract a fine local lady wearing this.”
“Along with some men in white jackets,” Pitt scoffed. “Let’s take a look at your lockbox.”
Giordino set the crown back into the ceramic case, then picked up the small iron box. As he did, the corroded padlock slipped off, dropping to the towel.
“Security ain’t what it used to be,” he muttered, setting the box back down. Emulating Pitt, he worked the edges of the lid with his fingers, prying the top off with a pop. Only a small amount of seawater sloshed about inside, for the container was filled nearly to the rim with coins.
“Talk about hitting the jackpot,” he grinned. “Looks like we may be in for an early retirement.”
“Thank you, no. I’d rather not spend my retirement years in a Turkish prison,” Pitt replied.
The coins were made of silver and badly corroded, several of them melded together. Pitt reached to the bottom of the pile and pulled out one that glimmered, a lone gold coin that hadn’t suffered the effects of corrosion. He held it up to his eye, noting an irregular stamp, indicative of hammered coinage. Swirling Arabic lettering was partially visible on both sides, surrounded by a serrated ring. Pitt could only guess as to the age and origin of the coin. The two men curiously examined the other coins, which in their condition revealed few markings.
“Based on our limited evidence, I’d guess we have an Ottoman wreck of some sort on our hands,” Pitt declared. “The coins don’t look Byzantine, which means fifteenth century or later.”
“Somebody should be able to date those accurately.”
“The coins were a lucky find,” Pitt agreed.
“I say fund the project another month and avoid going back to Washington.”
A battered Toyota pickup truck approached along the dock, squealing to a halt in front of the men. A smiling youth with big ears climbed out of the truck.
“A ride to the airport?” he asked haltingly.
“Yes, that’s me,” Pitt said, retrieving his overnight bag from the Zodiac.
“What about our goodies?” Giordino asked, carefully wrapping the items in the towel before the driver could examine them.
“To Istanbul with me, I’m afraid. I know the Director of Maritime Studies at the Istanbul Archaeology Museum. He’ll find a good home for the artifacts and hopefully tell us what we found.”
“I guess that means no wild night out on Chios for King Al,” Giordino said, passing the towel to Pitt.
Pitt glanced at the sleepy village ringing the harbor, then climbed into the idling truck.
“To be honest,” he said as the driver began pulling away, “I’m not sure Chios is ready for King Al.”
3
T
HE COMMUTER PLANE TOUCHED DOWN AT ATATÜRK International Airport in Istanbul just before dark. Scurrying around a mass of commercial jumbo jets like a mosquito in a beehive, the small plane pulled into an empty terminal slot and bumped to a halt.
Pitt was one of the last passengers off the plane and had barely stepped into the tiled terminal when he was mauled by a tall attractive woman with cinnamon-colored hair.
“You were supposed to beat me here,” Loren Smith said, pulling away after a deep embrace. “I was afraid you weren’t going to come at all.” Her violet eyes beamed with relief as she gazed at her husband.
Pitt crooked an arm around her waist and gave her a long kiss. “A tire problem on the plane delayed our departure. Have you been waiting long?”
“Less than an hour.” She crumpled her nose and licked her lips. “You taste salty.”
“Al and I found a shipwreck on the way to the airport.”
“I should have guessed,” she said, then gave him a scolding look. “I thought you told me flying and diving didn’t mix?”
“They don’t. But that puddle jumper I flew in on barely cleared a thousand feet, so I’m plenty safe.”
“You get the bends while we’re in Istanbul, and I’ll kill you,” she said, holding him tight. “Is the shipwreck anything interesting?”
“It appears to be.”
He held up his overnight bag with the artifacts wrapped inside. “We retrieved a couple of artifacts that should be revealing. I invited Dr. Rey Ruppé of the Istanbul Archaeology Museum to join us for dinner tonight, in hopes that he can shed some further light.”
Loren stood on her toes and looked into Pitt’s green eyes, her brow wrinkled.
“It’s a good thing I knew when I married you that you’d always keep the sea as a mistress,” she said.
“Fortunately,” he replied with a grin while holding her close, “I have a heart big enough for the both of you.”
Grabbing her hand, they waded through the terminal crowd and collected his baggage, then caught a taxi to a hotel in Istanbul’s central historic district of Sultanahmet. After a quick shower and change, they hopped another cab for a short ride to a quiet residential area a dozen blocks away.
“Balikçi Sabahattin,” the cabdriver announced.
Pitt helped Loren out onto a quaint cobblestone lane. On the opposite side of the street was the restaurant, housed in a picturesque wood-frame house built in the 1920s. The couple waded past some tables outside to reach the front door and entered an elegant foyer. A thickset man with thinning hair and a jovial smile stepped up and shoved out a hand in greeting.
“Dirk, glad you could find the place,” he said, crushing Pitt’s hand in a vise grip. “Welcome to Istanbul.”
“Thanks, Rey, it’s good to see you again. I’d like you to meet my wife, Loren.”
“A pleasure,” Ruppé replied graciously, shaking Loren’s hand with less vigor. “I hope you can forgive an old shovel jockey’s intrusion on dinner tonight. I’m off to Rome in the morning for an archaeology conference, so this was the only opportunity I had to discuss your husband’s underwater discovery.”
“It’s no intrusion at all. I’m always fascinated by what Dirk pulls off the seafloor,” she said with a laugh. “Plus, you have obviously led us to a lovely dining spot.”
“One of my favorite seafood restaurants in Istanbul,” Ruppé replied.
A hostess appeared and escorted them down a hallway to one of several dining rooms fitted into the former house. They took their seats at a linen-covered table aside a large window that overlooked the back garden.
“Perhaps you can recommend some regional favorites, Dr. Ruppé,” Loren said. “It’s my first visit to Turkey.”
“Please, call me Rey. When in Turkey, you can never go wrong with fish. Both the turbot and sea bass are excellent here. Of course, I can never seem to eat my fill of kebobs, either,” he grinned, rubbing his belly.
After placing their orders, Loren asked Ruppé how long he had lived in Turkey.
“Gosh, going on twenty-five years now. I came over one summer from Arizona State to teach a marine archaeology field school and never left. We located an old Byzantine merchant trader off the shores of Kos that we excavated, and I’ve been busy here ever since.”
“Dr. Ruppé is the foremost authority on Byzantine and Ottoman marine antiquities in the eastern Mediterranean,” Pitt said. “His expertise has been invaluable on many of our projects in the region.”
“Like with your husband, shipwrecks are my true love,” he said. “Since taking the maritime studies post at the Archaeology Museum, I regrettably spend less time in the field than I’d prefer.”
“The burden of management,” Pitt concurred.
The waiter set a large plate of mussels with rice on the table as an appetizer, which they all quickly sampled.
“You certainly work out of a fascinating city,” Loren noted.
“Yes, Istanbul does live up to its nickname as the ‘Queen of Cities.’ Born to the Greeks, raised by the Romans, and matured under the Ottomans. Its legacy of ancient cathedrals, mosques, and palaces can grip even the most jaded historian. But as a home to twelve million people, it does have its challenges.”
“I’ve heard that the political climate is one of them.”
“Is changing it the purpose of your visit, Congresswoman?” Ruppé asked, with a grin.
Loren Smith smiled at the allusion. Though a long-serving House representative from the state of Colorado, she wasn’t much of a political animal.
“Actually, I only came to Istanbul to visit my wayward husband. I’ve been traveling with a congressional delegation touring the south Caucasus and just stopped off on my way back to Washington. A State Department envoy on the plane mentioned that there were U.S. security concerns about the growing fundamentalist movement in Turkey.”
“He’s right. As you know, Turkey is a secular state that is ninety-eight percent Muslim, mostly of the Sunni faith. But there has been a growing movement under Mufti Battal, who’s centered here in Istanbul, for fundamentalist reforms. I’m no expert in these matters, so I can’t tell you the actual extent of his appeal. But Turkey is suffering economic distress like other places, which breeds unhappiness and discontent with the status quo. The hard times seem to be playing right into his hands. He’s visible everywhere these days, really attacking the sitting President.”
“Aside from upsetting the Western alliances, I can’t help but think that a Turkish shift toward fundamentalism would make the entire Middle East an even more dangerous place,” Loren replied.
“With a Shia-controlled Iran flexing her military muscle, I fear your concerns are quite valid.”
Their dinners were brought to the table, Loren receiving a baked sea bass dish and Pitt a grilled grouper plate, while Ruppé dined on Black Sea turbot.
“Sorry to ruin the meal with politics, it’s a bit of an occupational hazard,” Loren apologized. “The sea bass is outstanding, I’m happy to report.”
“I don’t mind, and I’m sure Dirk is used to it,” Ruppé said with a wink. He turned to his old friend. “So, Dirk, tell me about your project in the Aegean.”
“We’re investigating a number of low-oxygen dead zones in the eastern Mediterranean,” Pitt replied between bites. “The Turkish Environment Ministry has steered us to a number of regional spots in the Aegean where recurring algae blooms have snuffed out all marine life. It’s a growing problem we’ve been seeing in many places around the globe.”
“I know that it’s been a major concern in the Chesapeake Bay, right in our own backyard,” Loren remarked.
“Dead zones in the Chesapeake have become quite large in recent summer months,” Pitt acknowledged.
“All due to pollutants?” Ruppé asked.
Pitt nodded. “In most instances, the dead zones are located near the delta areas of large rivers. Low oxygen levels are usually a direct result of nutrient pollution, primarily in the form of nitrogen from agricultural or industrial runoff. The nutrients in the water initially create a mass growth of phytoplankton, or algae blooms. When the algae ultimately die and sink to the bottom, the decomposition process removes oxygen from the water. If the process reaches critical mass, the water becomes anoxic, killing all marine life and creating a dead zone.”
“What have you found so far in Turkish waters?”
“We’ve confirmed the presence of a moderately sized dead zone between the Greek island of Chios and the Turkish mainland. We are continuing to conduct survey work in the region and will ultimately map the perimeter and intensity of the zone.”