He motioned toward the Turkish frigate, which had inched closer when the submersible appeared. Pitt gazed over and noticed for the first time that a row of armed sailors lined the frigate’s rail, their weapons pointed at the NUMA research ship.
“What’s with the threatening posture?” he asked. “We’ve had two crewmen murdered and another kidnapped. Didn’t you radio the Coast Guard earlier?”
“I did,” Gunn replied testily. “But that’s not why they’re here. It seems somebody else called them first.”
“Then why the show of arms?”
“Because,” Gunn said, his eyes red with anger, “we are under arrest for looting a submerged cultural resource.”
41
DUSK HAD ARRIVED IN THE EASTERN MEDITERRANEAN, casting a pale rosy tint to the sky as the Ottoman Star broached the entrance to the Port of Beirut, just north of the Lebanese capital. The old frigate had made a swift voyage from the Aegean, reaching the port city in less than forty-eight hours. Circling past a modern new containership terminal, the freighter turned west through the port complex, steaming in slowly to dock at an older general-cargo quay.
Despite the late hour, many of the local dockworkers stopped and stared as the freighter was berthed, smiling at the odd spectacle on her deck. Carefully wedged beside the forward hatch and resting on a hastily constructed wooden cradle sat the damaged Italian yacht. A pair of workmen in coveralls was busy cutting and patching the large gash in its hull inflicted by the now sunken workboat.
Maria sat quietly on one side of the ship’s bridge, silently watching the captain deal with the small parade of port, customs, and trade representatives who filed aboard in search of paperwork and money. Only when the local textile distributor complained about his short shipment did she intervene.
“We were forced to accelerate our departure,” she said bluntly. “You’ll receive the difference with the next shipment.”
The browbeaten distributor nodded, then left quietly, not wishing to tangle with the fiery woman who owned the ship.
The dockyard cranes were quickly engaged, and soon metal containers filled with Turkish textiles and produce were being rapidly unloaded from the ship. Maria stuck to her perch on the bridge, watching the work with disinterested eyes. Only when she spotted a dilapidated Toyota truck pull up and park alongside the gangway did she sit upright and stiffen. She turned to one of the Janissary guards that her brother had sent to accompany her on the voyage.
“A man I am to meet has just pulled up on the dock. Please search him carefully, then escort him to my cabin,” she ordered.
The Janissary nodded, then stepped briskly off the bridge. He was mildly surprised to find the driver of the truck was an Arab attired in scruffy peasant clothes and wearing a ragged keffiyeh wrapped around his head. His dark eyes glared with intensity, however, deflecting attention from the long scar on the right side of his jaw, which he had acquired in a knife fight while a teen. The guard duly searched him, then showed him aboard, escorting him to Maria’s large and stylishly appointed cabin.
The Turkish woman sized him up quickly as she offered him a seat, then dismissed the Janissary from her cabin.
“Thank you for coming here to meet me, Zakkar. If that is indeed your name,” she added.
The Arab smiled thinly. “You may call me Zakkar. Or any other name, if it so pleases you.”
“Your talents have come highly recommended.”
“Perhaps that is why so few can afford me,” he replied, removing the dirty keffiyeh and tossing it onto an adjacent chair. Seeing that his hair was trimmed in a neat Western cut, Maria realized that the grubby outfit was simply a disguise. Given a shave and a suit, he could easily pass as a successful businessman, she thought, not knowing that he often did.
“You have the initial payment?” he asked.
Maria rose and retrieved a leather satchel from a cabinet drawer.
“Twenty-five percent of the total, as we agreed. Payment is in euros. The balance will be wired into a Lebanese bank account, according to your instructions.”
She stepped closer to Zakkar but clung to the satchel.
“The security of this operation must be unquestioned,” she said. “No one is to be involved who is less than completely trustworthy.”
“I would not be alive today if conditions were otherwise,” he replied coldly. He pointed at the satchel. “My men are willing to die for the right price.”
“That will not be necessary,” she said, handing him the satchel.
As he peered inside at its contents, Maria stepped to a bureau and retrieved several rolled-up charts.
“Are you familiar with Jerusalem?” she asked, laying the charts across a coffee table.
“I operate in Israel a good portion of the time. It is Jerusalem where I am to transport the explosives?”
“Yes. Twenty-five kilos of HMX.”
Zakkar raised his brow at the mention of the plastic explosives. “Impressive,” he murmured.
“I will require your assistance in placing the explosives,” she said. “There may be some excavation work required.”
“Of course. That is not a problem.”
She unrolled the first chart, an antiquated map labeled, in Turkish, “Underground Water Routes of Ancient Jerusalem.” Placing it aside, she displayed an enlarged satellite photograph of Jerusalem’s walled Old City. She traced a finger across the eastern face of the wall to the hillside beyond, which descended into the Kidron Valley. Her finger froze atop a large Muslim cemetery perched on the hill, its individual white gravestones visible in the photo.
“I will meet you here, at this cemetery, at exactly eleven p.m., two nights from now,” she said.
Zakkar studied the photo, noting the nearby cross streets, which were overlaid on the image. Once they were committed to memory, he looked up at Maria with a quizzical gaze.
“You will be meeting us there?” he asked.
“Yes. The ship will be sailing from here to Haifa.” She paused, then added firmly, “I will be leading the operation.”
The Arab nearly scoffed at the notion of a woman directing him on an assignment, but then he considered the handsome payoff he would receive for the indignity.
“I will be there with the explosives,” he promised.
She moved to her bunk and pulled out a pair of wooden foot-lockers stored underneath. The heavy lockers had metal handles affixed to each end and were stenciled with the words “Medical Supplies,” written in Hebrew.
“Here is the HMX. I will have my guards carry it to the dock.”
She stepped to the Arab mercenary and looked him hard in the eye.
“One last thing. I want no cowardice over our objective.”
Zakkar smiled. “As long as it is in Israel, I do not care what or whom you destroy.”
He turned and opened the door. “Till Jerusalem. May Allah be with you.”
“And also with you,” Maria muttered, but the Arab had already slid down the corridor, the Janissary following close behind.
After the explosives were transported to the Arab’s truck, Maria sat down and studied the photograph of Jerusalem once more. From the antiquated cemetery, she eyed the glistening target positioned just up the hill.
We’ll shake up the world this time, she thought to herself, before carefully returning the photograph and charts to a locked cabinet.
42
RUDI GUNN PACED THE BRIDGE LIKE A NERVOUS CAT. Though the bump on his head had long since receded, a purple bruise still blemished his temple. Every few steps, he would stop and scan the weathered dock of Çanakkale for signs of relief. Finding none, he would shake his head and resume pacing.
“This is crazy. We’re on our third day of impoundment. When are we going to be released?”
Pitt looked up from the chart table, where he was studying a map of the Turkish coast with Captain Kenfield.
“Our consulate in Istanbul has assured me that our release is imminent. The necessary paperwork is
promised to be meandering through the local bureaucracy even as we speak.”
“The whole situation is outrageous,” Gunn complained. “We’re placed in lockdown while the killers of Tang and Iverson are allowed to slip free.”
Pitt couldn’t argue with him, but he did understand the dilemma. Long before the Aegean Explorer had contacted the Turkish Coast Guard, the marine authority had been alerted by two earlier radio calls. The first reported that the NUMA ship was illegally salvaging a historic Turkish shipwreck protected by the Cultural Ministry. The second call reported two divers killed during the salvage operation. The Turks refused to identify the source of the calls but rightfully acted on them in advance of the Aegean Explorer’s request.
Once the NUMA ship was escorted to the port city of Çanakkale and impounded, the case was turned over to the local police, further compounding the confusion. Pitt immediately phoned Dr. Ruppé in Istanbul to document their approved presence on the wreck site, then he phoned his wife, Loren. She quickly badgered the State Department to push for their immediate release even after the police had searched the ship and, finding no artifacts, slowly realized there was no basis for arrest.
Rod Zeibig ducked his head through the doorway and broke the air of exasperation.
“You guys got a minute?”
“Sure,” Gunn replied. “We’re just busy here pulling our hair out of our heads one strand at a time.”
Zeibig stepped in with a folder in his hand and headed to the chart table.
“Maybe this will perk you up. I’ve got some information on your stone monolith.”
“Apparently, it’s not mine anymore,” Gunn mused.
“Did you manage to remember your Latin inscription?” Pitt asked, sliding over to allow room for Gunn and Zeibig to sit down.
“Yes. I actually wrote it down right when we got back to the ship but put it aside during all the commotion. I finally examined it this morning and performed a formal translation.”
“Tell me it’s the gravestone of Alexander the Great,” Gunn said wishfully.
“That would be wrong on two accounts, I’m afraid. The stone tablet is not a grave marker per se but a memorial. And there’s no mention of Alexander.”
He opened the folder, revealing a handwritten page of Latin that he had jotted down after viewing the monolith. The next page contained a typewritten translation, which he handed to Gunn. He read it silently at first, then aloud.
“In Remembrance of Centurion Plautius.
Scholae Palatinae and loyal guardian of Helena.
Lost in battle at sea off this point.
Faith. Honor. Fidelity.
—CORNICULAR TRAIANUS ”
“Centurion Plautius,” Gunn repeated. “It’s a memorial to a Roman soldier?”
“Yes,” Zeibig replied, “which adds veracity to Al’s crown being of Roman origin, a gift from the Emperor Constantine.”
“A Scholae Palatinae loyal to Helena,” Pitt said. “The Scholae Palatinae were the elite security force of the later Roman emperors, as I recall, similar to the Praetorian Guard. The reference to Helena must be Helena Augustus.”
“That’s right,” Zeibig agreed. “The mother of Constantine I, who ruled in the early fourth century. Helena lived from 248 to 330 A.D., so the stone and the crown would presumably date to that era.”
“Any idea who this Traianus is?” Gunn asked.
“A cornicular y is a military officer, typically a deputy position. I searched some Roman databases for a Traianus but came up empty.”
“I guess the big mystery still remains: Where did the crown and monolith originate and why were they in an Ottoman wreck?”
He gazed past Zeibig, perking up at the sight of two men in blue uniforms who were making their way down the quay toward the ship.
“Well, well, the local constables have returned,” he said. “I hope that’s our parole papers they are carrying with them.”
Captain Kenfield met the officers on the dock and escorted them aboard, where Pitt and Gunn joined them in the wardroom.
“I have your impoundment release here,” the elder officer stated in clear English. He was a round-faced man with drooping ears and a thick black mustache.
“Your government was very persuasive,” he added with a thin smile. “You are free to go.”
“Where does the investigation of my murdered crewmen stand?” Kenfield inquired.
“We have reopened the case as a potential homicide. At present, however, we have no suspects.”
“What about that yacht, the Sultana?” Pitt asked.
“Yes, we saw the boat nearly cut Dirk to shreds,” Gunn pressed.
“We were able to trace that vessel to its owner, who informs us that you must be mistaken,” the officer replied. “The Sultana is on a charter cruise off Lebanon. We received e-mail photos this morning of the vessel moored in the Port of Beirut.”
“The Sultana was heavily damaged,” Pitt said. “There is no way she could have sailed to Lebanon.”
The officer’s assistant opened a briefcase and pulled out several printed photographs, which he handed to Pitt. The photos showed bow and port-side views of the blue yacht moored at a dusty facility. Pitt didn’t fail to notice that none of the photos showed the starboard flank, where he had rammed the yacht. The last photo showed a close-up of a Lebanese daily newspaper with the present date, the yacht appearing in the background. Gunn leaned over Pitt and studied the photos.
“That sure looks like the same boat,” he said reluctantly. He could only nod when Pitt showed him the photo of a life ring that clearly showed the yacht’s name. Pitt simply nodded, finding no evidence that the photos had been doctored.
“It doesn’t belie the fact that one of our scientists was also kidnapped and taken to the yacht’s facility up the coast,” Pitt said.
“Yes, our department contacted the local police chief at Kirte, who sent a man to investigate the dock facility you described.” He turned and nodded to his assistant, who retrieved a thick packet from his case and handed it to his supervisor.
“You may have a copy of the report that was filed in Kirte. I’ve taken the liberty of having it translated into English for you,” the officer said, handing it to Pitt while giving him an apologetic look. “The investigator reported that not only were the ships you described absent from the harbor, there were in fact no vessels at all at the facility.”
“They certainly covered their tracks quickly,” Gunn remarked.
“The facility records indicate a large freighter similar to the one you described was at the dock earlier in the day, taking on a shipment of textiles. However, the records indicate that the vessel left harbor at least eight hours before your alleged arrival at the facility.”
The officer looked at Pitt with a sympathetic gaze.
“I’m sorry there is little else we can do at the moment, pending additional evidence,” he added.
“I realize this has turned into a rather confusing incident,” Pitt said, suppressing his frustration. “I wonder, though, if you can tell me who owns the shipping facility near Kirte?”
“It is a privately held company called Anatolia Exports. Their contact information is in the report.” He looked at Pitt with a pensive gaze. “If there is any additional service I can provide, please let me know.”
“Thank you for your assistance,” Pitt replied tersely.
As the police officers left the boat, Gunn shook his head.
“Unbelievable. Two murders and a kidnapping, and nobody is at fault but us.”
“It’s a raw deal, all right,” Captain Kenfield said.
“Only because we’re playing against a stacked deck,” Pitt said. “Anatolia Exports apparently bought off the Kirte police. I think our resident constable recognized that.”
“I suppose the whole situation was a bit embarrassing for them, so perhaps they are just trying to save face,” Kenfield said.
“They should be more concerned with doing their job,” G
unn swore.
“I would have thought they’d be jumping through hoops after you told them that you spotted the woman from the Topkapi theft,” Kenfield said to Pitt.
Pitt shook his head. “I didn’t tell them anything about her.”
“Why not?” Gunn asked incredulously.
“I didn’t want to endanger the ship anymore while we’re in Turkish waters. We’ve seen firsthand what they’re capable of doing, whoever ‘they’ are. Plus, I had a sneaking suspicion it would go nowhere with the local police.”
“You’re probably right about that,” Kenfield said.
“But we just can’t let them walk away,” Gunn protested.
“No,” Pitt agreed with a determined shake of the head. “And we won’t.”
THE LINES HAD BEEN CAST and the Aegean Explorer was inching away from the dock when a dilapidated yellow taxi came roaring into view. The rusty vehicle skidded to a stop at the water’s edge, the rear door flew open, and a tall, slender woman jumped out.
Pitt was standing on the bridge when he spotted his daughter running along the dock.
“It’s Summer,” he shouted to the captain. “Hold the boat.”
Pitt ran down to the main deck, ducking when a large duffel bag came flying through the air and landed at his feet. A second later, a thin pair of hands appeared on the side rail, followed by a bushel of red hair. Summer then swung her body over the side, landing on her feet on the forward deck. Pitt approached, holding her bag, and gave her a clenching hug.
“You know we were coming back to get you,” he said with a laugh.
Realizing that the ship had reversed power and was returning to the dock, Summer gave her father a sheepish look.
“Sorry,” she said, still catching her breath. “When I phoned the ship from London, Rudi told me you’d probably be here for another day or two. But when the taxi neared the dock, I saw you pulling away and panicked. I really didn’t want to miss the boat.”
Pitt turned and waved up to the bridge, indicating it was safe to depart. Then he casually escorted Summer to her cabin.