Crescent Dawn

43

“Sophie, I think I may have a hot one for you.”

Sam Levine nearly tripped as he burst into the Director of Antiquities’ office. The cuts and bruises on his face from the incident at Caesarea had mostly healed, but he still carried a large scar on his cheek from the encounter with the Arab thieves. Sophie was seated at her desk, studying a Tel Aviv police report on a grave looting, but looked up with interest.

“Okay, I’m listening.”

“One of our network informants, an Arab boy named Tyron, reports a possible dig tonight in the Muslim cemetery at Kidron.”

“Kidron? That’s just over the wall from the Old City. Somebody’s getting rather brazen.”

“If it is even true. Tyron has had a spotty track record when it comes to tips.”

“Who is supposedly turning the shovels?”

“I only got one name out of him, a petty thief named Hassan Akais,” Sam replied, sliding into a chair opposite Sophie’s desk.

“Doesn’t ring a bell,” Sophie replied after contemplating the name. “Should I know him?”

“We picked him up a few years ago on a raid at Jaffa. We didn’t have enough on him to press charges, so he was let go. Seems to have kept his hands clean since then. He’s been paying our informant to tend some sheep, and apparently the boy overheard talk of an operation tonight.”

“It sounds like small fish to me.”

“I thought so, too. But then there’s this,” Sam said, handing Sophie a computer printout. “I ran his name through the system and, lo and behold, the Mossad suspects him of having possible links to the Mules.”

Sophie leaned forward and studied the paper with heightened interest.

“His links appear a bit tenuous, at best,” Sam added, “but I thought you would want to know.”

Sophie nodded as she finished reading the report but neglected to pass it back to Sam.

“I would like to talk to this Hassan,” she finally replied in a measured tone.

“We’re a bit thin for an operation tonight. Lou and the gang are in Haifa until tomorrow, and Robert is home sick with the flu.”

“Then it will just have to be you and me, Sammy. Any objections?”

Sam shook his head. “If this guy had anything to do with Caesarea, then I want him, too.”

They made their plans for the evening rendezvous, then Sam rose and left the office. Sophie had resumed reading the police report when she suddenly felt someone staring at her. She looked up in surprise to see Dirk, standing outside her doorway, holding a large bouquet of lilacs in his hand.

“Pardon me, I’m looking for the chief gunslinger around here,” he said with a radiant smile.

Sophie practically leaped out of her chair.

“Dirk, I didn’t think you’d be free until next week,” she said, hopping over and giving him a peck on the cheek.

“The university suspended the excavation at Caesarea for the season, so I guess my work is through for now,” he said, placing the flowers on her desk. He then grabbed her in a tight embrace and kissed her. “I missed you,” he whispered.

Sophie felt her skin flush, then remembered her office door was open.

“I can take a short break,” she stammered. “Shall we go have lunch?”

As soon as he nodded, she led him away from the prying eyes of the office and into a nearby courtyard.

“I know a beautiful spot to picnic in the Old City. We can grab something to eat along the way,” she offered.

“Sounds perfect,” he said. “I haven’t seen much of Jerusalem. A walk in the streets is always the best way to capture the essence of an interesting city.”

Sophie grabbed his hand and led him off the manicured grounds of the Rockefeller Museum. Just a short distance away stood Herod’s Gate, one of a handful of entry points into Jerusalem’s Old City. Roughly a mile square, the Old City is the religious heart of Jerusalem, containing the historical landmarks of the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, the Western Wall, and the Dome of the Rock. An imposing stone wall constructed by the Ottoman Turks over four hundred years ago runs in a complete perimeter around the historic section.

Walking through the gate and into the Muslim Quarter, Dirk admired the aged beauty of the cut limestone, which seemed to be the basis of every monument, business, and residence in the city no matter how shabby or dilapidated. But he was more amused watching the diverse population making their way through the narrow streets and alleys. Spotting an Armenian Jew waiting for a crossing light beside an Ethiopian in a white robe and a Palestinian wearing a keffiyeh , he realized that he was treading on a patch of ground unique in all the world.

Sophie guided him down a dark and dusty alley that led to a bustling open-air market called, in Arabic, a souk . She expertly navigated their way past a throng of vendors, stopping to purchase some falafel, lamb kebabs, sweet cakes, and a bag of fruit from the assorted hawkers.

“You said you wanted some local flavor, so here it is,” Sophie teased, making Dirk carry their ad hoc lunch.

She led him down a few more blocks, then crossed onto the grounds of the St. Anne’s Church. A graceful stone structure built by the Crusaders, its location in the heart of the Muslim Quarter represented one of the many peculiar juxtapositions to be found in the ancient city.

“A nice Jewish girl is taking me to a Christian church?” Dirk asked with a chuckle.

“We’re actually headed to the grounds in back of the church. A place that I thought an underwater explorer might enjoy visiting. In addition to the fact,” she added with a wink, “it’s a lovely spot for a picnic.”

They entered the property and made their way to the rear grounds, where they found an open area shaded by mature sycamore trees. A trail led a short distance to a fenced chasm that dropped away like an open mine. Remnants of brick walls, stone columns, and ancient arches rose from the dry base of the cavity.

“This was the original Pool of Bethesda,” Sophie said as they peered down into the now-dusty depths. “It was originally a reservoir for the First and Second Temples, then baths were later constructed. Of course, it was better known as a healing center after it was written that Jesus cured an invalid here. There’s not much water left, I’m afraid.”

“Probably just as well,” Dirk replied. “Otherwise, it would be wall-to-wall tourists vying to take a bath.”

They found a secluded bench beneath a towering sycamore, where they sat down and attacked their lunch, passing the delicacies back and forth.

“Tell me, how is Dr. Haasis getting on?” she asked.

“Quite well, actually. I just visited him this morning before traveling to Jerusalem. He’s resting at home but eager to get back to work. The leg wound didn’t prove serious, so he should be free of his crutches in another week or two.”

“The poor fellow. I feel so sorry for him.”

“He told me he feels bad for you. He seems to think it was his fault that your agents were placed in such a dangerous situation.”

Sophie shook her head. “That is ridiculous. He had no way of knowing an armed band of terrorists would attack any more than we did.”

“He’s a man with a generous soul,” Dirk said, sampling a fresh fig from the bag of fruit. “By the way, the Israeli Security Agency grilled me pretty good over the last few days. I hope you can tell me that you’re close to catching the bad guys.”

“Shin Bet, as they are known, has taken the lead on the investigation, but I’m afraid the trail of evidence has already turned cold. The assailants’ truck was found to be a stolen vehicle. It was discovered driven into the sea near Nahariyya. Shin Bet thinks that the thieves likely crossed into Lebanon shortly after departing Caesarea. They are believed to be connected with a smuggling operation that has known ties to Hezbollah. I fear they will be difficult to identify, let alone capture.”

“Any idea who they might have been working for?”

“Not really. I’ve made plenty of inquiries and have a few suspicions, but no hard proof. Sam and I are doing everything we can,” she said, her voice drifting away as her thoughts turned to the dead agent Holder.

Dirk reached over and clasped her hand in his and squeezed tight.

“I never thought I’d have to deal with something like this,” she continued, falling teary-eyed.

She looked into Dirk’s eyes and squeezed his hand back. “I’m really glad that you are here,” she said, then leaned over and kissed him.

They sat huddled for a long while, Sophie feeling safe again in the arms of Dirk. Staring at the empty pools of Bethesda, she eventually regained the will to face her job again. Taking a deep breath, she smiled through moist eyes.

“Can you smell the jasmine in the air?” she asked. “I’ve always loved the fragrance. It reminds me of when I was a child, and all the days were filled with happiness.”

“They will be again,” Dirk promised.

“I must be getting back,” she finally whispered, though her arms retained their lock around Dirk.

“I’ll be waiting for you,” he replied.

She suddenly remembered the planned operation with Sam that night.

“We can have dinner, but I’m afraid I have to work tonight. A surveillance job. We received a tip about an artifact thief who might be connected to the Lebanese smugglers.”

“May I come along?”

Sophie started to shake her head, then relented. “We are a bit shorthanded. It’s just Sam and me, so we could use some extra support. But no heroics this time.”

“A silent observer, that’s me. I promise,” he said, smiling.

They rose together and took a final look at the dry pools. Sophie felt a sudden hesitancy to leave, though she didn’t know why. She finally gathered Dirk’s hand and led him slowly away from the pools, fighting a swirl of emotions within her heart.

44

The Ottoman Star crept slowly into the Israeli Port of Haifa, the decrepit freighter relegated to a berth at the end of the quiet west terminal. With only a small quantity of remaining textiles to off-load, the Turkish crew could have easily emptied the ship’s holds in a few hours. But they were under strict orders to procrastinate unloading so that work would not be completed until late in the evening.

Presenting a pair of fake passports at the port’s customs office, Maria and one of the Janissaries then rented a car and made their way out of Haifa. Posing as a married couple on holiday, they could travel through most of the country with limited scrutiny. But in making their way to Jerusalem, they took no chances. Maria drove a circuitous route to avoid entering the West Bank and being subjected to additional security checkpoints, which might find the fanny pack under her seat containing a gun, cash, and a pair of night vision goggles.

Maria knew well that attempting to transport the HMX explosives into and through the country was another matter. Zakkar and his associates in the Mules could handle that risk, at a cost that was well worth the price. The Arab smuggler had carefully outlined to Maria how the explosives would be transported via truck, then on foot, even strapped to the bellies of a herd of sheep at one point, in order to reach the destination without being detected by the Israeli security forces.

But that was only half of the challenge. The Turkish woman had other equally important business to conduct in person. With the help of a tourist map, they entered the busy streets of Jerusalem, bypassing the Old City in making their way to one of the newer neighborhoods to the west. Locating the recently opened Waldorf Astoria Hotel, they parked their car on the street and walked to the next block south. Tucked into a row of trendy tourist shops, they found a tiny teahouse, with strings of beads shading the windows, and stepped inside.

At a corner table in the dimly lit café, Maria spotted a bearded man rise to his feet and smile in her direction, revealing a gold-plated front tooth. Maria approached him with her Janissary in tow.

“Al-Khatib?” she asked.

“At your service,” the Palestinian replied, bending toward her in a slight bow. “Won’t you join me?”

Maria nodded and sat down at the table with the Janissary beside her. Al-Khatib took a seat across from them and poured them each a cup of tea. Maria noticed that he had the sunbaked skin and callused hands of an old artifact plunderer, which was exactly what he was.

“Welcome to Jerusalem,” he said by way of a toast.

“Thank you,” Maria replied, gazing around the room to ensure there were no prying ears nearby.

“Have you succeeded with the task for which you were hired?” she asked in a low voice.

“Yes, with ease,” the Palestinian replied, smiling again. “The aqueduct was exactly where you indicated it would be. It is an amazing historical validation. May I ask where you obtained the research data?”

It was Maria’s turn to smile.

“As you know, the present wall around the Old City was constructed by Suleiman the Magnificent in the early fifteen hundreds. His engineers mapped the route in detail, incorporating the locations of existing obstructions. The maps, which we have acquired in Turkey, are replete with abandoned aqueducts and other features constructed back to the Age of Herod, which have since been lost or hidden.”

“A marvelous discovery, and one that I would love to examine some time,” al-Khatib said hungrily.

“I’m afraid I didn’t bring the documents with me on this trip,” she lied. “My family has an extensive collection of Ottoman artifacts, and the maps were part of a larger acquisition.” She neglected to mention that they had all been stolen from a museum in Ankara.

“Historical documents of prized value, I should think. May I ask the purpose of the excavation?”

Maria brushed aside the inquiry. “You were able to expand the opening around the aqueduct?” she countered.

“Yes, I have done as you requested. I quietly enlarged the opening, then burrowed a meter or two into the hillside. The entrance is properly concealed by scrub brush.”

“Excellent,” Maria replied, then reached into her pack and retrieved an envelope filled with Israeli banknotes. Al-Khatib’s eyes widened as she slid the fat envelope across the table.

“There is a bonus for your timely work,” she said.

“I am most grateful,” the Palestinian gushed, quickly stuffing the envelope into his pocket.

Maria finished her cup of tea, then said, “You will show us to the site now.”

Al-Khatib looked at his watch with dismay. “It will be dark shortly, but there is a bright moon tonight.”

Then he saw the cold, determined look in Maria’s eyes and quickly backpedaled.

“Of course, if that is what you wish,” he stammered. “Do you have a car?”

He paid the bill, then the trio made their way down the street to the rental. Following al-Khatib’s directions, Maria drove around the southern end of the Old City, then turned north into the Kidron Valley. The Palestinian directed her to the fringe of an ancient Muslim cemetery, where Maria concealed the car behind an adjacent stone warehouse that was crumbling at the seams.

Their shadows disappeared under the approaching twilight as the Janissary removed a pickax and a bag filled with electric lanterns from the rear of the car. He and Maria then followed the Palestinian as he hopped over a low stone wall and wound his way through the dusty cemetery. The grounds were all but deserted at the late hour, but the group kept to the remote western section, well away from a mosque in the center and a side road to the east. The Janissary did his best to conceal the ax, hiding the business end under his arm as he walked.

To the east of them rose the Mount of Olives, dominated by a large Jewish cemetery and several churches and gardens. Rising from a hillside to their immediate west stood the towering stone wall that surrounded the Old City. Just over the wall was the original Temple Mount, now occupied by the al-Haram ash-Sharif, or Noble Sanctuary. At the center of the holy grounds was the Dome of the Rock, a towering structure that housed the stone upon which Abraham had prepared to sacrifice his son. In Islamic tradition, that rock was also deemed the departure point for Muhammad’s visit to heaven during his Night Journey, earmarked by his footprint in the stone. Maria could just make out the top of the Muslim shrine’s large gold dome, the towering structure appearing maple brown in the fading light.

Al-Khatib reached the simple marker of a Muslim Emir who’d died in the sixteenth century and turned left. Stepping to the end of an irregular row of grave sites, he began climbing the rocky hillside that rose sharply toward the Old City. Maria fumbled for a flashlight in her pack but kept it turned off, stumbling over rocks and scrub, until reaching a slight plateau, where al-Khatib slowed.

“We are close,” he whispered.

Flicking on his own penlight, he led them higher up the hill, stopping finally beside a pair of desert shrubs. Panting for breath, Maria noticed that both plants were actually dead, their roots wedged into a small mound of stones. Behind the dead shrubs was an orderly stack of limestone rocks.

“It is behind here,” al-Khatib said, waving his light toward the plants. He turned and nervously scanned up and down the hillside to ensure they were not being observed.

“There are occasional security patrols in this area,” he cautioned.

Maria pulled out the pair of night vision goggles and carefully scanned the surroundings. The nearby sounds of the city wafted down the valley, and a blanket of lights twinkled across the surrounding hills. But all was empty in the cemetery below.

“There is no one about,” she confirmed.

Al-Khatib nodded, then knelt down and began tossing the stones aside. When a small opening appeared, Maria ordered the Jannisary to assist. Together, the two men quickly cleared away a concealed entrance, exposing a narrow passageway almost five feet in height. After removing all of the obstructions, the Palestinian stood and rested.

“The aqueduct was actually quite small,” he said to Maria, circling his hands together in a tight diameter. “A good deal of digging was required to enlarge it.”

Maria looked at the man without pity as she considered the original construction history. The aqueduct opening found on the hillside was simply an outlet, she knew, for a much more elaborate engineering feat. Nearly two thousand years before, Roman engineers under Herod had constructed a series of aqueducts from the distant hills of Hebron, which brought fresh water to the town and the fortress of Antonia, built on the site of the Temple Mount. The aqueducts were all constructed by hand, by laborers much more fit than the pudgy Palestinian who stood before her, Maria thought.

She held her flashlight to the mouth of the passage and flicked it on. The light revealed a narrow tunnel that ran five feet into the hillside. In the rear, she could see the small aqueduct opening at floor level, which continued deeper into the dirt wall. The tunnel was cleanly carved, and Maria could see that al-Khatib had excavated it with some skill.

“You have done nice work,” she told him, turning off her light. Then she took the pickax from the Janissary and handed it to the Palestinian.

“I need you to dig another two or three feet,” she demanded.

The well-paid artifact hunter readily nodded, hoping for an additional bonus while curious as to the task at hand. Taking a lantern from the Janissary, he squeezed to the rear of the tunnel and began digging into the rocky wall. The Janissary stepped in behind him and with gloved hands began removing the loose dirt and chipped debris accumulating around al-Khatib’s feet.

As Maria stood watch near the entrance, al-Khatib labored steadily, swinging the ax for nearly twenty minutes straight and carving away several more feet of soil. Breathing hard, he laid a heavy stroke into the hillside, feeling an odd lightness through the ax’s handle. Yanking back the ax, he realized he had punched a hole through to an open space behind the wall of dirt. The startled Palestinian stopped and held up the lantern. He could see only a black expanse of emptiness through the small hole but marveled at the rush of cool air that flowed through it.

With renewed energy, he furiously attacked the barrier, quickly expanding the hole to man-size. Pushing the debris aside, he barreled through the opening with the lantern, stumbling into a wide, high-ceiling cavern.

“Praise be Allah,” he gasped, tossing the pickax aside as he gazed at the far walls.

They reflected alabaster white because of the electric lantern and revealed even rows of chisel marks. Al-Khatib’s trained eye recognized the rock as limestone, showing where large blocks had been cut and removed by hand.

“A quarry, like Zedekiah’s Cave,” he blurted as Maria and the Janissary entered with another pair of lanterns.

“Yes,” Maria replied. “Only this one was lost to history when the Second Temple was destroyed.”

Beneath the walls of the Old City, less than a mile away, was another vast cave, carved by slaves who chiseled limestone for Herod the Great’s many engineering projects. Its name was acquired from the last king of Judah, Zedekiah, who reportedly used it as a hiding place to escape the armies of Nebuchadnezzar.

With the added light, the trio could see that the quarry dispersed into multiple passages, extending like fingers of a hand into the darkness. Al-Khatib eyed a large main tunnel that stretched directly east as far as he could see.

“This must extend well under the Haram ash-Sharif,” he said uneasily.

Maria nodded in reply.

“And the Dome of the Rock?” he asked, tension apparent in his voice.

“The Dome’s sacred stone is itself situated on bedrock, but the main tunnel does underlie the structure. Another tunnel approaches the al-Aqsa Mosque, in addition to other points on the grounds. That is, if Suleiman’s maps are accurate, which they have proven to be so far.”

The Palestinian’s face turned pale as his initial excitement turned to trepidation.

“I do not wish to tread beneath the site of the sacred rock,” he said solemnly.

“That will not be necessary,” Maria replied. “Your work is finished.”

As she spoke, she reached into her pack and retrieved a compact Beretta pistol, which she leveled at the startled Palestinian.

Unlike her brother, Maria felt no rush or thrill at taking the life of another. In fact, she felt nothing at all. Committing murder was the emotional equivalent of changing her socks or eating a bowl of soup. They were at different ends of the sociopathic scale, products of abusive childhoods and genetic homogeneity, but they had both ended up as remorseless killers.

The pistol barked twice, sending a pair of slugs into al-Khatib’s chest as the echo of the shots reverberated loudly through the chamber. The relic hunter dropped to his knees, a momentary look of incomprehension in his eyes, before he fell over dead. Maria calmly walked over and removed the envelope of banknotes from his pocket and stuffed it in her pack. Then she glanced at her watch.

“We have less than an hour before the explosives are to be delivered,” she said to the Janissary. “Let us survey the quarry and select our sites.”

Stepping over the dead man’s body, she retrieved his lantern, then quickly scurried off into the dark.

45

It was nearing ten o’clock when Sophie pulled into a small dirt lot outside the northeast wall of the Old City and parked behind a closed dress shop. Across the road and down a short hill was the northern tip of the Muslim cemetery, which meandered south across a widening gulch as part of the Kidron Valley headlands. Shutting off the ignition, she turned to Dirk, who gazed at her from the passenger seat.

“Are you sure you want to do this?” she asked. “Most night operations turn out to be a boring exercise in futility.”

Dirk smiled as he nodded his head. “I’m not one to waste the chance for a stroll in the moonlight with a beautiful girl.”

Sophie suppressed a laugh. “You’re the only one I know who could find something romantic in a stakeout.”

But she had to admit to similar feelings. They had enjoyed an intimate dinner at a quiet Armenian café inside the Jaffa Gate, and as the evening progressed she developed a compelling desire to cancel the surveillance operation and invite him to her apartment instead. She quelled the notion, knowing the prospect of obtaining potential information about the killers of agent Holder was much too important.

“It’s not like Sam to be late,” she said, checking her watch, then gazing out the window for his vehicle.

A minute later, her cell phone vibrated, and she answered, speaking animatedly in Hebrew.

“It was Sam,” she said after hanging up. “He was in an auto accident.”

“Is he all right?”

“Yes. Apparently a van filled with Christian pilgrims missed a turn and drove into him. He’s okay, but his car is wrecked. He thinks a few elderly tourists might be injured, so it’s going to take a while to clean up. He doesn’t think that he’ll be able to get here for another hour.”

“Then I guess we better start without him,” Dirk replied, opening the door and climbing out of the car. Sophie followed him, opening the trunk and removing a pair of night vision binoculars, which she strung around her neck. Then she leaned over and opened a large leather case that was lying flat in the trunk. Inside was a weathered, government-issue Tavor TAR-21 assault rifle. Sophie slid in a fully loaded clip and chambered the first round, then slid the weapon over her shoulder.

“Armed for bear this time, I see,” Dirk remarked.

“After Caesarea, I will always be better armed,” she said, her voice filled with resolve.

“Why not let the Shin Bet handle the stakeout if you suspect the Lebanese smugglers are involved?”

“I considered that,” she replied, “but the tip was rather flimsy. We’re most likely dealing with some ragtag teenage pothunters who probably won’t even show up.”

“That would be all right with me,” Dirk said with a wink as he grabbed her hand.

They crossed the road and hiked down the embankment that spilled into the cemetery. Sophie stopped and scanned the grounds with her binoculars.

“We need to move farther down,” she said quietly.

They hiked another dozen yards down the slope, stopping at a low rise that offered an unobstructed view of nearly the entire cemetery. Around them, the Muslim flat stone graves glimmered white under the moonlight like an array of displaced teeth scattered about a sand-colored blanket. Sophie took a seat on a stone ledge and carefully surveyed the lower grounds with her night vision glasses. She spotted a few kids playing a late-night game of soccer on the other side of the Western Wall, but the cemetery itself appeared deserted. She was scanning toward the east when she felt Dirk’s body slide in alongside her, his arm wrapping around her waist. She slowly lowered the binoculars.

“You are distracting me from my work,” she protested lightly, then placed a hand around the back of his neck and kissed him passionately.

They embraced for several minutes until a faint shuffling sound disrupted their intimacy. Sophie quickly gazed down the hill again.

“Three men with large backpacks,” she whispered. “Two of them appear to be carrying shovels or possibly weapons, I can’t tell.”

She put down the binoculars and looked up the hill. “We need Sam,” she said with frustration.

“He’s still a half hour away,” Dirk said, glancing at his watch.

The sound of the three men’s steps grew louder as they trudged up the center of the cemetery. Sophie unholstered her Glock pistol and handed it to Dirk.

“We’ll make the arrest,” she whispered. “Then I’ll call the Jerusalem police to take them in.”

Dirk nodded in agreement as he took the pistol, checking to see that it was loaded. They crept from their spot, moving slowly down the hill. They followed the larger grave markers for cover, which gradually carried them to their right. Approaching a raised tomb that offered concealment, they inched along its high back side, then kneeled down and waited.

The minutes ticked by slowly as the three purported grave robbers worked their way closer. Sophie quietly clipped her flashlight to the barrel of the Tavor, then held perfectly still as the men trudged by a few feet away. She nodded to Dirk, then suddenly sprang to her feet. Leaping behind the men, she clicked on the flashlight, then shouted in Arabic, “Stop! Hands in the air!”

The three men turned and froze at the sudden ambush, squinting as Sophie played the light’s beam on their faces. Two of the men, each holding an AK-74 pointed at the ground, glared at her with menace. One of them was short, shabbily dressed, with droopy eyes, who Sophie recognized as Hassan Akais, the subject of the tip. The second was equally dirty, distinguished by a prominently bent nose. It was the third man, however, who sent a shiver down Sophie’s spine. Clearly the leader of the trio, he calmly stared back at her with probing eyes that danced above a deep scar on the right side of his jaw. It was the same face that had glared at her in Caesarea, leading the assault that killed detective Holder.

Sophie’s hands trembled in recognition, causing the flashlight’s beam to flicker about the terrorist’s face. Sensing her hesitation, Akais quickly and silently swung his weapon up to bear on Sophie. As his finger reached for the trigger, a loud shot echoed through the cemetery. A splotch of red materialized on the gunman’s wrist as a 9mm slug tore through his forearm.

The man winced in pain, letting go of the trigger while grabbing his bloodied arm with his free hand. He looked up blankly at Sophie before spotting Dirk standing a few steps to her side, an automatic pistol extended in his hands at arms’ length.

“Throw down your weapons or I shall aim a bit higher next time,” Dirk commanded.

The other Arab, who wore a long, straggly beard, quickly shed his AK-74, but the wounded man didn’t move. He stared at Dirk with hatred in his eyes. Then suddenly his face softened, and he gritted his teeth in a defiant smirk as his gaze shifted past Dirk’s shoulder.

“I’m afraid it is you who shall throw down your weapons,” came a hardened female voice from the darkness. “Place your hands in the air where I can see them.”

Dirk turned toward the voice to find a short-haired woman standing directly behind Sophie with a pistol pointed to the back of her skull. He saw she was dressed in dark, casual clothes, but had her own night vision goggles perched on her forehead. Dirk felt another presence, and he craned his neck slightly to see the shadow of another man in the darkness with a raised gun aimed at his own head.

Sophie gave him an apologetic look as she lowered her Tavor to the ground. With little choice, Dirk smiled innocently at the Turkish woman, then gently tossed his pistol onto a nearby grave.

46

Dirk and Sophie were marched at gunpoint up the side of the hill and into the narrow passageway. Like the Arab terrorists that followed them, they were startled at the sight of the huge quarry that awaited on the other side, now illuminated by the pale glow of several lanterns. Sophie had visited Zedekiah’s Cave on several occasions and was astonished to find another, equally expansive quarry situated beneath the Temple Mount. Her awe turned to fear when she spotted the bloodstained body of al-Khatib lying facedown beside one of the lanterns. Her fear was only enhanced at her recognition of the Arab terrorist leader.

“The tall one… he led the attack at Caesarea,” she whispered to Dirk.

Dirk nodded, already aware that the well-armed contingent was after something more important than an old grave or two. The Janissary prodded them to a low stone ledge, where they took a seat, under gunpoint, near the dead Palestinian. Maria ignored them as she gathered the heavy backpacks from the three Arabs.

“This is the entire quantity?” she asked Zakkar.

“Yes, all twenty-five kilos are there, with fuzes and detonators,” the Arab replied. He gazed up at the high ceiling. “Do you aim to blow up the Dome of the Rock?”

Maria looked at him coldly. “Yes, and the al-Aqsa Mosque. Do you have a problem with that?”

The Arab shook his head. “You will cause great anger in our lands. But perhaps it will result in the greater good of Allah.”

“There will be a greater good,” Maria replied sharply.

She knelt down and quickly inventoried the explosives, then rose to her feet. Noticing Sophie and Dirk observing her movements, her face quickly soured.

“You nearly exposed our mission,” she hissed at Zakkar.

The Arab shook his head. “They are archaeological police looking for grave looters,” he said without acknowledging his own recognition of Sophie and Dirk. “It was a random surveillance. Why don’t we just kill them now?” he asked, tilting his head in their direction

“Israeli archaeologists, you say?” Maria mulled her own words over. “No, we shall not kill them. They shall die ‘accidentally’ in the blast,” she said with a wicked grin. “They will make the perfect scapegoats.”

She waved for the Janissary to approach, then turned again to Zakkar.

“Have your two men stand guard,” she said, glancing at her watch. “It is time we set the explosives, which I wish to detonate at one o’clock.”

She picked up a lantern as the Janissary hoisted up two of the backpacks. Zakkar addressed his two men, then picked up the other pack and a lantern and followed Maria as she disappeared down one of the passageways.

“Destruction of the Dome will unleash a horrific wave of bloodshed,” Sophie whispered to Dirk.

“Silence!” barked the bearded Arab, briefly waving his gun in Sophie’s direction.

His partner, the wounded man named Akais, sat on a nearby rock, cradling his arm. The gunshot had missed any major arteries, and he had stemmed the flow of blood with his keffiyeh , now wrapped tightly around his arm. Though he had walked easily up the hill and into the quarry under his own power, he was now suffering a moderate degree of shock from loss of blood. At times he would glare at Dirk with rage, then his eyes would glaze over into a thousand-mile stare.

Dirk methodically surveyed the quarry, searching for a means of escape that wouldn’t garner a bullet in the back. But there appeared to be few avenues. Staring at the dead Palestinian for a few moments, he took note of the two remaining lanterns. One was lying on the floor near the dead man, some ten feet from his own position. The bearded gunman slowly circled the other lamp, perched on a stone across the cavern.

Dirk caught Sophie’s attention and casually motioned toward the bearded guard. Then he rubbed the back of his hand across his mouth, whispering beneath it.

“The lantern… can you turn it off?”

Sophie eyed the lamp and the adjacent guard, then nodded faintly with a determined glare. She then carefully scanned the walls of the cavern, examining every cut and chisel mark that she could make out in the dim light. On a wall beyond the guard, she found what she was looking for, an irregular mark from which to build a story.

She stared at the spot with rapt fascination until the guard caught her gaze and turned to see what she was looking at. Keeping her eyes locked on the wall, she gently rose to her feet and took a step forward.

“Do not move,” the Arab hissed, turning back toward her.

Sophie tried her best to ignore him without getting shot.

“This quarry is two thousand years old, directly beneath the Dome of the Rock,” she murmured. “I think I see a sign of the Prophet over there.”

The guard looked suspiciously at her, then at Dirk. The NUMA engineer gave him the best clueless and uninterested look he could muster. Grabbing the lantern, the Arab backed slowly to the wall, keeping his assault rifle leveled on the pair. Reaching the wall, he took several hasty glances at the carved limestone. A pair of parallel gouges ran lightly across the surface at eye level while a faded mark in charcoal was visible between the cuts. The gunman looked at the mark blankly, then focused on Sophie.

“Yes, that’s it,” she said, taking another tentative step forward. When the gunman didn’t react, she continued walking toward him at a cautious pace.

“Any tricks, and your friend dies first,” the Arab spat, keeping his gun aimed at Dirk. He then turned and yelled at his companion.

“Hassan, stay alert.”

The wounded gunman responded by sluggishly nodding his head.

“Now, show me,” the gunman continued, speaking to Sophie while backing away from the wall.

Sophie crept to the wall and placed a hand on the surface near the cuts and marking. She had seen similar cuts in the walls of Zedekiah’s Cave and knew they were nothing more than the preliminary markings for a limestone slab that for some reason was never cut by the quarrymen. The faded charcoal was likely a numerical marking or placeholder for the unused stone. Yet she played it for much more.

“Like his footprint in the Dome’s sacred rock above, I believe this may be an indication of Muhammad’s departure on the Night Journey,” she said, referring to the visit to heaven atop a winged steed. “I can’t quite make it out under the light, though. May I borrow the lantern?”

She never looked at the guard, instead pretending to be engrossed in the wall carving as she extended a hand out toward him. He reacted instinctively, tentatively passing the lantern while also shifting the muzzle of his rifle in her direction. Grabbing the lantern, Sophie held it up to the wall, her eyes still glued to the charcoal marking.

“See this here,” she said quietly, pointing her free hand at the rock. She then casually let her hand slip to the base of the lantern, where her fingers groped for the power switch. Finding it with her index finger, she clicked the lamp off and froze.

Under the yellow glow of the far lamp, she was still quite visible to the Arab. He started to grunt a command at her, then noticed a sudden movement out of the corner of his eye.

Dirk had quietly been waiting for that moment. The instant Sophie’s lantern went dark, he sprang from the ledge. He knew bullets would follow him immediately, so he took two steps and dove for the light.

He wasn’t to be disappointed. The bearded gunman swung his weapon and fired instantly. But Dirk had already hit the ground, and the bullets whizzed high over his head. Extending an arm as he landed, he grabbed the lantern one-handed. Not bothering to fumble with the switch, he simply slammed the lantern against the ground, smashing the glass panes and bulb.

The cavern plunged into total darkness, which was quickly punctuated by bursts of fiery light from the muzzle of the Arab’s assault rifle. The angered gunman fired several protracted rounds at Dirk, which echoed like thunder through the quarry as bullets ricocheted off the limestone walls.

The fire was aimed at Dirk’s last position, but he had immediately rolled away from the lantern and scurried crablike across the floor toward the entry passage. After crawling twenty feet, he stopped and circled around, groping about the floor with his hands. The firing ceased as he found what he was looking for — the body of the dead Palestinian. Or, more precisely, the pickax that lay near the man’s feet.

An uncomfortable silence fell over the cavern as the odor of gunpowder drifted through the air. The Arab gunman, confident that he had killed Dirk, turned and fired toward the spot where Sophie had been standing moments earlier. But under the glow of the muzzle flash, he saw that she was no longer there.

Running a hand along the wall for guidance, Sophie smartly had run toward and then past the gunman while he was firing at Dirk. When the shooting stopped, she froze, the lantern still clasped in her hand, as she willed her heart to stop beating so loudly.

“Hassan, do you have a light?” the Arab shouted.

The wounded gunman was slowly regaining his senses and rose to his feet unsteadily.

“I am here, by the entrance. Do not shoot this way,” he pleaded in a weak voice.

“The light?” his partner barked.

“It is in my backpack, which I can’t seem to locate,” Akais replied, groping around his feet.

“The others took the backpacks,” replied the other man angrily.

Dirk made the most of the distracting conversation to move in for the kill. Hoisting the pickax over his shoulder, he crept toward the entryway and the voice of the wounded gunman. In his unsteady state, he would be the easiest to take down. With a little luck, Dirk could swap the ax for an assault rifle and shoot the other man before he knew what happened.

As the conversation died, Dirk still stood several feet from the wounded man. He would have to take a blind swing at him, as he couldn’t afford to reveal his position. Halting for a moment, he slid a foot forward silently, then slid again. But even in his diminished state, Akais detected a presence nearby.

“Salaam?” he suddenly asked.

The voice was close, Dirk realized, close enough to strike. He had taken another soft step forward and raised the ax to swing when a lantern suddenly came on across the cavern. He spun to see it was Maria, with a lantern in one hand and a pistol in the other. Staring at Dirk, she eased the pistol to her left until it was aimed at the heart of Sophie, who stood crouched against the wall just a few feet away.

“Drop the ax or she dies now,” the Turkish woman said.

Sophie gave him a forlorn look as he reluctantly dropped the pickax to the ground. Looking at her eyes wide with fear was the last thing he remembered. Then Hassan smacked the stock of his rifle into the back of Dirk’s head and he crumpled to the ground in a sea of darkness.

47

A well-traveled white taxi turned into the dirt lot and came to a stop alongside Sophie’s car. Sam Levine quickly paid the driver, then hopped out. As the cab drove off into the night, Sam tried phoning Sophie. Not surprised that she didn’t answer, he sent her a text message telling her where he was. When there was no response to that, he set off for the cemetery, knowing that she usually turned her phone off during a reconnaissance operation.

He crossed the street with a slight limp, his side and hip aching from the auto accident. In the confusion, he had left his night vision gear in the trunk of his damaged car, but he did have an automatic pistol holstered at his side. By moving slowly and quietly, he banked that Sophie would be able to spot him before he disrupted the surveillance.

Climbing down the embankment, he realized that he would have no problem moving slowly. He winced as a steep step sent a shooting pain through his leg, and he resorted to taking small, stutter steps as he navigated the sloping grounds that led to the cemetery.

The cemetery appeared silent and empty as he crept past the ancient tombs. He stopped every few yards to look and listen, expecting Sophie to silently appear out of the dark and tap him on the shoulder. But she never materialized.

Hiking another few steps, he stopped again, this time at hearing a distant noise. It was the clacking sound of rocks being piled upon one another, emanating from the center of the cemetery. Sam quietly tiptoed a few yards closer, stopping behind a low retaining wall. The clattering continued from down the hill. As he peered cautiously over the wall, under the light of a half-moon, he could just make out several shadowy figures moving about a flat grave near a short stone lamp tower that had lost its illumination decades ago.

The antiquities agent pulled out his pistol, then sat and waited. Several minutes ticked by as he wondered where Sophie was and why she wasn’t making an arrest. Perhaps she had abandoned the recon, he thought, but that didn’t prevent him from doing his duty.

Climbing over the wall with a grimace, he hobbled downhill toward the grave robbers. The sound of rattling stones ceased, and he could make out several of the figures retreating toward the southern end of the cemetery. He tried to run, but the stinging pain in his joints quickly slowed him to a shuffle. With a rising sense of desperation, he stopped and shouted, “Halt!”

The demand had an inverse effect. Rather than stopping the intruders, it prompted them to flee quicker. Sam could hear their accelerated steps as they ran through the cemetery and past its southern boundary. Moments later, the sound of not one but two automobiles starting up disrupted the night, followed by the screech of tires as both cars quickly sped away.

Sam shook his head in dismay as he spotted the receding taillights. Then he thought again about his supervisor.

“Sophie, are you out there?” he shouted.

But he was only answered by the silence of the empty graveyard.

Ambling down to the light tower, he stepped to the adjacent grave site, expecting to find a hastily dug crater burrowed into it. Instead, he was surprised to see an orderly mound of stones covering the grave. It was unusual for robbers to conceal their handiwork, he knew. Curious, he lifted a few of the stones off the top of the mound. He nearly fell backward when a human hand appeared in the moonlight.

Working more hesitantly, he gently removed more of the stones until revealing the bloodied torso and head of the murdered Palestinian. Staring at the corpse with revulsion, Sam silently wondered what sort of twisted thieves had come to the graveyard to make a deposit.

48

A dull light seemed to burn through Dirk’s eyes, though his lids were tightly closed. There was nothing dull, however, in the throbbing pain that surged through his head.

With a Herculean effort, he slowly forced open an eyelid, cringing as he slowly focused on a glowing lantern sitting inches from his face. Climbing back to full consciousness, he noticed the discomfort of the cold, hard limestone floor beneath his body. His arms stirred slightly as his hands groped along the surface, searching for support.

Taking a deep breath, he pressed with his arms, raising his torso while pulling up his legs, until he reached a sitting position. An explosion of stars swirled before his eyes, and he nearly passed out again, staving off slumber by breathing deeply. Resting a few minutes until the dizziness and nausea passed, he noticed a cool dampness on his back. Rubbing a hand across the back of his head, he felt a stinging knot that was caked with dried blood.

The gears in his mind slowly began churning as he recognized his surroundings. Sitting alone in the empty cavern, he immediately called out to Sophie in a weakened voice. Only silence countered his ringing ears. Grabbing the lantern, he painfully rose to his feet, the pounding in his skull rising to new proportions as he staggered about like a drunk.

He gradually regained his strength and steadiness as he searched around the cavern, then crawled out the passageway. The cemetery appeared dark and silent around him, so he quickly reentered the quarry.

He shouted for her again, this time in a stronger voice that echoed through the chamber. From deep inside one of the tunnels, he thought he heard a faint slap in reply. Though his hearing was far from optimal, the sound, if real, seemed to emanate from the large tunnel to his right. It was the same tunnel that Maria and her men had entered with the explosives.

Ducking slightly as he entered the six-foot-high tunnel, Dirk moved as briskly as his throbbing head would allow. Unbeknownst to him, the tunnel stretched more than two hundred yards into the hillside, bisecting the grounds of the Haram ash-Sharif several feet above his head. Of greater importance to the bombers was its proximity to the Dome of the Rock, burrowing beneath it to within a few yards of the revered rock itself.

The tunnel curved and twisted, occasionally passing through small chambers where pockets of limestone had neatly been quarried away. As Dirk rounded a tight bend, he detected a faint light glowing from the tunnel ahead. With the skip of a heartbeat, he forced himself to double his pace, ignoring the pounding ache that shot through his head with each labored step.

The distant light brightened as he jogged through a small, rectangular chamber, then into a straight section of tunnel. Chasing the beckoning rays, he staggered out of the tunnel and into a final chamber that curved around like a punch bowl. Parked in the center was one of the electric lanterns. To his right, Dirk saw a mass of clear puttylike material pressed onto the wall with several wire detonators dangling from its core. To his left lay Sophie, squirming and wriggling, a gag in her mouth and her feet and wrists bound with straps from a backpack. A large rock had been placed between her knees, effectively pinning her to the ground. When she gazed at Dirk, the terror in her glistening eyes quickly vanished.

“I see you’re trying to have a blast without me,” he said with a weary grin.

But he didn’t give her the opportunity to reply. Heaving the rock from between her legs, he hoisted her over his shoulder, then grabbed both lanterns with his free hand. Finding renewed strength, he quickly shuffled back down the tunnel, careful not to bang her head against the low ceiling.

He carried her more than half the distance to the main cavern before dizziness reappeared in full force. Reaching the small chamber, he gently set her on the ground and removed her gag as he caught his breath.

“You look terrible,” she said. “Are you badly hurt?”

“I’m fine,” he grunted. “You were the one with the worries.”

“What time is it?” she asked hurriedly.

“Five minutes to one,” Dirk replied, gazing at his watch.

“The explosives. The woman said they were set to detonate at one a.m.”

“Let ’em blow. Let’s just get out of here.”

“No.”

Dirk was startled by the tone in her voice. It was less of a request than a demand.

“If the Dome and the mosque are destroyed, it will mean disaster for my country. War will ensue like no other we have seen.”

Dirk looked into Sophie’s dark eyes, seeing determination, hope, love, and despair. With the seconds ticking, he knew he couldn’t hope to win a debate on the matter.

“I think I can disable the detonator,” he said, untying her hands. “But you’ve got to get out of here. Here’s an extra lantern. Untie your feet and head for the exit.”

He turned to run back into the tunnel, but she grabbed his shirt and pulled him close for a quick but passionate kiss.

“Be careful,” she said. “I love you.”

His mind in a whirl, Dirk took off running. Her words seemed to extinguish all pain, and he found himself nearly sprinting through the tunnel. In a matter of seconds, he charged into the last chamber and approached the plastic explosives.

As a marine engineer, he had a rudimentary knowledge of explosives, having worked on salvage projects where underwater demolitions had been required. Though he was unfamiliar with the HMX explosives, the detonating technology in front of him was a common configuration. A single electronic timer fuze was wired to a string of detonator caps, which in turn were embedded in the explosives.

He glanced at his watch, seeing it was three minutes to one.

“Don’t blow early,” he muttered under his breath as he held the light to the wall.

He quickly searched the plastic explosives for additional fuzes, not realizing the quantity of HMX in front of him was enough to level a skyscraper. Finding only the one fuze, he grabbed hold of it and yanked it from the wall. The fuze, with its associated detonator caps, slipped freely from the HMX. With the blasting device dangling in his hand, Dirk took off running back down the tunnel.

He soon reached the now-dark and empty rectangular chamber, where he was thankful to see by her absence that Sophie had heeded his directions to flee. He stopped for a moment and hurled the fuze assembly against the far wall of the chamber, then dashed into the tunnel. With a sense of relief and fading adrenaline, he stepped into the main chamber, the pain in his head renewing its friendship. He made his way across the dark cavern, noticing for the first time that the body of the Palestinian was no longer there.

Squeezing through the entry tunnel, he welcomed the fresh air outside by sucking in several deep breaths, then glanced around for Sophie. Not spotting her or her light, he flicked off his own lantern momentarily, then called out her name. Neither her light nor her voice responded.

Then a sick feeling suddenly hit Dirk like a blow to the belly. The mosque. Sophie had said that the Dome and the mosque would be destroyed. There must be a second set of explosives for the mosque, and Sophie was inside trying to deactivate it.

Dirk shot back through the passageway like an arrow. Inside the main cavern, there were three small tunnels bored into the hillside to the left of the Dome tunnel. Dirk raced to the entrance of each, shouting out Sophie’s name down the dark corridors. At the entrance to the last tunnel, he heard a garbled reply, and recognized her silky voice calling from the distance. He immediately burst into the tunnel, running at a sprint through the chiseled corridor.

He’d taken only a few steps when he heard a popping noise in the distance, like a short string of firecrackers exploding. It was the detonators that he had pulled free beneath the Dome, now igniting harmlessly in the rectangle chamber.

Dirk’s heart pounded like a sledgehammer as he realized the second cache would detonate at any second.

“Sophie… get out of there… now!” he shouted between pounding breaths.

Ahead in the tunnel he could see a faint glimmer of light, and he knew he was getting closer. Then he heard another series of pops, and he dove to the floor with an agonized heart.

The explosion shook the ground like an earthquake, accompanied by an earsplitting boom. Seconds later, the expanding force of exploding gasses burst through the tunnel with a roaring gust, blowing a shower of dust and rock in front of it. Dirk felt his body lift off the ground and slam into the wall, knocking the breath out of him. Hammered by rock and buried in a blanket of choking dust, he felt the world around him once again turn to black.

49

Sam had been standing with his back to the hillside, examining the dead Palestinian, when Dirk briefly emerged from the passageway in search of Sophie. Hearing someone else call Sophie’s name, the antiquities agent wheeled around in time to catch a glimpse of Dirk’s lantern disappearing back into the passageway. Sam once more pulled out his phone and tried calling Sophie, then crept slowly up the hill.

He was only a few yards from the quarry entrance when the cache of explosives detonated. From his vantage, it was little more than a muffled bang followed by a slight rumble beneath his feet. Seconds later, a plume of smoke and dust came pouring out of the small passageway.

He approached the entrance and found a discarded lantern in the bushes while waiting for the air to clear. Turning on the lamp, he stepped cautiously through the passageway. He was stunned as he stepped into the main cavern, shocked that a huge quarry existed unrecorded beneath the Temple Mount.

The air was still thick with smoke and dust, and Sam kept a sleeve to his nose as he surveyed the interior. He poked a head into each of the four tunnels, hesitating at the last one, which spewed a heavy plume, and then he suddenly heard the clattering sound of rock on rock echoing from within.

Proceeding slowly into the tunnel, he detected the glow of another light far down the corridor. Accelerating his pace, he encountered a pile of debris shaken from the walls by the blast. Stepping carefully past the rubble, he moved farther into the depths of the hillside. The dark tunnel straightened for several yards, and Sam could suddenly see the lantern burning brightly ahead.

A nervous sweat poured down his face as he coughed away the dust that caked his nasal passages. Making his way past a jagged boulder, he staggered out of the tunnel and into a large chamber illuminated by the lantern set on a fallen rock. The chamber resembled an underground gravel pit, with mounds of rocks piled on the floor throughout. A large, irregular hole had been eaten out of the ceiling just over the worst of the debris, the handiwork of the blast. A thick white haze still hung over everything, obscuring visibility despite the light.

From the opposite side of the chamber, Sam detected a faint movement.

“Sophie?” he called, reaching uneasily for the grip of his handgun.

Like an apparition, a figure appeared through the haze. With a brief sense of relief, Sam recognized Dirk emerging from the gloom. The relief faded when he saw that Dirk held the limp body of Sophie in his arms.

“Is she all right?” he asked quietly.

Sam tentatively stepped closer, observing that Dirk had covered her head and torso with a light jacket. It was then that he noticed Sophie’s dangling limbs appeared misshapen and coated with a thick layer of blood and dust.

He looked up at Dirk for an explanation and immediately shivered. Any hope for Sophie’s well-being was immediately extinguished by Dirk’s ragged appearance. Dirk stood staring at him with a battered and bloodied face, his eyes lost and soulless. The life seemed to be crushed out of him, and Sam knew at once that Sophie was dead.

50

The explosion beneath the Haram Ash-Sharif was nearly suppressed before the smoke even cleared. The Dome of the Rock had been Maria’s primary target, and it was there that she had planted the bulk of the explosives. But they went undetonated, rendered harmless when Dirk pulled out the blasting caps. It was a second, smaller cache, planted beneath the al-Aqsa Mosque, that did explode, though ultimately with minimal effect.

The ground beneath the eighth-century mosque shook and its windows rattled, but no fireballs erupted from the earth to consume it. Seconds before the explosives detonated, Sophie had removed a large block of them and tossed them down the tunnel before attempting to remove the fuzes in the remaining material. The diminished blast did little more than crack the foundation of a fountain behind the mosque. The Haram’s Palestinian caretakers initially took little note, believing the explosion came from another part of Jerusalem.

Inside the quarry, Sam Levine had been fast to act. Police and paramedics arrived quickly, treating Dirk while removing Sophie’s body to the morgue. Shin Bet security agents were equally prompt. The quarry was thoroughly searched, and the remaining explosives carefully secured and removed. The entire complex was then sealed off before the proprietors of Haram ash-Sharif even realized what had happened.

News of the attempted attack quickly spread through Jerusalem, creating an uproar. Local Muslims decried the assault, while the city’s Jews were horrified at the potential desecration of the Temple Mount. Each faction blamed the other, and tempers soared on all sides. Publicly defensive while privately tightening security around the city, the Israeli government quietly brought Jerusalem’s Muslim leaders to the quarry, where they jointly agreed to permanently barricade the site against future intrusion.

Anger in the street remained high, but outbursts were remarkably few, and violence was averted. Within days, the tensions abated, as no one stepped forward to claim responsibility for the attacks, while the real bombers disappeared without a trace.

51

General Braxton read the CIA report without uttering a word. Only a sporadic twitching of the National Intelligence Director’s mustache revealed a hint of emotion. Across his desk, intelligence officer O’Quinn and an Israeli CIA specialist sat silently staring at their shoes. They quickly sat upright when they observed Braxton remove a pair of granny-style reading glasses from the tip of his nose.

“So let me see here,” the general said in his gravelly voice. “Some nuts nearly blow up half of Jerusalem, and neither Mossad nor Shin Bet have a clue who did it? Is that the truth or is that just what the Israelis are telling us?”

“The Israelis clearly lack confidence in the investigation,” the CIA man replied. “They believe a Lebanese weapons- and drug-smuggling ring known as the Mules are at least partially responsible. The Mules have known ties to Hezbollah, so it’s possible they targeted Jerusalem in retaliation for Israel’s continued problems in Gaza. The American involved in the incident identified one of the bombers as being involved in a recent terrorist incident at an archaeological dig in Caesarea.”

“Is the American one of our agents?” Braxton asked.

“No, he’s a marine engineer with NUMA. He’s recovering from minor injuries at an Israeli Army hospital in Haifa.”

“A marine engineer? What in blazes was he doing in Jerusalem?”

“Apparently he was romantically involved with the antiquities agent who was killed in the blast. He happened to accompany her on a routine stakeout and got caught up in the fray. A good thing, it turned out, as he was the one who prevented the main cache of explosives from detonating beneath the Dome of the Rock.”

“Sir, we really dodged a bullet on that one,” O’Quinn said. “There were enough explosives there to easily level the entire Dome structure, let alone a good chunk of the Old City. It would have ignited regional animosity like nothing we’ve seen. I’m certain that missiles would be flying over Israel today had the shrine been taken out.”

Braxton grunted, boring his eyes into O’Quinn. “Since we’re on the topic of explosives, I see you have some unsavory homegrown connections to add to the mix.”

“We obtained a sample of the unexploded ordnance from the Israelis and confirmed in lab testing that it is in fact HMX. It was produced by a domestic manufacturer under contract with the U.S. Army,” O’Quinn reported soberly.

“It’s our own bloody explosives?” the general thundered.

“I’m afraid so. We’ve done some digging, and it appears that the Jerusalem sample matches up with a shipment of high-grade HMX that was secretly sold to Pakistan for use in their nuclear weapons program back in the early nineties. The Pakistanis have since confirmed that a container of HMX went missing a short time thereafter. Black market operatives in the military are believed to have sold it to buyers outside the country, but no evidence of its use has emerged until this year.”

“An entire container of HMX. Unbelievable,” Braxton said.

“The container would have housed approximately eight thousand pounds of the high explosive. It accounts for significant destructive power.”

The general closed his eyes and shook his head. “I presume this attack is connected to the other recent mosque bombings?” he asked without opening his eyes.

“We know that the al-Azhar Mosque in Cairo and the Yeşil Mosque in Bursa were both hit with HMX. In both cases, nobody claimed responsibility for the attacks. And no evidence was found linking the blasts to any local factions. We appear to have a similar set of circumstances in Jerusalem.”

“What of this dead Palestinian who was found in the graveyard?”

“He was a low-level artifact hunter with no known terrorist associations,” the CIA man responded. “He may have had some involvement with the discovery of the quarry, but he is not believed to have been a player in the actual attack.”

“Which takes us to the still unanswered questions of who and why.”

O’Quinn gave the general a pained look. “Nobody has claimed responsibility for any of the attacks, and I’m afraid we just don’t have a firm trail,” he said. “As Joe can verify, the intelligence agencies are looking at suspects across the board, from fringe Christian and Jewish sects to al-Qaeda and other Muslim fanatic groups. We’re reliant on the foreign intelligence agencies, and they don’t have any strong connections at this point.”

The CIA man nodded. “General, the targets have all been sites of theological importance in the Sunni Muslim world. We think there’s a strong possibility that the attacks are originating from a Shia source. The possible Hezbollah link in the Jerusalem attack furthers the theory. I have to tell you, there is a growing contingency within the agency that believes it’s the Iranians, trying to divert attention from their weapons program.”

“It’s a viable motivation,” Braxton agreed, “but they’d certainly be playing with fire if they got caught with dirty hands.”

O’Quinn quietly shook his head.

“I have to disagree, sir,” he said. “These bombings don’t have the earmark of the Iranians. It would certainly represent a new level of external extremism that we haven’t seen before.”

“You’re not giving me much else to go on, O’Quinn,” the general growled. “What about that Turk, Mufti Battal, that you were excited about?”

“He’s entered the presidential race, as we feared. He and his party would certainly benefit from any outrage in the fundamentalist community that these bombings may incite. It raises the point that these attacks may be linked to specific political goals rather than general terrorist tactics. As for Battal, we’re monitoring his activities closely, but we’ve yet to witness any pattern of coercive tactics so far. We certainly have no hard proof of a link, at this point.”

“So you’ve got nothing there. Perhaps the question you boys need to be thinking about is where they intend to strike next.”

“The targets have clearly been growing in significance,” O’Quinn said.

“And they’ve been denied in their latest outing, which ought to scare us all, in what they might be planning next.”

“The Kaaba in Mecca might be a possible target. I’ll see to it that the Saudis are advised to increase security,” O’Quinn said.

“We’ve got analysts working overtime on the matter,” the CIA man added. In the true Washington vernacular of helplessness, he added, “We’re doing everything we can.”

Braxton brushed off the comment with a glare. “Let me tell you what to do,” Braxton said, leaning forward over his desk while eyeballing both intelligence men with ire. “It’s really a simple exercise to put a stop to this. All you have to do,” he said, his voice rising to a fever pitch, “is find me the rest of those explosives!”

52

The Ottoman Star eased into the cove north of the Dardanelles late in the afternoon, docking at the long pier that now stood empty. Beneath the adjacent rippled waters, the sunken workboat still sat on the sandy bottom, waiting for the shore crane and a dive crew to raise it from the depths.

Standing on the ship’s bridge, Maria was surprised to note her brother’s Jaguar parked on the dock. Celik watched as the ship approached the pier, then emerged from the Jaguar’s backseat as the mooring lines were secured. He briskly stepped down the quay with an attaché case tucked under his arm and boarded the ship.

“I wasn’t expecting you to meet me here, Ozden,” Maria said by way of a greeting.

“Time is short,” he replied, gazing about the bridge with an agitated expression. The captain and helmsman caught his drift and quickly stepped off the bridge, leaving Celik alone with his sister.

“I heard that the police searched the facilities after we departed,” Maria said. “Is it not dangerous for you to be here?”

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

Abel 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

“Ridley, 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?”

“I purchased these artifacts many years ago. And for many years, I have thought about the rumor of the Manifest. Is it true? Could the cargo possibly exist? Then, one night, I had a dream. I dreamt that I was holding the Manifest in my hands, much like I held your copy today. And, in my mind, I see Roman weapons and artifacts around me. But not just any artifacts. I see these artifacts,” he said, pointing to the pictures.

“We often dream the reality we seek,” Bannister said. “You really think there is a connection between the Manifest and these Roman relics? Couldn’t they have come from any sea engagement?”

“Not just any sea engagement would involve the Scholae Palatinae . You see, they were the successors to the Praetorian Guard, who were wiped out by Constantine at the Battle of Milvian Bridge, when he routed Maxentius and consolidated the empire. No, it’s clear to me that the Cypriot vessel tangled with a galley of imperial decree.”

“Does the vessel itself date to the proper era?”

Gutzman smiled again. “The vessel, as well as the armaments and artifacts, all consistently date to approximately 330 A.D. Then there is this,” he said, pointing to a weathered Roman shield in one of the photographs.

Bannister had missed it in his first viewing, but now noticed the shield beside the spear tips, featuring a faded Chi-Rho cross across its center.

“The cross of Constantine,” Bannister muttered.

“Not only that but the papyrus from Caesarea adds weight to the theory,” Gutzman said. “The dream is real, Ridley. If your Manifest is true, then I have already heard the voice of Helena through my own artifacts.”

Bannister’s eyes lit up with intrigue at the possibility of it all.

“Tell me, Oscar,” he asked pointedly, “where was the shipwreck discovered?”

“The vessel was found near the village of Pissouri, on the southern coast of Cyprus. Perhaps it is not impossible that the actual cargo of the Manifest is buried in the vicinity?” he speculated with raised brows. “Now, that would be a gift from the heavens, would it not, Ridley?”

“Indeed,” the archaeologist said, the wheels turning in his head. “It would be a discovery for the ages.”

“But, alas, we are jumping the gun. I must examine the Manifest first and see if it is indeed authentic. You tell your London friend I’m willing to pay a hundred thousand pounds for it. But I will require the carbon dating and a personal examination first,” he said, rising to his feet.

“A hundred thousand pounds?” Bannister replied, his voice the one now rasping.

“Yes, and not a penny more.”

The old collector patted Bannister on the shoulder. “Thank you for coming to me first, Ridley. I believe that we are on the path to glorious things here.”

Bannister could only nod in disappointment as he walked to the door. After he was safely down the elevator, Gutzman walked back to the living area and approached Alfar.

“You listened to our conversation?” the Fat Man asked.

“Yes, Mr. Oscar. Every word,” the Arab replied in a course accent. “But I do not understand why you do not buy this Manifest.”

“Very simple, Alfar. I am quite certain that it is Bannister who possesses the Manifest, not some London broker. He is trying to bilk me mightily for it and he yet might succeed.”

“Then why tell him about your Roman artifacts?”

“To plant the seed. You see, he has a gift for discovery. He now leaves here disillusioned about selling the Manifest but also bewildered, as am I, about the possibility that the artifacts actually exist. I am certain that his ego will drive him there immediately. It may be a fool’s gamble, but why not try? Bannister is resourceful and lucky. If it can be found, then he is the man to do it. So why not let him find it for us?”

“You are a smart man, Mr. Oscar. But how will you control Bannister?”

“I want you to contact Zakkar. Tell him I have a simple surveillance job for him, one that will pay very well.”

“He left word that he does not want to set foot in Israel for several months, if possible.”

“Feeling the heat, is he?” Gutzman said with a chuckle. “No matter. You tell him not to worry, the job won’t be in Israel. It’s Cyprus where he’ll have to earn his pay.”

55

Hammet winced under the glare of the bright fluorescent lights that welcomed his first efforts at opening his eyes. The discomfort was nothing in comparison to the searing pain that throbbed from the back of his head. Forcing his lids open once more, he fought to identify where he was. The first answer was: Flat on his back, staring into a bank of overhead lights.

“Captain, how are you feeling?” came the familiar voice of the Dayan ’s executive officer.

“Like I was leveled by a locomotive,” Hammet replied, raising his head to take in his surroundings.

As his vision cleared, he could see he was lying on a dining table in the ship’s mess, a stack of linen napkins serving as a makeshift pillow beneath his head. Members of his crew circled around him, concern and fear evident in their faces. Suddenly feeling self-conscious at his position, he raised himself to his elbows and slid off the table, the executive officer helping him slump into a chair. Overcoming a wave of nausea, he peered at the exec and nodded in thanks.

For the first time, he noticed that the executive officer wore a bloodied bandage around his head and that his skin was two shades paler than normal.

“I feared you were dead,” Hammet said.

“Lost a bit of blood, but I’ll manage. You had us more worried, as you slept the night away.”

The tanker captain gazed toward a nearby porthole, seeing the rays of the early-morning sun streaming in. He suddenly realized that the ship’s engine was silent and that the ship was obviously moored in place. A few feet along the bulkhead, he was startled to see a pair of black-clad men sitting on either side of the entry door. They cradled automatic rifles on their laps while staring back at him with menacing glares.

“How’d they get aboard?” Hammet asked quietly.

“Not sure,” the exec replied. “Must have been by small boat from that freighter. A group of armed men burst onto the bridge before we knew what was happening.”

“Did you get off a distress call?”

The exec shook his head grimly. “No time.”

Hammet took a headcount of his crew seated around him, noticing his third officer was absent.

“Where’s Cook?”

“He was taken to the bridge early on. My guess is, they had him piloting the ship.”

A short time later, the door to the mess was thrown open, and the third officer brusquely shoved inside by another gunman. Sporting a large bruise on his cheek, the young officer stepped to the table and approached Hammet.

“Glad to see you’re okay, Captain,” he said.

“What can you report?” Hammet asked.

“Sir, they had me pilot the ship at gunpoint. We tracked north at full speed all night, following a black freighter named the Ottoman Star . At around dawn, we docked alongside her in a small protected cove. We’re still in Turkish waters, about ten miles north of the Dardanelles.”

“Any idea who these people are?”

“No, sir. They spoke Turkish but made no demands. Can’t imagine why someone would hijack an empty water tanker.”

Hammet nodded in response, quietly wondering the same thing.

The Israeli tanker crew was held aboard the ship for another twenty-four hours, given access to the galley but little else. Several times Hammet approached the guards with questions or requests but each time was silently rebuked with the muzzle of a gun. Throughout the day and night, they could hear the sound of workers and machinery echoing from the forward deck. Sneaking a peek out the porthole, Hammet could glimpse a crane swinging crates from the freighter to the tanker.

They were finally taken off the ship late in the day when some additional guards arrived and they were ordered to help load the ship. Marched down the pier, Hammet was shocked to see what had been done to his vessel. The assailants had cut away a pair of huge holes in the forward deck. The tanker’s twin forward storage tanks, which each held 150,000 gallons of water, were now exposed like a half-open can of sardines. The captain could see that the crates he had witnessed being off-loaded from the freighter now lined the perimeter bulkheads of each exposed tank.

“The idiots have converted our tanker to a cargo carrier,” he cursed as they were led ashore.

His dismay only grew when the crew was marched into the south warehouse and directed to transport the small boxes of plastic explosives from the Army container. They were guided back to the tanker, where they deposited the explosives in the center of the two open tanks. Hammet took a second to study the crates already loaded aboard, seeing they were filled with fifty-pound bags marked “Ammonium Nitrate Fuel Oil.”

“They mean to blow up the ship,” he whispered to his exec as they were marched back for a second load of HMX.

“With us in it, I imagine,” the exec replied.

“One of us needs to try to slip away. We’ve got to find some help to stop this madness.”

“As the captain, you’ll be the first missed.”

“With that bloody head wrap, you wouldn’t be far behind,” Hammet said.

“I’ll try,” came a voice from behind them. It was the tanker’s helmsman, a diminutive man named Green.

“It’s dark in the warehouse, Green,” Hammet said. “See if you can get lost in the shadows.”

But the guards were poised to prevent an escape and ordered Green back in line every time he lingered or tried to drift away from the others. Reluctantly, he joined the line of explosives haulers.

The crew continued their forced labor until the explosives in the container dwindled. Hammet curiously noted a dark-eyed woman in a jumpsuit monitoring their progress from the tanker’s deck before taking a position up on the bridge. As they returned to the warehouse for what he knew would be the last load, Hammet turned to his helmsman.

“Try to stay behind in the container,” he whispered.

The captain passed the word for his entire crew to quickly crowd into the container before a guard yelled at them to slow down. But it gave Green the chance to slip to the back of the container. He quickly climbed to the top shelf, then stretched against the side of the wall, his bantam body barely visible from below. Hammet let the other crewmen carry out the last of the explosives, then walked out of the container with his palms up.

“No more,” he said to the nearest guard, then followed the others across the warehouse.

Stepping quickly, he couldn’t help craning his neck as the guard walked over and peeked into the container. Satisfied that it was empty, the guard turned and slammed the door shut. Hammet turned away, holding his breath as he prayed for silence. But his hopes vanished with the sound of the dead bolt sliding closed with a sickening thud that Hammet felt all the way down to his toes.

56

The tires of the commuter plane kicked up a cloud of dust as they touched down on the dry runway of Çanakkale Airport a short distance southeast of the Dardanelles. The plane turned toward its designated terminal, slowly pulling to a stop as its twin propellers fell quiet. Summer watched from behind a barricade as her brother stepped off the plane with the last passengers. He walked with a slight limp and sported a few small bandages but otherwise appeared healthy. But as he stepped closer, she could see that he carried the worst of his wounds internally.

“Still in one piece, I see,” she said, giving him a hug. “Welcome to Turkey.”

“Thanks,” he replied in a low voice.

Gone was his usual positive energy and upbeat disposition. Even his eyes seemed darker, Summer thought. Not sad and mournful, as she might have expected, but cold and almost angry. It was a look she had never seen in her brother before. Gently grabbing his arm, she led him toward the baggage claim.

“We read the news about the attack on the Dome of the Rock, never imagining you were involved,” she said quietly. “Then Dad heard through the grapevine that you were there and had prevented the explosion.”

“I only stopped one of the charges from going off,” he said bitterly. “The Israeli security forces kept me out of the news while they patched me up at an Army hospital. I guess they didn’t want the presence of an American to muddy up the local politics.”

“Thank goodness, you weren’t severely injured.” She paused and looked at him with concern. “I’m sorry to hear about your Israeli friend.”

Dirk nodded but said nothing. They soon reached the baggage claim and found his luggage. Making their way to a small borrowed van in the parking lot, Summer said, “We’ve got one more pickup to make.”

Driving to the opposite end of the airport, she found a dilapidated warehouse building marked “Air Cargo.” Requesting a pickup for NUMA, she was handed a pair of overnight packages, and then two men wheeled out a small crate and loaded it into the rear of the van.

“What’s in the crate?” Dirk asked as they pulled away.

“A replacement inflatable boat. The Aegean Explorer lost two of her dinghies during a melee over a shipwreck.”

Summer filled Dirk in on what she knew about the discovery of the Ottoman wreck, the death of the two NUMA scientists, and the abduction of Zeibig.

“The Turks haven’t busted the guys in the yacht?” Dirk asked.

Summer shook her head. “Dad’s pretty livid over the response from the local authorities. The Explorer was impounded for a few days and blamed for the deaths of Tang and Iverson.”

“Justice rules for those with power. That’s tough news about Tang and Iverson. I’ve worked with them on other projects. Both good men,” he said, his voice trailing away as the discussion of death directed his thoughts to Sophie.

“On top of that, the algae bloom survey has fallen to pieces. Our Turkish environmental representative, who is required to be on board, is absent with some kind of family need. Meanwhile, Rudi and Al have been having trouble with the new AUV.” She wanted to add that Dirk’s arrival would help cheer everybody up, but she knew that wouldn’t be the case in his current condition.

Summer drove to Çanakkale’s commercial docks and located the Aegean Explorer moored beside some large fishing boats. She led her brother aboard and to the ship’s wardroom, where Pitt, Gunn, and Giordino were discussing their sailing schedule with Captain Kenfield. They warmly greeted the younger Pitt as he entered with his sister.

“Didn’t your father teach you not to play with explosives?” Giordino joked, pumping Dirk’s hand with a crushing grip.

Dirk forced a smile, then hugged his dad before sitting down at the table. “Summer tells me you’ve found an Ottoman shipwreck,” he said. The tone in his voice made it clear his focus was elsewhere.

“One that’s caused us a lot of trouble,” Pitt replied. “She dates to around 1570, and came with some unusual Roman artifacts aboard.”

“Unfortunately, all that’s left of those artifacts is some photographs,” Gunn added ruefully.

“Of course, it all pales in comparison to Summer’s discovery,” Pitt said.

Dirk turned toward his sister. “What was that?” he asked.

“You mean she didn’t tell you?” Giordino said.

Summer gave Dirk a sheepish look. “We ran out of time, I guess.”

“Such modesty,” Gunn said, rifling through a stack of papers on the table. “Here, I made a copy from Summer’s original,” he said, handing a sheet of paper to Dirk

He held up the page and studied it carefully:

“This is for real?” Dirk asked.

“The original is written on papyrus. I saw it briefly,” Summer replied with a shake of her head, “so I know it exists. This was a translation performed by a well-known Cambridge archaeologist and etymologist in 1915.”

“It’s incredible,” Dirk said, his attention fully grabbed by the document. “All of these items personally related to Jesus. They must have been collected by the Romans after his death and destroyed.”

“No, far from it,” Summer said. “They were obtained by Helena, mother of Constantine the Great, in 327 A.D. The items on the Manifest were sacred, and likely sent to Constantine to celebrate the Roman Empire’s conversion to Christianity.”

“I still can’t believe you found it in England, of all places,” Gunn said finally.

“All on account of our dive on HMS Hampshire ,” Summer explained. “Field Marshal Kitchener apparently obtained the papyrus document while conducting a survey of Palestine in the 1870s. Its meaning apparently wasn’t understood until the translation was made decades later. Julie Goodyear, the authority on Kitchener who helped locate the Manifest, thinks that the Church of England may possibly have killed Kitchener because of it.”

“I guess you could understand their fears,” Giordino stated. “Finding an ossuary with Jesus’ bones in it would certainly kick over a few apple carts.”

“It’s an interesting connection to the Roman artifacts we found on the Ottoman wreck, which also date to the time of Constantine and Helena,” Gunn noted.

“So these Jesus artifacts were placed on a Roman ship leaving Caesarea?” Dirk asked.

Summer nodded. “Helena is known to have made a pilgrimage to Jerusalem, where she claimed to have discovered the True Cross. Fragments of the cross reside in churches all over Europe today. A common tale relates how the nails from the cross were melted down and incorporated into a helmet and bridle for Constantine. So Helena and the cross apparently made it safely to Byzantium. There is no mention of these items, however,” she added, pointing to the list. “They must have been shipped separately and were apparently lost to history ages ago. Can you just imagine the impact if we could have seen a contemporary image of Jesus?”

The room fell silent as everyone’s imagination conjured up a visual image of Christianity’s namesake. Everyone, that is, except Dirk. His eyes remained focused on the bottom of the Manifest.

“Caesarea,” he said. “It indicates that the shipment left Caesarea under the guard of Roman legionaries.”

“That’s just where you were working, isn’t it?” his father asked.

Dirk nodded.

“They didn’t happen to leave a sailing plan lying around etched in stone, did they?” Giordino asked.

“No, but we were fortunate in uncovering a number of papyrus documents from that era. The most interesting of them described the capture and execution of some Cypriot pirates. What was interesting was that the pirates had apparently battled a legionary force at sea sometime before they were captured. Dr. Haasis, whom I worked with at Caesarea, said the Roman legionaries were part of some group called the Scholae Palatinae , led by a centurion named Platus, as I recall.”

Gunn nearly fell out of his chair.

“What… what did you say his name was?” he stammered.

“Platus, or perhaps it was Platius.”

“Plautius?” Gunn asked.

“Yes, that was it. How did you know?”

“That was the name on my marker, er, the marker that was found on the wreck site. It was a memorial to Plautius, who apparently died in a sea battle.”

“But you don’t have any clue where the marker came from?” Dirk asked.

Gunn shook his head as Zeibig’s face suddenly brightened.

“Dirk, you said the pirates were from Cyprus?” he asked.

“That’s what the papyrus record indicated.”

Zeibig rifled through some papers, pulling out a page of research data.

“The Roman Senator inscribed on the gold crown, Artrius? Dr. Ruppé sent some historical research which indicated that he served as Governor of Cyprus for a short while.”

A thin smile crossed Pitt’s face. “Cyprus, that’s the clue we’ve been missing. If the Cypriot historical records are intact, I’ll bet you’ll find that Traianus, the name on the monolith, was also on Cyprus. Perhaps he even reported to Governor Artrius.”

“Sure,” Giordino agreed. “Traianus was probably ordered by the Governor to erect a memorial after the gold crown arrived in the mail.”

“But what was the Roman crown and marker doing on an Ottoman wreck?” Dirk asked.

“I think I have a theory about that,” Zeibig said. “As I recall, Cyprus historically remained under Venetian rule long after the fall of the Roman Empire. But the Ottomans came around and successfully invaded the island around 1570, which just happens to be the approximate date of our shipwreck. I’d speculate that the gold crown and stone tablet were simply antiquarian spoils of war that were being shipped back to the sitting Sultan in Constantinople.”

“We can assume from the Manifest that Plautius was assigned to transport the religious relics on behalf of Helena,” Gunn said. “The stele from the wreck, along with Dirk’s papyrus discovery, confirms that he lost his life fighting pirates off of Cyprus. Is it possible that the events all occurred on the same voyage?”

“I would wager that members of this Scholae Palatinae , like the Praetorian Guard, would not be far from the Emperor’s seat of power except in unusual circumstances,” Pitt said.

“Such as guarding his mother while she traveled to Jerusalem,” Summer said.

“Which would explain the gold crown,” Giordino said. “It may well have been awarded to Artrius while he was Governor of Cyprus, sent from Constantine in appreciation for capturing the pirates who killed Plautius.”

“The same pirates that stole the relics?” Gunn asked. “That’s the real question. Who ended up with the relics?”

“I performed a cursory historical search on the Manifest items,” Summer said. “While there are claimed fragments of the True Cross located in dozens of churches across Europe, I could find no substantive record of any of the items on the Manifest being exhibited today or in the past.”

“So they disappeared with Plautius,” Gunn said.

“The record at Caesarea stated that the pirates were captured and brought to port on their own ship,” Dirk stated. “The vessel’s decks were bloodied, and a number of Roman weapons were found aboard. While they had apparently battled Plautius, it wasn’t clear what became of his ship. Or the relics, for that matter.”

“Which probably means that the Roman galley of Plautius was sunk,” Pitt said.

The others in the room noticeably perked up at the notion, knowing that if one man could find an important shipwreck, it was the lean fellow with the green eyes sitting in front of them.

“Dad, could we try to look for it after the completion of the Turkish project?” Summer asked.

“That may be sooner than you think,” Gunn said.

Summer turned and gave him a puzzled look.

“The Turkish Environment Ministry informed us that they have discovered a significant amount of waste dumping by a large chemical plant in Çiftlik, a town near Chios,” Pitt explained. “Rudi looked at the currents, and there seems to be a strong correlation with the dead zone we were mapping in the vicinity of the Ottoman wreck.”

“Better than a ninety-five percent probability,” Gunn confirmed. “The Turks have kindly asked us to come back in a year and do some sample testing, but at this point we no longer need to extend any of our survey work.”

“Does that mean we go back to the Ottoman wreck?” Summer asked.

“Dr. Ruppé is organizing a formal excavation under the auspices of the Istanbul Archaeology Museum,” Pitt said. “Until he has the necessary approvals from the Cultural Ministry, he has suggested that we avoid any further work on the site.”

“So we can try for the Roman galley?” Summer asked excitedly.

“We’re on the hook for assessing a small region just south of here,” Pitt said. “We should be able to complete the work in two or three days. Providing, that is, that our AUV is operational,” he said, shooting Gunn a sideways glance.

“That reminds me,” Summer said. “I’ve got your spare parts.”

She tossed the two overnight packages to Gunn, who quickly tore the seal off the first one and looked inside.

“Our replacement circuit board,” he replied happily. “That should get us back in the water.”

He looked at the other package, then slid it over to Pitt.

“This one’s addressed to you, boss.”

Pitt nodded, then looked around the table. “If we’ve got an operational AUV again, then let’s go finish up our Turkey survey project,” he said with a wry grin, “because it’s a long voyage to Cyprus.”

An hour later, the Aegean Explorer gently shoved off from the Çanakkale dock. Pitt and Giordino watched from the bridge as Captain Kenfield guided the vessel out the mouth of the Dardanelles, then south along the Turkish coastline. Once the Explorer was safely clear of the busy strait, Pitt sat down and opened the overnight package.

“Cookies from home?” Giordino asked, taking a seat across from Pitt.

“Not quite. I had Hiram do some digging on the Ottoman Star and the Sultana .”

“Hiram” referred to Hiram Yaeger, NUMA’s head of computer resources. From the NUMA headquarters building in Washington, Yaeger managed a sophisticated computer center that tracked detailed oceanographic and weather data around the globe. A skilled computer hacker, Yaeger had a nose for uncovering secrets, and didn’t mind utilizing both authorized and unauthorized data sources when the need arose.

“Two vessels that I’d like to find at the bottom of the sea,” Giordino said. “Was Yaeger able to find anything?”

“It appears so,” Pitt replied, perusing several pages of documents. “Both vessels are apparently registered in Liberia, under a shell company. Yaeger was able to trace ownership to a private Turkish entity called Anatolia Exports, the same outfit the police mentioned. The company has a lengthy history of shipping Turkish textiles and other goods to trading partners throughout the Mediterranean. It owns a warehouse and office building in Istanbul, as well as a shipping facility on the coast near the town of Kirte.”

“Ah yes, I know the latter quite well,” Giordino said with a smirk. “So who runs this outfit?”

“Ownership records cite a couple named Ozden Celik and Maria Celik.”

“Don’t tell me… They drive a Jaguar and like to run over people with boats.”

Pitt passed over a photo of Celik that Yaeger had gleaned from a Turkish trade association conference. Then he shared a number of satellite photos of the Celiks’ properties.

“That’s our boy,” Giordino said, examining the first photo. “What else do we know about him and his wife?”

“Maria is actually his sister. And data is somewhat scarce. Yaeger indicates that the Celiks are secretive types who keep a very low profile. He says he had to do some real digging to find any juice.”

“And did he?”

“Listen to this. A genealogical trace puts both Celiks as greatgrandchildren of Mehmed VI.”

Giordino shook his head. “Afraid I don’t know the name.”

“Mehmed VI was the last ruling Sultan of the Ottoman Empire. He and his clan were kicked off the throne and out of the country when Atatürk swept into power in 1923.”

“And now the poor boy has nothing to show for it but a mangy old freighter. No wonder he has a chip on his shoulder.”

“He apparently has a lot more than that,” Pitt said. “Yaeger believes the pair may be among the richest people in the country.”

“I guess some of that explains the fanaticism over the Ottoman shipwreck.”

“And the brashness of the Topkapi theft. Though there might have been another motivation.”

“Such as?”

“Yaeger found a possible financial link to an Istanbul marketing organization. The organization is helping promote the candidacy of Mufti Battal in the upcoming presidential election.”

Pitt set down the page he was reading. “Rey Ruppé in Istanbul told us about this Mufti. He has a large fundamentalist following and is viewed as a dangerous power in some circles.”

“Never hurts to have friends with deep pockets. I wonder what’s in it for Celik?”

“A question that might have an illuminating answer,” Pitt said.

He set down the last of the report and pondered the wealthy Turk and his savage sister while Giordino took a look at the satellite photos.

“I see the Ottoman Star has returned to home port,” Giordino said. “I wonder what a Greek tanker is doing alongside her.”

He slid the photo across the table for Pitt to examine. Pitt took a look at the high overhead shot of the now-familiar cove, spotting the freighter at the dock. On the opposite side of the dock was a small tanker ship, its blue-and-white flag barely visible atop its mast. The flag caught his eye, and Pitt studied it a moment before grabbing a magnifying glass from behind the chart table.

“That’s not a Greek flag,” he said. “The tanker is from Israel.”

“News to me that Israel has its own tanker fleet,” Giordino said.

“Did you say something about an Israeli tanker?” Captain Kenfield asked, overhearing the conversation from across the bridge.

“Al found one parked in the cove of our Turkish friends,” Pitt said.

Kenfield’s face turned pale. “While we were in port, there was an alert making the rounds about an Israeli tanker that went missing off the coast near Manavgat. It’s actually a water tanker.”

“I recall seeing one a few weeks back,” Pitt remarked. “What’s the size of the missing ship?”

“The ship was named the Dayan , I believe,” he said, stepping to a computer and performing a quick search. “She’s eight hundred gross tons and three hundred ten feet long.”

He turned the computer monitor toward Pitt and Giordino so that they could see a photograph of the ship. It was a dead match.

“The photos are less than twenty-four hours old,” Giordino said, noting a date stamp on the image.

“Captain, how’s your secure satellite phone working?” Pitt asked.

“Fully operational. Do you want to make a call?”

“Yes,” Pitt replied. “I think it’s time we call Washington.”

57

“O’Quinn, good of you to come by. Please, step inside and grab a seat.”

The intelligence officer was startled that the Vice President of the United States greeted him in the second-floor foyer of the Eisenhower Executive Office Building and personally showed him into his office. Washington protocol surely dictated that a secretary or aide escort a lesser being into the sanctified lair of the Number Two. But James Sandecker was that rare breed who had little use for such pageantry.

A retired Navy admiral, Sandecker had been responsible for founding the National Underwater and Marine Agency decades earlier and building it into a powerhouse oceanographic unit. He surprised everyone by passing the reins to Pitt and accepting a vice presidential appointment, where he hoped to further the cause of protecting the world’s oceans. A small but fiery individual with flaming red hair and goatee, Sandecker was known in the capital as a blunt and outspoken man who was nevertheless highly respected. O’Quinn had often been amused during intelligence briefings to see how quickly the Vice President could dissect an issue, or individual, in order to get to the heart of the matter.

Stepping into the large office, O’Quinn admired a collection of antique oil paintings, featuring old ships and racing yachts, which lined the paneled walls. He followed Sandecker to his desk and took a seat opposite of him.

“Do you miss the sea much, Mr. Vice President?”

“There’s no shortage of days that I’d prefer to be sailing something other than a desk,” Sandecker replied, reaching into a drawer and jamming a large cigar between his teeth. “Are you monitoring events in Turkey?” he asked pointedly.

“Yes, sir. That’s part of my regional assignment.”

“What do you know about a nutcase named Ozden Celik?”

O’Quinn had to think a moment. “He’s a Turkish businessman who’s been associated with members of the Saudi Royal Family. We think he might be involved in helping to finance the fundamentalist Felicity Party of Mufti Battal. Why do you ask?”

“He’s apparently been up to a few other things. You’re aware of the Israeli tanker ship that went missing two days ago?”

O’Quinn nodded, recalling mention of the incident in a daily briefing report.

“The vessel has been observed at a small shipping facility controlled by Celik a few miles north of the Dardanelles. I have reliable word that this Celik was behind the recent theft of Muslim artifacts at Topkapi.” Sandecker slid a satellite photo of the tanker across his desk.

“Topkapi?” O’Quinn repeated, his brows rising like a pair of drawbridges. “We believe there may be a link between the Topkapi theft and the recent mosque attacks at al-Azhar and the Dome of the Rock in Jerusalem.”

“The President is aware of that possibility.”

O’Quinn studied the satellite photograph.

“If I may ask, sir, how did you acquire this information?”

“Dirk Pitt at NUMA. Two of his scientists were killed by Celik’s men and a third kidnapped and taken to the same facility,” Sandecker replied, pointing to the photo. “Pitt got his man out, and he discovered a container of plastic explosives at the facility. An Army supply of HMX, to be exact.”

“HMX is the explosive compound identified from the mosque bombings,” O’Quinn said excitedly.

“Yes, I recall that from your presidential briefing.”

“Celik must be acting on behalf of Mufti Battal. It’s clear to me that the anonymous mosque attacks, utilizing our explosives, are an attempt to incite fundamentalist outrage across the Middle East, and particularly in Turkey. Their goal must be to sway public opinion in order to sweep Battal into office.”

“It’s a logical motive. That’s why this hijacked Israeli tanker is cause for concern.”

“Have we contacted the Turkish government?”

“No,” Sandecker replied with a shake of his head. “The President is worried that any action on our part could be construed as American meddling in the election outcome. Frankly, we don’t know how deep Battal’s tentacles may reach into the existing government. The stakes are simply too high, and the race too close, to risk a potential backlash that might throw the election to his party.”

“But our analysts tell us that the Mufti stands an even chance of winning anyway.”

“The President understands that, but he nevertheless has ordered absolutely no U.S. involvement until after the election.”

“There are backdoor channels we could use,” O’Quinn protested.

“It’s already been deemed too risky.”

Sandecker pulled the cigar from his teeth and examined the chewed end. “It’s the President’s mandate, O’Quinn, not mine.”

“But we can’t simply look the other way.”

“That’s why I called you here. You have intelligence contacts in the Mossad, I presume?” he asked.

“Yes, of course,” O’Quinn nodded.

Sandecker leaned over his desk, his bright blue eyes boring into the intelligence officer.

“Then I would suggest that you consider calling them and telling them where their missing tanker is located.”

58

Rudi Gunn had completed repairs on the faulty AUV sensors by dusk, shortly before the Aegean Explorer reached its survey grid some twenty miles southeast of Çanakkale. The AUV was deployed, and the ship’s crew resumed their round-the-clock tracking schedule. By the time the midnight shift went on duty, the bridge had emptied to just the ship’s second officer and a helmsman.

The ship was cruising at a slow speed to the north when the helmsman suddenly gawked at the radar screen.

“Sir, a vessel has suddenly appeared off our port beam, less than a quarter mile off,” he stuttered excitedly. “I swear, she wasn’t there a minute ago.”

The bridge officer glanced at the radar scope, seeing a small amoeba of yellow light nearly merge with the center point, which represented the Aegean Explorer .

“Where on earth did she come from?” he blurted. “Right twenty degrees rudder,” he quickly ordered, fearful that the unknown vessel was on a perpendicular heading.

As the helmsman turned the ship’s wheel over, the officer stepped to the port bridge window and peered outside. The moon and stars were concealed by low clouds, draping the sea in darkness. Expecting to clearly view the lights of the nearby vessel, the officer was surprised to see only black.

“The fool doesn’t have her running lights on,” he said, searching the sea unsuccessfully for a shadow. “I’ll try her on the radio.”

“I wouldn’t advise that,” barked a crisp voice with the hint of a Hebrew accent.

The officer turned in shock to find two men dressed in dark camouflage entering the bridge from the starboard wing. The taller of the two men stepped forward, exposing a lean face blunted by a lantern jaw. The intruder stopped a few feet from the officer, leveling a light machine gun at his chest.

“Have your helmsman resume his course,” the commando said, a stern look from his dark eyes expressing his will. “There is no danger to your vessel.”

The officer reluctantly nodded to the helmsman. “Resume original heading,” he said. Turning to the commando, he stammered, “What are you doing on our ship?”

“I’m looking for a man named Pitt. Bring him to the bridge.”

“There is no one aboard by that name,” the officer lied.

The commando took a step closer.

“Then I will clear my men off and sink your vessel,” he threatened in a low voice.

The officer wondered if it was an idle threat. But a gaze into the battle-hardened eyes of the commando left no doubt that it was a possibility. Nodding sullenly, the officer relieved the helmsman at the wheel so he could retrieve Pitt. The second commando immediately fell in step behind the helmsman as he exited by a rear stairwell.

A few minutes later, Pitt was marched onto the bridge, a look of anger searing his drowsy eyes.

“Mr. Pitt? I am Lieutenant Lazlo, Israeli Navy Special Forces.”

“Excuse me if I don’t welcome you aboard, Lieutenant,” Pitt replied drily.

“My apologies for the intrusion, but we require your assistance on a sensitive mission. I have been assured that sources in your government at the highest level have approved your cooperation.”

“I see. If that is the case, then were the midnight theatrics really necessary?”

“We are operating in Turkish waters without authorization. It is essential that we maintain our secrecy.”

“Okay, Lieutenant, put down your guns and tell me what this is all about.”

The commando reluctantly lowered his weapon, indicating for his partner to follow suit.

“We have been ordered to effect the rescue of the crew of the Israeli tanker Dayan . It has been reported that you are familiar with the facility where the ship is being held.”

“Yes, the cove north of the Dardanelles. Is she still there?”

“Intelligence reports within the last ten hours confirm as much.”

“Why not use diplomatic channels to get their release?” Pitt asked, baiting the man.

“Your government has provided information that there may be a connection between the hijackers and the recent attack on the Dome of the Rock in Jerusalem. The report of an explosives stockpile at the facility has our intelligence specialists fearing another attack.”

Pitt nodded, understanding that pursuing Celik through official channels might entail a dangerous delay. The Turk was clearly up to no good, and Pitt would like nothing more than to put him out of business.

“Very well, Lieutenant, I’ll be happy to help.” He turned and faced the second officer. “Rogers, please inform the captain that I’ve left the ship. By the way, Lieutenant, how did you get aboard?”

“We have a small inflatable tied up off the starboard flank. Our departure will be made easier if your vessel can temporarily slow.”

Rogers obliged the request, then stood on the bridge wing and watched Pitt and several shadows slip over the rail and quietly vanish into the night. A few minutes later, the helmsman called him over to the radar scope.

“She’s disappeared,” the man said, gazing at the screen.

Rogers looked at the empty blue radar screen and nodded. Somewhere on the open sea, Pitt had disappeared from the surface along with the mystery vessel. It was, he fervently hoped, only a temporary vanishing act.

59

The Tekumah wasted no time returning to the stealthy depths. A Dolphin class submarine built at the HDW shipyards in Kiel, Germany, she was one of only a handful of subs operated by the Israeli Navy. Diesel-powered and relatively small in size, she was nevertheless packed with a sophisticated array of electronics and weaponry that made her a formidable underwater foe.

The inflatable had barely touched the side of her hull when waiting crewmen hoisted Pitt and the commandos onto the deck and hustled them down a hatch while the inflatable was stowed in a watertight compartment. Pitt had just taken a seat in the sub’s cramped officers’ mess when the dive command reverberated through the vessel.

Lazlo secured his weapons, then brought a pair of coffees to the table and sat down opposite Pitt. Reaching into a nearby folder, he laid out a satellite photo of Celik’s shipping facility, similar to the one Pitt had received from Yaeger.

“We’re going in with two small teams,” the Israeli explained. “One will search the tanker and the other the shore facilities. Can you tell me about the buildings?”

“Provided I can go in with you,” Pitt replied.

“I don’t have authorization for that.”

“Look, Lieutenant,” Pitt said, staring coldly at the commando. “I didn’t come along with you just to take a joyride on a submarine. Celik’s men killed two of my scientists and kidnapped a third. His sister abducted my wife at gunpoint. And sitting inside his compound is enough high-grade explosives to start World War Three. I understand that you want the Dayan ’s crewmen back, but there’s potentially a lot more at stake here.”

Lazlo sat silent for a moment. Pitt was not the man he expected to find aboard the research vessel. Far from being some nebbish egghead scientist, Pitt was all substance.

“Very well,” the commando replied quietly.

Pitt took the photo and carefully explained the layout of the two warehouses and the stone administrative building.

“Can you tell me about any security elements?” Lazlo asked.

“It’s a functioning port facility first, but we encountered a number of armed personnel. I suspect that they were mostly Celik’s personal security detail, but a number were probably assigned to the site. I would anticipate a small but heavily armed security presence. Lieutenant, are your men trained in demolitions?”

The commando smiled. “We are Shayetet 13. Demolitions are an important part of our training.”

Pitt had heard of the Israeli Special Forces unit, which was similar in function to the U.S. Navy SEALs. They were called the “Bat Men,” he recalled, on account of the batwing insignia they wore on their uniforms.

“Members of my government are very concerned about a container of HMX plastic explosives that we found sitting in this warehouse,” Pitt said, pointing to the photo.

Lazlo nodded. “Our mission orders are for rescue only, but the elimination of those explosives would be of mutual interest. If they are still there, we will take care of them,” he promised.

A short man in an officer’s uniform ducked into the mess and stared at the two men with a humorless face.

“Lazlo, we’ll be at the deployment zone in forty minutes.”

“Thank you, Captain. By the way, this is Dirk Pitt, from the American research vessel.”

“Welcome aboard, Mr. Pitt,” the captain replied without emotion. He quickly turned his attention back to Lazlo. “You’ll have approximately two hours of darkness to complete your mission. I’m warning you, I don’t want to be on the surface at daybreak.”

“Captain, I can make you a promise,” the commando replied with cool arrogance. “If we’re not back in ninety minutes, then you may sail without us.”

60

Lazlo would be wrong about the mission’s duration, but not in the manner that he expected.

Surfacing two miles northwest of the cove, the Tekumah quickly off-loaded its commando team for the second time that night. Dressed in nondescript black fatigues, Pitt joined the eight-man rescue team that climbed into a pair of inflatable boats and raced away from the sub. Stopping outside the entrance to the cove, the pilot of each boat shut off its outboard engine and resumed propulsion with a silent, battery-powered electric motor.

Gliding into the cove, Pitt took a disappointed look toward the pier, then whispered to Lazlo.

“She’s gone.”

The Israeli commando silently cursed as he saw that Pitt was right. Not only was the tanker gone but the entire pier was empty. The buildings on shore appeared dark and uninhabited as well.

“Alpha Team, revise landing to joint shore recon,” he radioed to the other boat. “Assigned target is the east warehouse.”

There was still a chance that the tanker crew was held captive ashore, but he knew it was false optimism. The success of any covert operation, he knew from years of experience, was always the quality of the intelligence. And this time, the intelligence appeared to have failed.

The two boats ran ashore simultaneously a few yards from the pier, their occupants scrambling ashore like silent ghosts. Pitt followed Lazlo’s squad as they approached the stone building and then stormed in with a fury. Watching from the front courtyard, Pitt could tell by sound that the building was deserted, like the rest of the port facility. He made his way toward the west warehouse, hearing the light steps of Lazlo approach as he reached the door.

“We haven’t cleared this building yet,” the Israeli whispered in a hard tone.

“It’s empty like the others,” Pitt said, flinging open the door and stepping inside.

Lazlo saw that Pitt’s words were true as he flicked on the interior lights, revealing a cavernous building that was empty save for a large metal container on the far side.

“Your explosives?” the commando asked.

Pitt nodded. “Let’s hope it’s still full.”

They stepped across the warehouse to the container, where Pitt slid the dead bolt free. Pulling on the handle, he was suddenly confronted by a lunging figure from inside who swung a piece of broken crate. Pitt managed to sidestep the blow, then turned to throw a punch. But before he could strike, the toe of Lazlo’s boot appeared out of nowhere, burying itself in the attacker’s stomach. The startled assailant gasped as he was lifted off his feet and slammed into the side of the container. He meekly dropped his makeshift weapon as the muzzle of Lazlo’s assault rifle was prodded into his cheek.

“Who are you?” Lazlo barked.

“My name is Levi Green. I am a seaman from the tanker Dayan . Please don’t shoot,” he pleaded.

“Fool,” Lazlo muttered, pulling away his rifle. “We are here to rescue you.”

“I… I’m sorry,” he said, turning to Pitt. “I thought you were a dockworker.”

“What are you doing in this container?” Pitt asked.

“We were forced to load its contents, boxes of explosives, on the Dayan . I hid in here in hopes of escaping, but they locked the door, and I was trapped.”

“Where are the other crewmen?” Lazlo asked.

“I don’t know. Back on the ship, I suppose.”

“The tanker is no longer here.”

“They modified the ship,” Green said, his eyes still wide with fear. “Cut open the forward tanks and filled them with bags of fuel oil. We were forced to place the boxed explosives inside.”

“What do you mean ‘bags’ of fuel oil?” Pitt asked.

“There were crates and crates of the stuff in fifty-pound bags. They were marked as some sort of fuel oil mixture. Ammonium something or other.”

“Ammonium nitrate?” Pitt asked.

“Yes, that was the stuff.”

Pitt turned to Lazlo. “Ammonium nitrate fuel oil, or ANFO. It’s a cheap but highly effective blasting agent,” he said, recalling the devastating effect a truckload of similar material had on the Murrah Federal Building in Oklahoma City back in 1995.

“How long have you been in the container?” Lazlo asked the seaman.

Green looked at his watch. “Just over eight hours.”

“Which means they may have a hundred-mile head start,” Pitt computed quickly.

Lazlo reached down and grabbed Green’s collar, then yanked him to his feet.

“You’re coming with us. Let’s move.”

Two miles to sea, the Tekumah ’s captain was relieved to see the Bat Men approach the rendezvous point less than an hour after they had departed. But his sentiment turned when Lazlo and Pitt reported the disappearance of the Dayan . The submarine’s radar records were hastily reviewed, and the Dayan ’s Automatic Identification System signal was accessed, but neither provided any indication as to the tanker’s whereabouts. The three men sat down and studied a map of the eastern Mediterranean.

“I will alert naval command,” the captain said. “They might already be within hours of Haifa or Tel Aviv.”

“I believe that’s a wrong assumption,” Pitt said. “If history repeats, they’re looking to detonate that ship at a Muslim site, to make it look like an attack by Israel.”

“If they were to strictly target a major population center, Athens appears closest,” Lazlo noted.

“No, Istanbul is somewhat closer,” Pitt said, eyeing the map. “And it’s a Muslim city.”

“But they wouldn’t attack their own people,” the captain said derisively.

“Celik has shown no shortage of ruthlessness to date,” Pitt countered. “If he’s already bombed mosques in his country and throughout the region, there’s no reason to doubt he wouldn’t kill thousands more of his own countrymen.”

“The tanker is that dangerous?” the captain asked.

“In 1917, a French cargo ship carrying wartime explosives caught fire and blew up in Halifax Harbor. Over two thousand nearby residents were killed in the blast. The Dayan may be carrying ten times the explosive power of that French freighter. And if she’s headed to Istanbul, she’ll be sailing into a city center of over twelve million people.”

Pitt pointed to the marine approach to Istanbul on the map. “At a speed of twelve knots, she would still be two or three hours from the city.”

“Too far out of range for us or our boats to catch her,” the captain said, “not that I would sail through the Dardanelles anyway. I’m afraid the best that we can do is alert the Greek and Turkish authorities while we remove ourselves from their territorial waters. In the meantime, we can leave it to the intelligence satellites to figure out exactly where she’s headed.”

“What about the crewmen?” Lazlo said.

“Lieutenant, I’m afraid there’s nothing more we can do,” the captain replied.

“Three hours,” Pitt muttered quietly while studying the route to Istanbul. “Captain, if I’m going to have a chance at catching her, I need to get back to my ship at once.”

“Catch her?” Lazlo asked. “How? I didn’t see a helicopter aboard your ship.”

“Not a helicopter,” Pitt replied with a determined voice. “But something that’s nearly as fast as a speeding bullet.”

61

The Bullet tore across the water like a high-speed hydroplane. Steering with a firm grip on the yoke as the turbo diesels whined loudly under full power behind him, Pitt shot Giordino a quick glance from the pilot’s seat.

“You were wrong about her top speed,” he said, nearly yelling to be heard.

Giordino craned his head toward the navigation screen, where a small readout indicated that they were traveling at forty-three knots.

“Always better to under-promise and over-deliver,” he replied with a thin smile.

Seated in the passenger seat behind them, Lieutenant Lazlo found no such mirth. The brawny commando felt like he was inside a blender, as the Bullet pitched and rolled over the waves. Struggling repeatedly to stay in his seat, he finally discovered the straps to a seat belt and buckled himself tightly in, hoping he could forgo a bout of seasickness.

Pitt had caught a break when the Tekumah returned him to the Aegean Explorer . The Bullet had already been fully fueled and prepped for launching. Rousing Giordino, they hurriedly deployed the submersible. When Lazlo realized that Pitt had a real chance of chasing down the tanker, he quickly insisted on joining them.

They soon found themselves screaming through the busy Dardanelles Strait in the dead of night, dodging ships, in a desperate race toward Istanbul. It took all of Pitt’s focus and energy to keep the Bullet on an even keel while slipping between the tankers and merchant ships traveling in both directions. A bright set of xenon headlights helped improve visibility while Giordino provided a second set of eyes to detect smaller vessels or debris in the water.

It wasn’t the way Pitt would have preferred to travel through the historic waterway. With a love of history, he knew that both Xerxes and Alexander the Great had led their armies in opposite directions across the strait formerly known as the Hellespont. Not far from Çanakkale, on the southwest shore, stood Troy, site of the Trojan War. And farther north, on the opposite shore, were the landing beaches where the failed Allied campaign of Gallipoli originated in World War I. The beaches and barren hillsides were simply a blur to Pitt, whose eyes darted between the navigation screen and the black waves ahead that quickly vanished beneath the speeding bow.

The narrow passage of the Dardanelles soon opened into the broad waters of the Sea of Marmara. Pitt relaxed slightly, now that he had more room to maneuver about the scattered string of ships, and was thankful that the open water remained calm. Passing by the northern tip of the island named Marmara, he was diverted by the sound of Rudi Gunn’s calm voice calling over the radio.

“Aegean Explorer calling Bullet ,” Gunn said.

“This is Bullet . What do you have for me, Rudi?” Pitt replied over a radio headset.

“I can give you a tentative confirmation. Hiram located an updated sat image that appears to show the vessel in question entering the Dardanelles.”

“Do you know what time that was?”

“Looks to be about twenty-three hundred hours local time,” Gunn replied.

“You might want to give Sandecker a call back.”

“I already have. He said he’ll wake some people up over here.”

“He better. There may not be much time. Thanks, Rudi.”

“Be careful and stay afloat. Explorer out.”

“Let’s just hope Celik doesn’t own the Turkish Navy and the Coast Guard, too,” Giordino muttered.

Pitt wondered how far Celik’s corrupt reach actually extended, but there was little he could do about it now. He glanced at the nav screen, noting that they were now traveling at forty-seven knots, the Bullet finding more speed as her fuel load was burned down.

“Can we catch them if we have to?” Lazlo asked.

Pitt looked at his watch. It was four a.m. A quick mental calculation told him that at their respective top speeds, both vessels would approach Istanbul in about an hour.

“Yes,” he replied.

But he knew it would be close. Very close.

62

There would be no repeat of Jerusalem this time, Maria thought to herself. Working under the glow of the tanker’s deck lights, she carefully inserted a dozen individual blasting caps into separate blocks of the HMX plastic explosive. She then wired each blasting cap to individual electronic timer fuzes. Glancing at her watch, she stood and gazed past the ship’s bow. Ahead on the horizon was a blanket of twinkling white dots layered beneath a hazy black sky. The lights of Istanbul were now less than ten miles ahead. Kneeling down to the deck, she set each timer for a two-hour delay, then activated the fuzes.

Placing the charges into a small box, she climbed down into the opened section of the forward port water tank. The floor of the tank was packed tight with crates of ammonium nitrate fuel oil, and she had to snake her way past a maze of pallets to reach the center. In a cramped nook, she found a wide stack of wooden bins that held three thousand pounds of HMX. She proceeded to bury one of the charges deep into the middle bin, then stuffed four more of the charges in nearby crates of the ANFO. Making her way to the starboard-side tank, she repeated the process with the remaining charges, ensuring that they were all safely concealed.

She was climbing back to the ship’s bridge when her cell phone rang. She saw to no surprise that it was her brother calling.

“Ozden, you are up early,” she answered.

“I am on my way to the office to personally witness the occasion.”

“Don’t stand too close to the window, there’s no telling how powerful the blast will be.”

Maria could hear her brother snicker. “I am sure there will be no disappointment this time. Are you on schedule?”

“Yes, we are operating to plan. The lights of Istanbul are already in view. I have arranged for the event to transpire in just under two hours.”

“Excellent. The yacht is on its way; it should rendezvous with you shortly. Will you be joining me?”

“No,” Maria replied. “I think it is better if the crew and I disappear with the Sultana for a short while. We will take the boat to Greece for safekeeping, but I will make my way back in time for the election.”

“Our destiny is near, Maria. We shall taste the fruits of our labor shortly. Farewell, my sister.”

“Good-bye, Ozden.”

As she hung up the phone, she reflected briefly on their odd relationship. They had grown up together on an isolated Greek island and, by nature, had been close siblings, drawing nearer after their mother had died at a young age. Their demanding father had placed high expectations on them both, but he had always treated Ozden like waiting royalty. Perhaps that is why she had always been the tougher of the two, baring knuckles and fighting her way through her youth, more a second son to her father than a daughter. Even now, as her brother went to sit in his gilded office, it was she who commanded the ship and led the mission. She had always been the shadow fighter while her brother took the front seat. But it was all right with her, for she knew that Ozden was nothing without her. Standing on the bridge and peering over the broad bow of the tanker, she felt she was the one in power now, and she would enjoy every second of it.

But her shell of armor cracked slightly when the ship’s radio suddenly blared.

“Istanbul Coast Guard to tanker Dayan . Istanbul Coast Guard to tanker Dayan . Come in, please.”

An angry scowl crossed her face, then she turned and spat to the pilot.

“Assemble the Janissaries.”

Ignoring the radio call, she turned and quietly studied the tanker’s radar screen, mentally preparing for the coming engagement.

The emergency midnight diplomatic warnings from Israel and the U.S. were ultimately directed to the Turkish Coast Guard, whose Istanbul command base gave assurances that all approaching tankers would be stopped and searched well short of the city. A local fast patrol craft was scrambled, joined by an Istanbul police boat, to stand picket south of the Bosphorus.

Tensions heightened when a large, unidentified ship appeared on the radar screen, steaming north. Suspicions were immediately raised when the vessel’s Automatic Identification System transponder was found to be deactivated. When repeated radio calls went unanswered, the smaller and speedier police boat was dispatched to go investigate.

Racing toward the ship, the police soon saw by its shadow and running lights that it was clearly a tanker the size of the Dayan . The police boat zipped down the tanker’s high flanks, then circled around her stern. The police commander took note of the Israeli flag flying from the aft mast as he read the ship’s name beaded in white letters across the transom.

“It’s the Dayan ,” he said, transmitting to the Coast Guard patrol boat.

They were to be the last words he would ever speak.

63

The Dayan’s deck and running lights cut to black an instant before the fusillade erupted. A line of armed Janissaries materialized on the tanker’s stern rail and simultaneously fired down on the small police boat. The small boat’s captain was the first to die, cut down by a direct burst through the bridge windshield. Another police officer standing on the deck was gunned down an instant later, shot in the back before he knew what hit him. Another man on the deck, a veteran police sergeant, reacted quicker, diving behind the gunwale and returning fire with his service automatic. But he was killed when the boat drifted aside and he lost his cover, the Janissaries all concentrating fire on him.

The shooting fell quiet for a moment as the fourth and last man aboard the police boat climbed up from below. Seeing his dead comrades, he stepped onto the stern deck with his hands in the air. He was a young rookie, new to the force, and his voice quivered as he begged the gunmen not to shoot. But his plea was met by a short burst of fire, and he crumpled to the deck, joining his comrades in death.

The lifeless police boat meandered behind the tanker for several minutes like a lost puppy. In its wheelhouse, the radio sputtered with repeated hails from the Coast Guard vessel, calls that fell only on dead ears. The big tanker’s wash finally nudged its bow aside, and the floating morgue motored aimlessly toward the western horizon.

The sound of gunfire was Hammet’s call to action. The Israeli tanker captain had been in a state of anguish for hours, ever since he and his crew had been forced back into the mess room after loading the plastic explosives aboard ship and setting sail. He knew that the armed Turks, whoever they might be, had converted his vessel into a suicide bomb ship, and that the Israeli crew would likely be part of the blast.

The captain and his first officer had quietly discussed escape plans, but their options were few. The pair of guards watching them at the door appeared at a higher state of readiness than before and was rotated out for a fresh pair every two hours. Food had been cut off to the captives, and they were no longer allowed to approach the bulkhead and peer out the porthole.

At that late hour, the tanker’s crew were mostly sprawled out on the floor asleep. Hammet was lying among his men, although sleep was the furthest thing from his mind. He feigned slumber, however, when the door opened, and a man whispered excitedly to the guards. The two men arose immediately and slipped out, leaving the Israeli crew temporarily unguarded.

Hammet instantly jumped to his feet.

“Everybody up,” he said quietly, shaking awake his first officer and those around him. As the groggy crew staggered to its feet, Hammet assembled them near the door and quietly formulated a plan.

“Zev, take the men and see if you can get them off the aft escape raft without being detected,” he ordered his exec. “I’m going to visit the engine room and see if I can disable the ship. You have my order to jettison without me if I can’t catch up in ten minutes.”

The exec started to voice a protest when the sound of gunfire echoed from the stern of the ship.

“Belay that,” Hammet said quickly. “Take the men across the deck and try to deploy the port inflatable. You might have to just toss it over the rail since we’re at speed.”

“That’s going to be a tough jump into the sea for some of the men.”

“Grab some lines and life vests from the day locker, and they can lower themselves down. Now, move!”

Hammet knew they had only minutes, if not seconds, and he hurriedly prodded the men out of the mess room. As the last man hustled by, he stepped onto the deck and closed the door behind him. They stood near the base of the high stern superstructure facing the starboard rail. The exec quickly led the crew forward and across the facing of the superstructure, each man hugging the wall to avoid detection from the bridge high above. Hammet turned and moved the other direction, heading for an aft passageway to the engine room.

The sound of automatic gunfire still ripped through the air, and as he reached the rear of the superstructure he could see a half dozen armed men at the stern rail firing toward the water. Ducking down, he sprinted across to a side doorway that opened to a stairwell. With his heart pounding, he rushed down the stairs, passing three decks, before exiting into a wide passageway. A door to the engine room stood just ahead, which he approached cautiously before opening it slowly. He was met by a gust of warm air and a deep mechanical rumble as he stepped inside and carefully peered around.

Hammet had hoped that the hijackers didn’t enlist a standby engineer for their one-way voyage, and he was correct. The engine room stood empty. He quickly climbed down a grated stairwell, then stood next to the tanker’s huge diesel engine, pondering what to do. There were assorted means he could use to shut down the engine, but a sudden power failure would raise immediate alarm. He needed a delayed effect that would allow time for the crew to safely escape first.

Then he gazed past the engine toward two large fuel bunkers that sat forward like a fat pair of horizontal grain silos.

“Of course,” he muttered to himself, quickly stepping forward with a glint in his eye.

64

In less than ten minutes, Hammet was back at the top of the stairwell, peering across the stern deck. The shooting had long since ceased, and Hammet did not see any of the Janissaries about, giving him an uneasy feeling. Beyond the stern rail, he spotted the shadow of a small boat, angling away from the tanker, which he rightly suspected was the target of the gunfire.

Stepping quickly, he made his way across the rear wall of the superstructure to the port-side deck. Peering around the corner, he was relieved to find it empty. A pair of ropes tied to the rail and dangling over the side gave him hope that the crew had already escaped. But his heart sank when he spotted the inflatable life raft still secured in its rack alongside the bulkhead. He cautiously moved closer, peering over the side to see if anyone was hanging from the ropes but saw only empty water below.

The shot rang out before he felt it, a single clap from a nearby pistol. A trickle of blood ran warm down his leg before a burning ache pulsated in his upper thigh. The leg quickly turned wobbly, and he fell to his other knee as a figure emerged from the bulkhead shadows.

Maria walked calmly over, keeping her pistol leveled at Hammet’s chest as she drew closer.

“A bit late to be out for a stroll, Captain,” she said coldly. “Perhaps you best join your comrades.”

Hammet stared at her with disappointment in his eyes.

“Why do this?” he cried.

She ignored the query as a pair of Janissaries ran up, alerted by the gunshot. At her orders, they grabbed Hammet and dragged him across the deck, depositing him in the ship’s mess. There, he found his forlorn crew, seated on the floor with long faces, a guard pacing back and forth with his rifle at the ready.

The Janissaries roughly dumped the captain on the floor, then took up positions on either side of the door. The Dayan ’s executive officer rushed over to help Hammet to a seated position while a crew medic attended to the leg wound.

“I was hoping not to find you here,” Hammet said, wincing.

“Sorry, Captain. Those men at the stern stopped shooting just as we tossed our lines over the side. We were spotted before we even had a chance to deploy the inflatable.”

Though the bleeding from his leg wound had been halted, Hammet could sense his body going into shock. He took several deep breaths, trying to relax.

“Any luck at your end?” the exec asked.

The captain looked down at his wounded leg, then forced a pained nod.

“I suppose you could say so,” he replied, his eyes turning glassy as his voice wavered. “One way or another, I believe our voyage is about near its end.”

65

Three miles to the north, the Turkish coast guard patrol boat repeatedly hailed both the Dayan and the police craft, but to no avail. When the sight of distant muzzle flashes was reported to the bridge, the patrol boat’s captain ordered an immediate intercept of the tanker.

As the Coast Guard boat sped toward the big ship, its bow-mounted 30mm turreted gun was manned while a small boarding crew was readied. The boat made a quick sweep around the tanker, then drew up on the tanker’s starboard flank when no police boat was spotted. The captain then hailed the Dayan over the loudspeaker.

“This is Coast Guard vessel SG-301. You are hereby ordered to heave to and prepare for boarding,” he shouted.

As the Coast Guard captain waited to see if the Dayan would slow, his second officer called out to him.

“Sir, there’s another vessel approaching from our starboard.”

The captain looked over to see a dark-colored luxury yacht pull up abreast of the Coast Guard boat, then drop back behind it.

“Tell him to back off, if he doesn’t want to get blasted out of the water,” the captain ordered testily. His attention was quickly diverted back to the tanker, where a figure suddenly appeared above them at the rail.

The captain was surprised to see it was a woman, who stood waving at the boat while attempting to shout something. The captain stepped to the bridge wing, then called back to his helmsman.

“Bring us in tight, I can’t hear her.”

Maria smiled to herself as the Coast Guard boat eased to within a few feet of the tanker’s hull. Standing at the rail, she towered over the smaller vessel yet was easily able to look right at the bridge.

“I need your help,” she shouted at the pair of officers, who both now stood on the wing.

Not waiting for a reply, she reached down to a small duffel bag at her feet and quickly tossed it over the rail. Her throw was nearly perfect, the bag arcing toward one of the officers, who easily plucked it out of the air. She waited a second to watch the officer open the bag, then she dropped to the deck and covered her head.

The ensuing explosion lit up the night sky with a bright flash followed by a thunderous roar. Maria waited for the flying debris to land before peeking over the side rail. The Coast Guard boat’s bridge was a scene of annihilation. The blast had gutted the entire superstructure, vaporizing all of the men who stood there. Smoke billowed to the sky from a dozen small fires that were consuming the boat’s electronic components. Around the rest of the boat, stunned and burned sailors were picking themselves up after having been knocked flat by the concussion.

Maria crept down the passageway on her own vessel, then yelled through an open doorway.

“Now!” she screamed.

Her small team of armed gunmen burst out of the door and sprinted to the rail, immediately spraying their weapons on the dazed sailors below. The firefight was short-lived, as the 30mm gun crew was quickly eradicated, followed by the boarding crew. A few of the sailors recovered quickly and returned fire. But they were forced to shoot at an awkward angle, which deprived them of cover. Within minutes they were overwhelmed, and the patrol boat’s deck was a mass of dead and wounded men.

Maria called for her shooters to cease, then spoke into a handheld radio. Seconds later, the blue yacht came racing up alongside the patrol boat, then slowed and gingerly began nudging against the Coast Guard vessel’s bow. It took just a few bumps before the patrol boat was scraping and banging against the side of the tanker. Without power, the patrol boat began losing momentum and slid back alongside the tanker’s flank.

The yacht slowed as well, gradually slipping abreast of the patrol boat while keeping it pressed against the Dayan until the Dayan ’s stern loomed up. Holding steady, the yacht waited until the tip of the boat’s bow crossed the transom, then gave it a hard nudge with full bow thrusters. The boat pivoted left and surged across the flattened waters off the tanker’s stern. A muffled bang arose from beneath the surface as the tanker’s giant bronze propeller dug into the hull of the boat.

With its decks bloodied by the dead and wounded and its wheelhouse spewing smoke, the Coast Guard boat suddenly lurched and listed heavily to starboard. Only a scattering of screams pierced the night air as its bow nosed into the air, and then the entire ship rocked back onto its stern, disappearing beneath the waves as if she’d never been.

66

Both physical and mental fatigue were beginning to weigh on Pitt after two hours of running at high speed at night. They had traveled past the center of the Sea of Marmara, where they encountered larger swells that sent the Bullet airborne every few seconds. In the rear seat, Lazlo had finally calmed his stomach but had grown sore from the ceaseless pounding on the submersible’s hull.

Their hopes were lifted when they picked up the radio traffic from the Coast Guard patrol boat on the international distress channel.

“I think I heard them call the Dayan ,” Giordino said, dialing up the volume on the VHF radio to hear over the roar of the Bullet ’s engines.

They listened closely over the next few minutes as the repeated calls to the Dayan went unanswered. Then the radio fell silent altogether. A few minutes later, Giordino spotted a small white flash on the horizon.

“Did you see that?” he asked Pitt.

“I caught glimpse of a flash dead ahead.”

“It looked like a fireball to me.”

“An explosion?” Lazlo asked, craning his neck forward. “Is it the tanker?”

“No, I don’t think so,” Pitt replied. “It didn’t appear that large. But we’re too far away to know for sure.”

“It could be upward of ten miles away,” Giordino agreed. He gazed at the navigation screen, eyeing the entrance to the Bosphorus near the top of its digital map. “That would put them pretty close to Istanbul.”

“Which means we’re still about fifteen minutes behind,” Pitt said.

The cabin fell silent in conjunction with the radio. Pitt, like the others, could only assume that the Turkish authorities had failed to stop the tanker. It might well be up to them to avert a catastrophic explosion that could kill tens of thousands. But what could three men in a submersible possibly hope to do?

Pitt shook the thought from his mind as he tapped the throttle levers, ensuring that they were fully against their stops, as he sighted a direct path toward the burning lights of Istanbul.

67

Maria paced the tanker’s bridge with an anger that turned her features to cold stone.

“I was not expecting a challenge from the Coast Guard,” she said. “How did they know we were approaching?”

A short, ashen-faced man piloting the tanker shook his head.

“The Dayan is known to be missing. It’s possible a passing vessel identified us and reported it to the Coast Guard. Perhaps it is a good thing. The authorities will now know right away that the Israelis are responsible for the attack.”

“I suppose that is true. Still, we cannot afford any further interference.”

“The radio has been silent. I don’t believe they had the opportunity to alert anyone,” the captain said. “On top of which, the radar is clear of vessels ahead of us.”

He glanced out the side window, noting the lights of the blue yacht visible just a few yards off the tanker’s beam.

“The Sultana ’s reported some minor damage during contact with the Coast Guard vessel,” he reported, “but they are ready to take us off at any time.”

“How long until we can evacuate?”

“I will slow the vessel as we enter the eastern channel of the Bosphorus. You can prepare to evacuate as I align the ship toward the Golden Horn and set the automatic pilot. I would estimate that the ship will be in position in about fifteen minutes.”

Maria looked at her watch. The electronic fuzes were timed to detonate in just over one hour.

“Very well,” she said calmly. “Let us not delay.”

68

Pale bands of crimson streaked across the dark gray sky as the sun prepared its daily climb over the eastern horizon. All across Istanbul, pious Muslims were arising early to partake in a large meal before daybreak. The muezzins would begin their warbled cries shortly, beckoning the faithful to mosque for dawn prayer. The mosques would be more crowded than usual, as the Islamic calendar showed it was the last week of Ramadan.

The name Ramadan refers to the ninth month of the Islamic calendar, when tradition dictates that the first verses of the Qur’an were revealed to Muhammad. Adherents focus on attaining a closer relationship with God during the month, which is fostered through a strict adherence to fasting during daylight hours. The act of self-purification is promoted not only by fasting but by an emphasis on good deeds toward others. Special food and gifts are given to friends and relatives while charity and aid are offered to the poor. But just a few miles from the city’s historic mosques, Maria Celik was preparing to unleash her own brand of charity.

The Israeli tanker steamed into the mouth of the Bosphorus, hugging close to the Asian shoreline. When the Golden Horn slipped into view across the strait, the tanker’s pilot reduced power.

“Now is the time,” he said to Maria.

The swift current of the Bosphorus, flowing south from the Black Sea, quickly slowed the large vessel to a crawl. Maria gathered several men along the starboard flank and lowered a steel accommodation ladder over the side. The yacht cruised up immediately and held station off the foot of the stairs.

“Secure the prisoners and then get the rest of the men off,” she ordered one of the Janissaries, then stepped onto the lowered stairway.

She made her way down the metal steps, then was helped aboard the yacht by a waiting crewman. Climbing up to the wheelhouse, she was met by her two Iraqi hired thugs. Even in the predawn darkness, the one named Farzad was wearing his trademark sunglasses.

“You have made the preparations in Greece?” she asked them.

“Yes,” Farzad replied. “We can make a quiet entry through Thios. A secure covered berth has been reserved for the Sultana , and transportation has been arranged for you to Athens. Your return flight to Istanbul is booked in three days.”

Maria nodded as they watched the remaining Janissaries climb down the stairway and hop onto the yacht. The guards watching the tanker crew had been quietly pulled, and the door to the mess room chained shut.

On the bridge of the Dayan , the pilot watched the last of the Janissaries step off, then he signaled the yacht that he was changing course. As the Sultana temporarily slipped away from the tanker’s side, the pilot increased the engine’s revolutions to half speed and eased the bow toward the west. Taking a bearing toward the Süleymaniye Mosque, he programmed the automatic pilot and then engaged it.

He was about to step off the bridge when he noticed a flashing on the console. Glancing at the warning light, he simply shook his head.

“Nothing I can do about that now,” he muttered, then scrambled down to the stairwell and leaped to the waiting yacht, leaving the massive Dayan to her own devices.

69

The Bullet spewed a rooster tail of white water from its stern as it tore into the entrance of the Bosphorus Strait. A few early-rising fishermen stared in awe at the hybrid submersible /speedboat as it zipped by in the gloomy light of dawn.

Pitt was scanning the horizon ahead when he spotted an approaching boat traveling at high speed.

“Kind of has a familiar profile to her,” he remarked to Giordino.

As the Italian yacht powered south under speed, the two vessels raced by each other quickly, passing just a short distance apart.

“That’s Celik’s yacht, all right,” Giordino confirmed.

“Leaving the scene of the crime, most likely.”

“Probably an indication that there’s not a whole lot of time left on the clock,” Giordino replied, eyeing Pitt with a cautionary gaze.

Pitt said nothing, shoving aside the suicidal nature of approaching the bomb ship while he formulated a plan to stop it.

“That must be her up ahead.”

It was Lazlo, raising an arm and pointing off the port bow. Two miles ahead, they could see the stern of a large tanker disappearing behind a rise on the western shoreline.

“They’re sending her into the Golden Horn,” Pitt said, any doubt about the tanker’s mission fully erased.

The watery heart of Istanbul for over two thousand years, the famed harbor is surrounded by some of the most densely populated neighborhoods in the city. Directed at the Süleymaniye Mosque, situated just two blocks from the waterfront, the tanker’s detonation would not only shatter the historic structure, but devastate the half million people who lived within a mile of the impact zone.

But the pilotless Dayan wasn’t there yet. It had just narrowly missed colliding with an early-morning ferry when the Bullet approached from behind. Pitt noticed the ferryboat’s captain shaking a fist and angrily tooting his horn at the tanker, oblivious to the fact that its wheelhouse was empty.

“No sign of anyone aboard,” Giordino said, craning his neck at the tanker’s high deck and superstructure.

Pitt throttled around the Dayan ’s port flank, looking for a means of access, then shot around the tanker’s bow to her starboard side. Giordino quickly pointed to the stairs extending off the rear flank.

“Beats climbing a rope,” Giordino said.

Pitt guided the submersible close alongside the lowered steps.

“The helm’s yours, Al,” he said. “Stick around… but not too close.”

“You sure you want to go aboard?”

Pitt nodded with a firm eye.

“Lazlo,” he said, turning toward the commando. “With your expertise, we’ll take a crack at defusing the explosives. If that fails, I’ll try to get her turned toward the Sea of Marmara, and then we can bail out.”

“Don’t do any unnecessary sightseeing,” Giordino said as they made their way out the rear hatch.

“I’ll dial you up on channel 86 if I need you,” Pitt said before stepping out.

“I’ll keep my ears on,” Giordino replied.

Pitt crept along the port pontoon until reaching the lowered stairs, easily grabbing its handrail and pulling himself on. Lazlo followed right on his heels. Pitt raced to the top of the stairs, then leaped onto the tanker, gazing ahead at the huge forward deck. He immediately saw the two large steel cutouts that Green had described, housing the mixture of explosives materials.

“Give us time,” he said to himself as Lazlo followed him at a sprint toward the storage tanks. “Just give us time.”

70

The janissary approached Maria tentatively, reluctant to intrude on her conversation with the yacht’s captain. Noticing him gradually encroach on her space, she finally turned and snapped at him.

“What is it?”

“Miss Celik, the boat we just passed traveling in the opposite direction? I… I believe it may be the same vessel used by the intruders at the Kirte port facility.”

Maria’s jaw dropped, but only for a moment. Wheeling around, she peered out the back window, just catching a glimpse of the Bullet as it rounded the bluff into the Golden Horn.

Turning back to the yacht’s captain, her eyes blazed with fury.

“Turn us around at once,” she bellowed. “We’re going back.”

Pitt barely knew where to start. The forward port hold was like a rat’s maze at eye level. Six-foot-high pallets filled with heavy bags of ANFO were stacked everywhere, loaded in apparent haste. Somewhere in the middle were hidden the powerful stores of HMX. And attached to that, Pitt hoped, would be a readily apparent fuze and blasting cap.

Pitt had told Lazlo that they had five minutes to locate and defuse the explosives. Lazlo was simultaneously searching the starboard hold, after having given Pitt an on-the-fly explanation of what to look for. Half the allotted time had already been expended by the time Pitt had worked his way to the center of the hold and discovered dozens of blocks of the plastic explosive stacked in several wooden bins. With the seconds ticking by loudly in his head, Pitt hastily opened the bins one by one, tossing the explosives aside when no visible fuze was found inside. It wasn’t until he reached the last bin that he found an electric timer wired to a small blasting cap pressed into a block of the plastic explosive. With a hopeful nod, he quickly yanked the mechanism from the HMX, then retraced his steps through the maze.

Five minutes had already elapsed when he climbed the ladder out of the hold and stepped onto the deck. Lazlo was just climbing out of the starboard hold and sprinted over to Pitt, carrying a pair of timers in his hand. Pitt held up his timer and blasting cap, handing it to Lazlo.

“I found this in the main cache of HMX,” Pitt said.

“It’s no good,” Lazlo replied with a stern shake of his head. “They’ve got multiple charges hidden throughout the hold. I inadvertently found this one tucked into a crate of the ANFO,” he said, holding up one of the timers. “I’m positive there are more.”

He looked at Pitt’s timer, then compared it to the two that he held.

“Fourteen minutes until she goes off,” he said, turning and winging the timers over the side rail. “There’s no way we can find them all.”

Pitt digested his words.

“Try to find the crew,” he ordered. “I’ll get us turned back into the strait.”

Pitt didn’t wait for a reply, taking off at a sprint for the bridge. The deck beneath his feet rumbled and vibrated, and he suddenly felt the whole ship shudder. Reaching a side stairwell, he took a quick glance aft, then wished he hadn’t.

Bearing down on the tanker from the east was the blue yacht of Ozden Celik.

71

Tailing off the stern of the tanker, Giordino had already spotted the hard-charging yacht bearing down in his direction. He flicked the marine radio to channel 86 and tried sending a warning call to Pitt, but there was no answer from the Dayan ’s bridge. Accelerating the submersible, he eased away from the tanker, heading into the center of the channel while pulling parallel with the Dayan ’s superstructure. He was too low in the water to see anyone on the bridge, but he did spot Lazlo working his way across the deck.

Peering behind him, he was surprised to note the yacht had altered course and was suddenly closing fast on the Bullet . He realized they must not have seen him drop Pitt and Lazlo at the tanker. Despite the early-morning gloom, he could make out two figures climbing to the yacht’s forward rail. In their arms, he knew, were automatic weapons aimed at him.

Giordino immediately goosed the throttles to the submersible. The Bullet nearly leaped out of the water, surging quickly up to speed. Giordino tore past the bow of the tanker, then pulled close to the northern shoreline. A short distance ahead was the Galata Bridge, which he figured would provide some cover. But a quick glance behind revealed that the fast yacht was less than fifty yards behind, having closed the gap while the Bullet was accelerating. Giordino cursed aloud as he spotted a small flash of yellow light erupt from the yacht’s bow.

The burst of gunfire struck the water inches from the submersible’s hull, though Giordino could neither see nor hear the bullets striking. He nevertheless whipped the steering yoke hard left, followed by a sharp turn to the right. The nimble submersible responded immediately, zigzagging across the water. The action was enough to temporarily disrupt the accuracy of the yacht’s shooters.

The Galata Bridge suddenly loomed up, and in a flash Giordino passed under it. He banked hard once more, then he looked back to see the yacht burst from under the bridge and follow suit. The faster and more maneuverable Bullet was finally showing its legs, and the distance between the two vessels gradually began to increase. But that spurred only more shooting from the yacht.

Giordino kept up the zigzag pattern as he eyed another bridge, the Atatürk, less than a half mile ahead. A sudden banging above his head forced him to duck involuntarily, then he looked up to see that a trio of bullet holes had pierced the submersible’s acrylic bubble. Any thoughts of ducking behind an obstacle and trying to submerge suddenly vanished, so he set his sights on the bridge.

Several thick footings arose from the channel to support the Atatürk, and Giordino targeted them for cover. Circling in and between the footings, he knew he could distract the yacht while avoiding a direct line of fire. But his concern for self-preservation diminished when he thought of Pitt and the explosives-laden tanker.

Just over a mile behind, the Dayan was surely on its final death march. He had to be available to get both men off the tanker, and most likely soon. Right now, he had no way of knowing if Pitt and Lazlo had any hope at all.

Then he turned and looked behind him and saw that the pursuing yacht had suddenly vanished.

72

Lazlo only had to follow his ears to locate the tanker’s captive crewmen. Though in a weakened state from his gunshot wound, Captain Hammet had his men seeking an escape route the minute the guards left the mess room. The heavily wrapped chain locking the entry door was quickly deemed unbreakable, so the men turned their sights elsewhere. They were surrounded by steel bulkheads, and so there was in fact only one way to go and that was up.

Using butcher knives from the small galley, the crew began making their way through the ceiling panels and into an overhead duct, hoping to breach the deck above. Lazlo heard the clatter from a storeroom he was searching in an adjacent bay and immediately raced to the mess’s door. Quickly unraveling the chain, which was tied in a simple knot, he kicked open the door. Several crewmen, standing on tabletops with knives in their hands, stopped what they were doing and stared at him in surprise.

“Who’s in command here?” Lazlo barked.

“I’m captain of the Dayan ,” Hammet said. He was seated in a nearby chair with his leg resting on a stool.

“Captain, we have just minutes before the ship blows up. What is the quickest way to get you and your crew off?”

“The aft emergency lifeboat,” Hammet replied, rising to his feet with a grimace. “You can’t disable the explosives?”

Lazlo shook his head.

“Every man to the lifeboat,” Hammet ordered. “Let’s move.”

The crewmen quickly piled out the door, Lazlo and the executive officer helping Hammet out last. Stepping onto the deck, Hammet felt an unusual vibration beneath his feet, then looked over the rail. The Israeli captain was shocked to see the minarets of the Süleymaniye Mosque rising a short distance ahead of them.

“We’re in the middle of Istanbul?” he stammered.

“Yes,” Lazlo replied. “Come, we have little time.”

“But we must get the tanker turned around and out of here,” he protested.

“Someone is on the bridge attempting that.”

Hammet started to follow the others toward the stern, then hesitated as the deck shuddered again.

“Oh, no,” he groaned with a sullen frown. “I made her run dry of fuel.”

73

Pitt had only just discovered that same fact. Racing onto the bridge, he had ignored a pair of flashing red lights on the main console as he searched for and found the control that disabled the auto helm. The tanker was just approaching the Galata Bridge, steaming toward its center span, as Pitt regained control of the helm. Glaring at a bridge support off his port bow, he realized there was insufficient room to cut the big ship around. He would have to cross under the bridge first, then make a sweeping turn around and back under to exit the Golden Horn.

As the bow began to slip under the bridge, Pitt saw that the span ahead appeared to be at nearly eye level, and he wondered whether the tanker’s tall superstructure would fit beneath it. Waiting for it to approach, he finally looked down at the flashing red lights. With dismay, he saw they were low-fuel indicators for both the main and auxiliary fuel tanks. When Hammet had sneaked into the engine room, he had opened release valves on the bunkers that dumped fuel into the bilge, where it was then pumped over the side. The tanks were now dry, Pitt knew, as evidenced by the faltering engine that was drawing on the last remaining bit of fuel.

With a sudden certainty, Pitt knew he had no chance to guide the tanker back toward the Sea of Marmara, where it could explode without harm. Just sailing it safely away from the city was now a lost hope. Standing on the bridge of a ticking time bomb, one that was about to lose power, most men would have fallen prey to panic. They would have felt only the heart-pounding urge to flee, to get off the death ship and try to save their own skins.

But Pitt wasn’t like most men. His pulse barely beat above normal, as he coolly surveyed the surrounding coastline. While his nerves were calm, his mind was in hyperdrive, exploring any and all remedies to the crisis at hand. Then a potential solution appeared across the harbor. Risky and foolhardy, he thought, but it was a solution all the same. Dialing the bridge marine radio to channel 86, he picked up the transmitter.

“Al, where are you?” he called.

Giordino’s voice immediately crackled back through the speaker.

“I’m about a mile ahead of you. Been playing cat and mouse with the yacht, but I guess they got tired of my scent. Keep your eyes open, because they’re screaming back in your direction. You and Lazlo ready for me to come fetch you off that ship?”

“No, I need you somewhere else,” Pitt replied. “A large dredge ship, sitting off the southeast corner of the bridge.”

“I’m there. Out.”

The tanker’s superstructure had just slipped under the bridge span when the engine shuddered again. Passing back into the morning light, Pitt saw the blue yacht bearing down on the tanker barely a hundred yards ahead. Ignoring the yacht, he applied full left rudder, then stepped to the rear window, wondering how Lieutenant Lazlo was making out.

74

The Israeli commando was helping carry Captain Hammet to the lifeboat when the sound of gunfire erupted a short distance away. A second later, shattered glass fell crashing to the deck from above. Lazlo peered up, seeing that the fire was concentrated on the windows of the bridge. He could just make out the radio masts of the yacht as it slid along the tanker’s starboard beam.

“Quickly, into the boat,” Lazlo urged the sailors.

Six of the crewmen had already climbed into the covered fiberglass lifeboat. It was positioned on a steeply angled pad just above the stern rail, its bow pointing to the water below. The executive officer and another man then assisted Hammet as he stumbled through the boat’s rear entry. He fumbled with his seat belt and ordered his crewmen to fasten themselves in. Then he looked up at the entry just as Lazlo was about to close it from the outside.

“You’re not coming with us?” Hammet asked with a shocked look.

“My work is not finished,” Lazlo replied. “Launch yourself immediately and head to shore. Good luck.”

Hammet tried to thank the commando, but Lazlo quickly shut the door and jumped off the boat. Seeing that his crew were all secured in their seats, the captain turned to his executive officer.

“Set us loose, Zev.”

The exec pulled a lever that released an external clamp, sending the lifeboat sliding. The boat slipped off its ramp, then plunged to the water some forty feet below, its prow knifing several feet beneath the surface. The boat barely had time to right itself on the surface when the blue yacht appeared nearby, and the clatter of machine-gun fire erupted. Only this time, the gunfire didn’t originate from the yacht.

Hiding on the stern, Lazlo let loose with two quick bursts from his M-4 assault rifle. Aimed at two armed men crouching on the yacht’s bow, the burst killed one of the men outright, his limp body rolling over the side. The second gunman barely escaped injury and quickly retreated into the main cabin.

Standing on the bridge, Maria watched the incident with anger. Glancing at her watch, she shrieked at the yacht’s captain.

“There is still time! Take us alongside the ramp.”

“What about the lifeboat?” he asked.

“Forget them. We’ll deal with them later.”

The yacht surged forward, escaping Lazlo’s view as it ran up to the lowered ramp. Maria quickly ordered two of her Janissaries up the steps.

“I’ll go secure the bridge,” volunteered the Iraqi Farzad. He retrieved a Glock pistol from a concealed shoulder holster, then stepped toward the cabin door.

Maria nodded. “See that the tanker runs ashore. Quickly!”

Lazlo had crossed the stern and just peeked over the rail as the yacht pulled away from the ramp. A spray of gunfire from a gunman on the yacht peppered the rail, forcing Lazlo to dive for the deck. Looking up, he cursed as he spotted the two Janissaries crest the ramp and dive onto the ship, taking cover behind a bulkhead near the superstructure.

Remaining prone, Lazlo rolled against the rail, then shimmied backward to a large scupper that drained the deck of seawater. He curled inside it, finding some cover behind a flat flange in front of the scupper. It was far from an optimal defensive position, but Lazlo didn’t think he had been seen and might surprise the boarders.

He was right. The trained commando waited patiently as the two Janissaries attempted to move aft in tandem. When they both had revealed themselves on the deck, Lazlo raised his rifle and fired.

His initial aim was true, as his rifle pumped four rounds into the chest of the first man, dropping him dead instantly. The second man immediately dropped and rolled behind a stanchion before Lazlo’s aim could catch up with him.

Both shooters now found themselves pinned down in their defensive positions. A protracted volley erupted back and forth, as each hoped a lucky shot would subdue his opponent.

On the bridge, Pitt tried to ignore the gunfire while keeping the tanker’s rudder turned hard over. But he still maintained a wary eye on the yacht, tracking its roving position. It was while sneaking a peek out the rear window that he had spotted a third man climb aboard behind the Janissaries and disappear toward the forward deck, several moments before Lazlo started shooting.

As the firefight erupted below, Pitt searched the bridge for a possible weapon of his own, digging through an emergency kit mounted above the chart table. Poking his head briefly out the side window, he saw that the surviving Janissary engaged with Lazlo was positioned almost directly below him. He quickly dashed back to the kit and returned with a large fire extinguisher. Hanging out the window, he took quick aim and let it fly.

The makeshift red missile missed the Janissary’s head by inches, instead striking him on the back of the shoulder. The gunman gasped at the surprise blow, more from the shock than pain, and instinctively turned and craned his head upward to eye the source of the attack.

Twenty yards away, Lazlo locked in on the man through the sights of his carbine and squeezed the trigger. The quick burst produced no violent scream or splattering blood. The Janissary simply slumped forward in death, leaving a sudden, uncomfortable silence about the ship.

75

The tanker’s bridge appeared to be empty when Farzad entered slowly from the rear stairwell. Noticing the shoreline of Sultanahmet sliding horizontally across the bow, he stepped to the helm to halt the sweeping turn. He lowered his pistol as he located, then reached for, the rudder controls.

“Let’s not fiddle with that just now,” Pitt said.

Pitt emerged from a crouched position behind a console by the port bulkhead. In his hand, he held a brass flare gun pinched from the emergency kit.

Farzad looked at Pitt with surprised recognition that quickly evolved to anger. But his ire turned to mirth when he gazed at Pitt’s weapon.

“I have been anxious to meet again,” Farzad said in a deep accented voice.

As he subtly tried to raise his pistol, Pitt pulled the trigger on the flare gun. The ignited flare burst across the bridge, striking Farzad in the chest with a cloud of sparks. His clothing promptly caught fire as the charge fell to the floor, then spun off into the corner like a rodent on fire. A second later, the starburst ignited, sending a shower of flame and smoke across the wheelhouse.

Pitt had already dived to the floor, covering his head, as the sparks blew quickly by. Farzad had been less reactive, patting down his incinerated clothes when the starburst sent a second wave of flames his way. He was enveloped in a cloud of smoke and sparks before stepping away from the eruption, coughing for air. Pitt immediately jumped to his feet and bounded forward, hoping to tackle the man before he could see to shoot. But the hired gunman was still aware of Pitt and turned the Glock in his direction.

A loud gunshot thundered through the bridge, but Pitt knew that Farzad hadn’t pulled the trigger. The gunman’s body was instantly thrown back toward the helm, then slid to the floor, leaving a bloody trail along the console.

Lazlo stepped quickly onto the bridge, his smoking rifle aimed at the prone and smoldering body of Farzad.

“You okay?” Lazlo asked, eyeing Pitt off to his side.

“Yes, just enjoying a small light show,” Pitt replied, coughing because of the heavy smoke that lingered in the air. “Thanks for the timely entrance.”

Lazlo passed over the now-dented fire extinguisher, which he had held tucked under one arm.

“Here, thought you might like this back. I appreciate the earlier aerial support.”

“You just returned the favor,” Pitt said, then applied the extinguisher to a scattering of small fires that the flare had ignited.

“I didn’t notice this one slip aboard,” Lazlo said, ensuring that Farzad was indeed dead.

“He quickly jumped on behind the first two.”

“I imagine that they’ll try again.”

“Time’s running short,” Pitt replied. “But you might raise that ramp all the same.”

“Good idea. What about us?”

“We might be cutting it close. I trust you can swim?”

Lazlo rolled his eyes, then nodded. “See you below,” he said, then disappeared down the stairwell.

The smoke from the flare cleared quickly out of the shattered bridge windows as Pitt stepped to the helm and gauged their position. The Dayan was more than halfway through its wide U-turn, its bow inching slowly toward the southern span of the Galata Bridge. Pitt tweaked the rudder to guide the big tanker dangerously close to the shoreline as it completed its turn, then he nudged up the engine revolutions. The stuttering and hesitation from belowdecks was worse than before, and Pitt fought to squeeze as much speed out of the faltering engine as he could.

He quickly scanned the shoreline waters for signs of the Bullet , but it was nowhere in sight. After Pitt’s earlier radio call, Giordino had raced at top speed toward the dredge ship and had already passed under the Galata Bridge. As if he knew Pitt was searching for him, Giordino suddenly hailed the tanker on the marine radio.

“Bullet here. I’m past the bridge and just pulling alongside the green cutter dredge. What do you want me to do?”

Pitt told him his plan, which evoked a low whistle from Giordino.

“I hope you had your Wheaties today,” he added. “How much time do you have?”

Pitt glanced at his watch. “About six minutes. We should be along in about half that time.”

“Thanks for bringing the powder keg my way. Just don’t be late,” he added, then quickly signed off.

By now, the Dayan had completed its turn, and the south span of the Galata Bridge loomed ahead less than a quarter of a mile away. Pitt willed the ship to go faster, as he felt the seconds tick by, while the bridge seemed to hold its distance. The timing would be close, he knew, but there was little he could do about it now.

Then the unwanted sound of silence suddenly drifted from the tanker’s bowels. The rumbling and stumbling beneath his feet vanished as the console in front of him lit up like a Christmas tree. The Dayan ’s fuel-starved engine had finally given up its last gasp.

76

Tailing the Dayan a few dozen yards off its starboard flank, Maria gazed at it through a pair of binoculars. To her disappointment, the big tanker had continued to veer away from shore and was quickly approaching a return pass under the Galata Bridge. She realized why when she scanned the tanker’s wheelhouse and caught a brief glimpse of Pitt at the helm.

“They have failed,” she said, her voice nearly hoarse with anger. “Get my last men aboard quickly.”

The yacht’s captain looked at her nervously.

“Shouldn’t we be getting clear?” he urged.

Maria stepped close so that no one else on the bridge could hear.

“We can part once the men are aboard,” she whispered coldly.

Her last three Janissaries assembled on deck as the yacht raced over to the Dayan ’s flank. As the yacht approached the tanker’s accommodation ladder to off-load the gunmen, the stairway suddenly rose off the water. At the top of the steps, Lazlo stood at the hydraulic controls hoisting the ramp up.

“Shoot him!” Maria yelled, spotting the commando.

The startled Janissaries quickly aimed their weapons at Lazlo and fired. The Israeli commando had been watching the men’s reaction and turned to step from the rail. But he lingered a moment longer at the controls, wishing to keep the ramp out of reach. The hesitation proved costly, as a burst from one of the guns caught him in the shoulder.

He immediately lost his balance, falling forward onto the controls, before slipping to the deck to avoid further gunfire. His left arm was numb, and he felt a sharp pain in his shoulder, but his senses were still intact as he heard a loud crash from below. One-handing his rifle, he shimmied to the rail, then stood and peered quickly over the side.

To his disappointment, he saw that the lower end of the stairway swung out from the tanker and was positioned just over the yacht. Then he looked closer and realized that it was actually wedged into the yacht itself. Falling on the controls, he had inadvertently released the lower-end retracting cable. The heavy steel platform had shot toward the sea like an arrow. Only instead of striking water, it had crashed into the topside bow of the yacht, penetrating several feet through the deck.

Despite the damage and heightened angle, two of the Janissaries had already leaped onto the ramp and were attempting a fast climb to the top. Lazlo aligned his gun on the rail and fired a sustained round, sending both men flailing over the side and into the water.

Suddenly feeling dizzy from a loss of blood, Lazlo curled back onto the deck and rummaged for a medical kit in his combat pack. Fighting the urge to lay down and go to sleep, he told himself he only needed to keep the yacht at bay a few more minutes. Then he glanced up toward the bridge and wondered how much more time Pitt really needed.

Time was anything but an ally to Pitt now. The last time he checked, there were less than six minutes until detonation, but he tried not to think about it. His focus was simply on driving the tanker a short distance beyond the bridge.

Since the engine had quit, the tanker was sailing on pure momentum. Multiple shipboard generators provided auxiliary power for Pitt to turn the rudder, but the huge single propeller had spun its last turn. The Golden Horn’s gentle current pushed lightly at his stern, and Pitt hoped it would be enough to keep up speed for a few more minutes. Given enough time, the current was ultimately capable of carrying the tanker safely to the Sea of Marmara. But time was going the way of the ship’s fuel.

With agonizing slowness, the south span of the Galata Bridge grew larger in the forward bridge window, and Pitt was relieved to note that the Dayan was still gliding along at seven knots. Sporadic gunfire caught his attention again, and he dared a quick glance out the window. The yacht was so close to the tanker’s side that he could see only a fraction of the boat. He spotted Lazlo, lying near the head of the stairway, and felt assured that the tanker was still secure for the moment.

The underside of the bridge soon loomed up, casting the deck and wheelhouse in a brief shadow. Pitt took to the helm and feathered the rudder controls with nervous fingers. The rest would be up to Giordino, he thought quietly.

“I just hope you can hold your end of the bargain, partner,” he muttered aloud, then watched the shadow cast by the bridge gradually fall away.

77

At 454 feet in length, the Ibn Battuta was one of the largest dredge ships Giordino had ever seen. Owned and operated by the Belgian company Jan De Nul, it was one of just a handful of self-propelled cutter suction dredges in existence. Unlike a regular suction dredge, which slurped up mud and goo from the seafloor using a long, trailing vacuum tube, the cutter dredge also had a digging mechanism, or cutter head. In the Ibn Battuta ’s case, the head was a six-foot-diameter ball faced with counterrotating tungsten carbide teeth capable of chewing through solid rock. Affixed to a hull-mounted boom that could be lowered to the seafloor, the cutter head resembled the open jaws of a megalodon shark waiting to bite.

The dredger had been operating fifty feet from shore and was moored by a pair of huge support legs, called spuds, that protruded through the ship’s forward hull. The ship was perpendicular to shore, with its stern facing the channel, which played directly into Pitt’s hands.

Giordino, approaching the ship from the stern, spotted a heavy length of chain dangling over the dredger’s starboard rail. He eased the Bullet alongside, then cut power. Quickly climbing out, he snared the chain, and attached it to the Bullet before it could drift away. Hoisting himself up the chain, he grabbed the ship’s rail and pulled himself onto the deck.

As a potential hazard in the channel, the Ibn Battuta , named for a fourteenth-century Moroccan explorer, stood brightly illuminated by dozens of overhead lights. Giordino peered from one end of the ship’s deck to the other and found it completely empty, the crew still asleep in their bunks. Only a lone seaman stood early-morning watch on the bridge, and he had been oblivious to Giordino’s approach and boarding.

Giordino quickly moved aft, searching for the dredger’s controls, which he prayed weren’t located in the wheelhouse. In the center of the stern deck, forward of a large A-frame and well ahead of the cutter apparatus, he spotted a small, elevated shack with broad windows. Climbing up its steps, he entered it and took a seat in the rear-facing operator’s chair. He was thankful to find that the dredging mechanism could be operated by a single man, but he cringed when he saw that the control panel was labeled in Dutch.

“Well, at least it isn’t Turkish,” he muttered while quickly scanning the board.

Finding a switch marked “Dynamo,” he flicked it to the “Macht” position. A deep rumble shook the deck as the dredge’s massive power generator fired to life. Up on the bridge, the seaman standing watch rushed to the rear window at the noise and quickly spotted Giordino’s figure in the controls shack. His excited voice was soon blaring over a two-way radio affixed to the shack’s wall. Giordino calmly reached over and turned the radio off before gazing to his left.

The high prow of the tanker was just emerging from beneath the Galata Bridge, barely a hundred yards away. Giordino abandoned his efforts at trying to decipher the Dutch console and frantically started pushing buttons. One series initiated a grinding sound ahead of him, and he looked up with satisfaction to see the teeth of the cutter head rotating with a menacing whine. The supporting boom stretched horizontally off the dredger’s stern, holding the head some twenty feet above the water. It was way too high for what Pitt had in mind.

“Wat doe jij hier?” a deep voice suddenly grumbled at Giordino.

Giordino turned to see a squat man with tousled hair climbing into the small controls house. The Ibn Battuta ’s pump engineer, still wearing his pajamas under a dingy overcoat, stepped over and clamped a hand on Giordino’s shoulder. Giordino calmly raised a finger and pointed out the window.

“Look!” he said.

The engineer glanced to the side and froze in shock at the sight of the Dayan bearing down on the dredge ship. He started to say something as he turned back toward Giordino only to be met with the balled fist of a right cross. Giordino’s knuckles struck him on the button of his chin, and he wilted like a wet noodle. Giordino quickly caught the man in his arms and laid him gently on the floor.

“Sorry, my friend. It ain’t the time for pleasantries,” he said to the unconscious engineer before scrambling back to the console. He sensed the shadow of the high tanker blanket the controls shack as he hurriedly surveyed the console. Noticing a small lever to the side, he reached over and pushed it down. With great relief, he watched the end of the boom suddenly drop toward the water. He held the lever down until the cutter head was nearly submerged, its rotating teeth creating a foamy froth on the surface.

Releasing the lever, he glanced up the channel. The bow of the huge tanker was now less than twenty feet away. With a helpless feeling, he stood and watched it approach, knowing there was nothing else to be done.

78

Pitt knew it was a desperate gamble, but his options were nearly nonexistent. There had simply been no time to get the tanker safely to open sea, and with the engine now dead there was no chance of escaping the crowded shores of Istanbul. Even if the tanker detonated in the center of the Golden Horn, thousands would die. Pitt’s only hope was to try to submerge at least some of the explosives and minimize their destructive force.

And that’s where the Ibn Battuta came into play. With its rock-eating cutter head, Pitt knew the dredger had the ability to slice through the tanker like a can opener. But he had to put the tanker right on the money for it to work. If he came in too tight, he would rip the boom right off the back of the dredger. Approach too wide, and he would miss the head completely.

Gliding powerless under the Galata Bridge, he gazed ahead at the dredger off his bow. Though the cutter head was still elevated above the water, he could see its rotating teeth and knew that Giordino was at work. He lightly tapped the rudder control, then stepped to the starboard window and poked his head out. Riding high in the water, he couldn’t quite see down the tanker’s slab sides to the surface, which added to the difficulty of alignment. He tried not to focus on the fact that he had one, and only one, chance to succeed.

Quickly approaching the Belgian dredger, Pitt was relieved to see its stern boom drop, lowering the cutter head into the water. A few seconds later, he spotted Giordino standing near the stern rail, waving at him to edge the tanker in closer. Pitt sprinted back to the helm and turned a few degrees to starboard, then waited for the bow to respond. When the tanker inched in closer, Giordino raised his arms in the air, giving Pitt the thumbs-up.

Pitt left the helm and returned to the side window to watch the impact. Behind him, he suddenly noticed the roar of a high-revving engine, punctuated by the shrill scream of a woman’s voice. He glanced down to see Lazlo still lying prone on the deck at the head of the stairway. This time, he noticed a small pool of blood on the deck near his chest. Beyond Lazlo, he saw the yacht alongside, wildly weaving back and forth, once even banging into the side of the tanker.

Pitt idly wondered why the yacht was even still hanging around. But it wasn’t worth pondering now, he thought, as he turned and faced the dredger, and the moment of truth.

“Get us clear!” Maria screamed for at least the third time.

The normally controlled tyrant was flush with panic as she repeatedly looked at her watch. There were just minutes to go.

Sweat ran down the yacht captain’s brow as he swung its rudder to and fro, fighting to break free of the embedded ramp. He had waited until they cleared the Galata Bridge before reversing engines, bucking against the momentum of the tanker. Yet the ramp remained lodged in the yacht’s deck like a barbed hook in the mouth of an angry marlin.

The yacht’s engines howled as the captain applied full reverse power before trying to swing the boat wide. Unknown to the captain, the stairway’s lower wheels and axle had caught around the anchor chain in the yacht’s anchor locker and was now hopelessly entangled by the wrenching motion of the boat.

The stairway now was a twisted pretzel of steel, yet the platform refused to break apart. With its props churning a maddening boil of water off its stern, the yacht was dragged alongside the tanker like a puppy on a short leash. The captain looked ahead at the dredger, waiting for the Dayan to turn away from the Belgian ship. But as they drew closer, he came to the grim realization that the tanker wasn’t going to move clear.

With desperate urgency, he swung the yacht hard side to side, slapping against the side of the tanker before pulling wide. But the stubborn platform refused to break free. The Dayan ’s bow was now abreast of the dredger, but he could see that there was a narrow gap between the vessels, although a boom hung low in the water.

With Maria still staring him down, he nodded toward the dredger.

“The boom will break our tie to the ramp,” he said. “We will be free shortly.”

79

Pitt’s alignment was less than perfect, but not by much.

The Dayan ’s bow grazed several feet past the cutter head before the rotating teeth made contact with the tanker’s hull. Though muffled somewhat by the water, the cutter emitted a screeching wail as its teeth ground against the steel hull plates. For several feet, the head simply forged a deep indentation into the tanker’s side. Then the endless line of teeth caught a hull plate seam and ripped open a gaping hole.

Once breached, there was no going back. The rotating cutter ball ate through the hull like a hungry beaver, fed by the forward momentum of the 8,000-ton tanker. The tungsten teeth chewed past the hull and into the stainless steel tanks that held fresh water when the ship was under load. But instead of being fresh, it was now murky green, as the waters of the Bosphorus rapidly began filling the tanks.

From his high perch, Pitt could see water swirling around the bottom of the forward starboard tank. He could only hope that rising waters would spill over into the port tank and dilute the explosive force of both stockpiles. But time was not on his side.

Scanning the deck of the Ibn Battuta , he spotted Giordino already sneaking back to the NUMA submersible. He had been replaced at the stern rail by a handful of the dredger’s crew. Awakened by the racket, they stood staring dumbfounded at the physical carnage their ship was inflicting on the huge tanker just a few feet in front of them.

As the cutter head bore even with the bridge, Pitt stepped to the helm and as a final gesture cut the rudder fifteen degrees to port. Already slowed by the incoming water, the tanker might travel another half mile, Pitt guessed, before exploding, and he wanted to ensure that she was headed to the center of the channel. The head was still grinding across the hull with a metallic din when Pitt abandoned the bridge, hurrying down the stairwell to grab Lazlo and get off the ship.

He didn’t wait around to watch the fate of the yacht. With Maria still screaming in the Sultana captain’s ear, the captain tucked the yacht up against the tanker’s hull, hoping to avoid a direct collision with the dredger. He quickly noticed the subtle bank of the tanker as it eased to port, giving him a slim hope of escape. The turn allowed the yacht to pass just clear of the dredger’s boom, as the cutter head was pulled free of the Dayan . But there was no room to escape the head itself.

The masticating ball reached the bow of the yacht, striking the starboard hull. Still being dragged like a rag doll, the yacht was pulled up and across the top of the cutter head. The cutter easily chewed a six-foot swath across the underside of the yacht’s fiberglass hull before decapitating its whirling twin propellers. The yacht’s thumping motors fell silent as the engine compartment flooded, and the yacht began settling by its stern.

The captain stood frozen in shock, his hands still glued to the wheel. But Maria showed no such restraint. Retrieving a Beretta pistol from her purse, she stepped close to the captain, pressed the muzzle against his ear, and pulled the trigger.

Not waiting for his body to hit the floor, she scurried to the yacht’s bow to free them from the tanker once and for all.

80

By the time that Pitt reached the main deck, the tanker had already developed a noticeable list. The cutter head had ripped a two-hundred-foot gouge down its length, slashing into every one of the starboard storage tanks. A full crew of men with pumps couldn’t have staved off the flooding for long. It was exactly the effect Pitt had hoped for, but now he had to find a way off for Lazlo and himself.

As the tanker rapidly leaned to starboard, Pitt figured it would be either a short hop down the stairway or, if necessary, a jump from the rail. As he approached Lazlo, he was surprised to see the yacht still clinging alongside. From the angled position of the tanker’s deck, he was able to peer right down onto the yacht and see the entangled stairway impaled in it. Of greater interest was the figure of Maria standing on the bow, wielding a pistol. She fired several shots into the twisted link of steel that held the ramp together, then spotted Pitt a short distance above her.

“Die with the ship!” she yelled, aiming the gun at Pitt and pulling the trigger.

Pitt was a hair faster, diving to the deck alongside Lazlo as the bullet whizzed over his head.

“Come on, Lieutenant, it’s time we find another exit,” he said to the commando.

Lazlo struggled to turn his way, looking at Pitt with glassy eyes that were barely open. Pitt suddenly realized the severity of his wound, seeing the bloody shoulder that Lazlo had managed to patch with a bandage. Every second counted now, though, so Pitt reached over and took a firm grip of the back of Lazlo’s collar.

“Hang on, partner,” he said.

Ignoring Maria, Pitt sprang to a crouch, then backpedaled up the inclined deck, dragging Lazlo behind him. Maria immediately fired, peppering a handful of shots in their direction. Her shots struck close but missed both men before Pitt had them safely out of sight. Regaining a touch of strength, Lazlo had Pitt pull him to his feet. The commando’s jacket was soaked red, and a trail of blood had followed him across the deck.

The tanker suddenly lurched beneath their feet, listing almost thirty degrees to starboard. Pitt quickly realized that their most immediate danger wasn’t from the pending explosives.

“Can you climb with me?” Pitt asked Lazlo.

The tough commando nodded, and with an arm around Pitt for support he took shaky steps up the deck.

Behind them, Maria continued shooting, her target again the battered stairway. Several more well-aimed shots at the ramp’s joint finally weakened the metal, which had bent sharply with the sinking tanker. Stomping the ramp with her foot, its joint finally broke free, releasing the upper stairway to swing hard against the ship.

Free at last, Maria sneered at the tanker from the bow of the slowly sinking yacht. The tanker would drift well clear before exploding, and she might have time to make it back to the bridge for safety. At the very least, she thought, Pitt and Lazlo would die with the ship.

She might have been right, only she failed to account for the Dayan ’s own bit of vindictive wrath.

81

From the twentieth floor of his high-rise office situated on the eastern shore of the Bosphorus, Ozden Celik watched the events unfold with increasing dread. He had barely been able to make out the shadow of the tanker when it first approached Istanbul under the faint light of dawn. But the slowly graying sky had expanded his panoramic view until the towering minarets of Süleymaniye Mosque were clearly visible across the waters of the strait.

With a tripod-mounted pair of high-magnification binoculars, he focused on the Dayan just as its emergency lifeboat was released off the stern. He watched in dismay as the tanker crossed under the Galata Bridge while the Sultana appeared alongside in an apparent gun battle. Celik could feel his heart pounding when he saw the tanker complete a wide turn and reemerge beneath the far end of the bridge.

“No, you are supposed to run ashore by the mosque!” he cursed aloud at the sluggish tanker.

His frustration mounted when repeated phone calls to Maria went unanswered. He lost sight of the yacht when the tanker turned, its high profile obscuring the smaller vessel. Holding his breath, Celik hoped that the yacht had turned and fled up the Golden Horn to escape the blast, which he knew was now imminent. But his eyes bulged in horror when the Dayan passed close to the dredge ship, then turned toward the channel, revealing that the yacht was still alongside its starboard flank.

Focusing the binoculars, he saw his sister on the yacht’s bow, shooting a gun first at the tanker, then at the metal stairway. Celik couldn’t help but notice the tanker listing precariously above her.

“Get away! Get away!” Celik shouted to his sister from two miles away.

The eyepieces dug into his brow as he watched the scene with horror. Maria at last succeeded in freeing the yacht from the stairway’s clasp, but it didn’t move far. Celik had no idea that the yacht had been stripped of its propellers and was itself sinking. Baffled by the sight, he couldn’t understand why the yacht hung close to the heavily listing tanker.

From his vantage point across the strait, Celik could not hear the symphony of creaks and groans that emanated from the bowels of the tanker as its center of gravity was upset. The massive flooding across the Dayan ’s entire length augmented the starboard list until the deck rose like a steep mountain. Crashing sounds erupted throughout the tanker as dishes, furniture, and equipment lost their fight with gravity and tumbled against the starboard bulkheads.

As the starboard rail touched the water, the hulking tanker wallowed completely up onto its side, holding the awkward position for several seconds. The Dayan could have broken up or simply sank on its side, but it instead held together and resumed its death roll with a flourish.

Still standing on the bow of the yacht, Maria felt the shadow of the tanker cross her body as the ship began to flip over. Drifting just a few yards from the bigger Dayan , the yacht was well within its reach. There would be no escaping its destructive blow.

Maria looked up and raised an arm, as if to ward off the blow of the giant tanker as it rolled over. Instead, she was flattened like an insect. The capsizing Dayan slammed the water’s surface, engulfing the yacht while creating a ten-foot wave that crashed toward the shoreline, tossing the Ibn Battuta about like a rowboat. The dark, barnacle-encrusted hull of the tanker filled the horizon, its mammoth bronze propeller spinning idly in the morning sky. Muffled bangs from collapsing bulkheads mixed with rushing water echoed throughout the hull as the overturned ship slowly began to settle by the bow.

Celik gripped his binoculars with trembling hands as he watched his sister die beneath the weight of the capsized tanker. Frozen in shock, he stared unblinking before his emotions brimmed over. Heaving the tripod across his office with a wail, he fell to the carpet, then covered his eyes and sobbed uncontrollably.

82

Celik wasn’t the only one who watched in horror as the tanker capsized. Giordino was just climbing into the Bullet when he heard a crashing sound behind him and turned to see the Dayan turn turtle atop the yacht. He quickly sealed the rear hatch as the resulting wave barreled into the Ibn Battuta , carrying the submersible up and away from the dredge ship.

Giordino quickly fired up the diesel engines and motored toward the tanker. He thought anxiously of Pitt, who had waved at him from the bridge of the tanker just minutes before. The bridge was now far underwater, and all he could see was the cold, lifeless underbelly of the Israeli tanker.

Ignoring the danger that the tanker might explode at any time, he raced along its near side. Surprisingly little debris had floated away when the ship turned over, and he was able to speed quickly down its length to search for bodies in the channel. He knew that Pitt was like a dolphin in the water. If he had somehow survived the capsizing, there was at least a chance that he had swum clear.

Nearing the submerged bow, Giordino swung around and motored back close to the hull, either not knowing or caring that the timed explosives would detonate in less than two minutes. The waters ahead of him remained empty as he passed the tanker’s midsection and approached the stern. With a heavy heart, he reluctantly considered the notion that his old friend had not made it off alive.

Nudging the throttles higher, he started to turn away when he noticed a pair of ropes stretched over the hull. Oddly, the lines appeared to run from the ship’s submerged port rail up the hull and over the keel, a short distance in front of the propeller. With a glimmer of hope in his eye, Giordino accelerated briskly, sweeping around the tanker’s broad stern, which was now rising high into the air.

Reaching the tanker’s opposite side, he spotted the ropes dangling high from the keel, but the hull was otherwise empty. Then barely fifty yards away in the water he spotted two objects. Turning instantly, he raced closer, seeing with joy that it was Pitt towing an injured Lazlo away from the ship.

Giordino sped in closer, then expertly reversed engines to quickly drift alongside. Pitt hoisted Lazlo onto a pontoon, then shouted at Giordino as the latter moved to open the hatch.

“No time,” Pitt yelled. “Get us out of here.”

Giordino nodded, then waited until Pitt climbed aboard and wrapped an arm around Lazlo before accelerating. The two men were tossed and splashed as the Bullet charged quickly ahead, bounding over the harbor waters. Giordino turned and sped toward the Galata Bridge, determining that it would provide the closest cover.

The Bullet was a hundred yards shy of the bridge when a deep thump sounded across the channel. Though a portion of the explosive material had fallen to the seabed when the Dayan capsized, nearly half of the fuel oil and most of the HMX remained lodged in the two forward storage tanks. But with the ship sinking by the bow, the flooded tanks were almost entirely underwater, greatly diluting the blast’s impact.

A quick series of successive thumps sounded as the timed fuzes detonated, and then a huge explosion ripped open the tanker’s hull. The concussion echoed across the hills and streets of Istanbul like a sonic boom. A fountain of white water blew from the tanker’s underside, spraying chunks of steel and debris a hundred feet into the air. The jagged chunks fell to earth across a quarter-mile swath, raining down in a deadly hail from the heavens.

Yet the terrifying blast proved mostly benign. Due to the angle of the sinking tanker, the main force of the blast was centered ahead of it and toward the Bosphorus. Pitt’s last-second course adjustment had diverted the impact away from shore and toward a wide patch of empty water.

As the steel and debris splashed into the bay, a loud creak echoed from the tanker as the perforated section of hull gave way. The decimated bow broke free and promptly sank quickly to the channel bottom while the remaining hull lingered on the surface a few moments before foundering.

Bobbing beneath a span of the Galata Bridge, Giordino climbed out of the Bullet ’s cabin to check on his passengers.

“Thanks for the lift,” Pitt said as he attended to Lazlo.

“You boys were cutting it a bit close there,” Giordino replied.

“We got lucky. Maria Celik wanted to use us for target practice on the starboard rail, so we hiked up the deck. Happened to find a pair of lines that had been lowered over the port side, and we were scrambling down them as the ship turned turtle. We managed to make it over the keel, then slid down the other side to avoid the yacht.”

“You needn’t have worried,” Giordino said with a grin. “It got flattened like a pancake.”

“Any survivors?”

Giordino shook his head.

“Lazlo needs medical attention,” Pitt said. “We better get him to shore.”

He and Giordino helped him inside the submersible, then they motored toward the southern shoreline.

“That was some blast,” Giordino said to Pitt. “Could have been a lot worse.”

Pitt simply nodded quietly, staring out the cockpit window.

Ahead of them, the massive remains of the Israeli tanker rose up high by its stern. The vessel stood near vertical in an almost defiant manner before plunging beneath the waves with a rush. Somewhere not far across the strait, the twisted dreams of a renewed Ottoman dynasty sank with it.

83

The tanker explosion rattled Istanbul more politically than physically. The confirmed loss of the police boat and Coast Guard vessel in conjunction with the attack put the country’s military forces on high alert. When the tanker was identified as the Dayan , a flurry of high-level accusations between Turkey and Israel went flying across diplomatic channels. Protests by panic-stricken residents of the city nearly led to a military response. But fears of a Turkish/Israeli conflict were assuaged when the authorities found the Dayan ’s rescued crewmen.

Interviewed publicly, the crewmen detailed their hijacking and captivity at the hands of the unknown gunmen. Turkish sentiment quickly turned when the men described loading the explosives at gunpoint and almost dying aboard the ship but for their last-minute rescue. Privately, after checking Lazlo into a hospital, Pitt and Giordino had informed Turkish authorities of their role in sinking the tanker.

When U.S. intelligence secretly provided evidence that the same HMX explosives were used in the mosque attacks in Bursa, Cairo, and Jerusalem, the Turkish forces were quick to act. Secret raids were immediately carried out against Celik’s home, office, and port facilities, while the Ottoman Star was located in Greek waters and seized. As public pressure mounted to identify who committed the attack and why, the official investigation wasn’t kept quiet for long.

With the release of their names, Ozden and Maria Celik became public pariahs and a source of national embarrassment. When it was later discovered that they had orchestrated the break-in at Topkapi, the national embarrassment and anger turned to outright rage. Investigators and journalists alike dove into the pair’s concealed pasts, revealing their ties to the last Ottoman ruling family, as well as to underworld mobsters and drug runners who had kick-started Celik business holdings.

Inevitably, the Celiks’ financial dealings with Arab royalty were uncovered, leading to the revelation that millions of dollars had been funneled to Mufti Battal. The objective of the Celiks’ attacks became readily apparent, and public furor was directed to the Mufti and his Felicity Party. Although no evidence was found that the Mufti was involved or even aware of the terrorist attacks, the damage was done.

The final confirmation of the Celiks’ guilt was confirmed when divers were sent to the bottom of the Golden Horn. The mangled remains of the Sultana were located not far from the shattered hull of the tanker. A salvage team brought the wreck to the surface, where it was left to a police forensics team to remove the crushed body of Maria Celik from the flattened deck of the yacht.

His name in ruin, his assets seized, and his dead sister’s body held in the Istanbul city morgue, there was nothing left of Ozden Celik’s empire but the man himself.

Yet he had apparently vanished into nothingness.

84

The Friday noon prayer, called khutbah , was typically the highest-attended Muslim service of the week. It was the time when the resident mosque Imam would offer a separate, faith-inspiring sermon before leading the assemblage in prayer.

At Istanbul’s Fatih Mosque, the prayer hall remained oddly empty, despite the muezzin ’s recent call to prayer. The khutbah was normally packed to the gills, with dozens of people spilling out of the prayer hall and into the courtyard, hoping to catch a glimpse of Mufti Battal while listening to his words of hope. But that was not the case today.

Barely fifty ardent followers stood in the open hall as Mufti Battal entered and stepped to a raised platform near the mihrab . The once-mighty Mufti looked like he had aged twenty years in the past week. His eyes were sunken and cold, his skin pale and lifeless. The swagger and conceit that had fueled his rise to power was completely absent. Gazing at the sparse crowd, he trembled slightly, suppressing the single emotion of rage.

Speaking in a subdued voice, he began his homily railing against the dangerous, unchecked powers of the establishment. In uncharacteristic fashion, he was soon rambling incoherently, targeting a litany of perceived ills and threats. The somber faces staring back at him in disillusionment finally checked his diatribe. Ending his sermon abruptly, he recited a short passage from the Qur’an dealing with redemption, then led the small audience in prayer.

Not wishing to mingle with his brethren, Battal quickly stepped to the side of the prayer hall and entered an anteroom where he kept a small office. He was surprised to find a bearded man in the room seated in front of his desk. He was dressed in the faded white shirt and trousers of a laborer, and wore a wide-brimmed hat that partially covered his face.

“Who let you in here?” Battal thundered at the man.

The stranger stood and raised his head to look Battal in the eye, then tugged on his fake beard.

“I let myself in, Altan,” replied the haggard voice of Ozden Celik.

Beneath his commoner’s disguise, his appearance was not far removed from that of Battal’s. He had the same drawn, gaunt face and pasty skin. Only his eyes burned with a greater, somewhat crazed intensity.

“You have endangered me by coming here,” Battal hissed. He quickly stepped to the back door and opened it cautiously, sticking his head out in surveillance.

“Come, follow me,” he said to Celik, then slipped out the door.

He led him down a corridor, then entered a seldom-used storage room at the rear of the mosque. A washing machine was wedged into one corner, fronted by a cluster of old towels left to dry on a wire clothesline. As Celik followed him in, Battal closed the door behind him and locked it.

“Why have you come here?” he asked impatiently.

“I need your help to get out of the country.”

“Yes, your life is finished in Turkey. As nearly is mine.”

“I have sacrificed everything for you, Altan. My wealth, my property. Even my sister,” he added, his voice quivering. “It was all done for the aim of making you President.”

Battal stared at Celik with nothing but contempt.

“You have destroyed me, Ozden,” he said, his face flush with anger. “I was crushed in the election. My benefactors have disappeared. My congregation has abandoned me. All because you have tainted my reputation. And now this.”

He pulled a letter out of his pocket and winged it at Celik. The Turk ignored it, simply shaking his head as it fell to the floor.

“It is from the Diyanet. I have been relieved as Mufti of Istanbul.” Battal’s eyes flared as he sneered at Celik. “You have utterly destroyed me.”

“It was all done to achieve our destiny,” Celik replied quietly.

Battal could control his emotions no longer. He grabbed Celik by his shirt and flung him across the room. Celik fell against the hanging laundry, snapping the line as he dropped to the ground covered in towels. He struggled to get to his feet, but Battal was already on him. Grabbing a loose end of the clothesline, Battal quickly wrapped it around Celik’s throat and drew it tight. Celik fought back fiercely, punching and flailing at the Mufti. But Battal was too big and powerful, and too bent on vengeance. Surging with pent-up rage, he ignored Celik’s blows and yanked the line tighter.

The horror of being strangled was not lost on Celik. Struggling to breathe, he saw a parade of his own garroted victims flash before his eyes as the life was slowly choked from his body. Failing in a last desperate attempt to break free, he stared at the Mufti with a combination of fear and defiance before his eyes rolled back and his body fell limp. Battal kept his death grip on Celik for another five minutes, less out of assurance than psychotic fury. Finally letting go, he stepped slowly from the dead man, staggering out of the storage room with trembling hands and a permanently disabled mind.

It was late the next morning when Celik’s body was discovered by a Bosphorus fisherman. Surreptitiously dumped into the harbor, it had floated about the Golden Horn for most of the night before drifting ashore at Seraglio Point.

The expired body of Ozden Celik, the world’s last Ottoman, was found just a few steps from the walls of Topkapi, in the shadow of the glory of his legendary ancestors.

85

Pitt and Giordino found Lazlo on the third floor of the Istanbul Hospital, situated in a pleasant but heavily guarded room overlooking the Bosphorus. The commando was lying in bed, reading a three-day-old copy of Haaretz , an Israeli daily newspaper, when the two men were allowed to enter.

“Don’t tell me you are still front-page news back home?” Pitt asked as he entered and shook hands.

“It is good to see you, my friends,” Lazlo replied, sheepishly putting the paper aside. “Yes, we are still big news in Israel. However, I am sad to report that I seem to be getting all of the credit. It was you who disabled the tanker,” he said to Pitt. “And none of it would have been possible without the Bullet ,” he added to Giordino.

“I think it’s safe to say it was a team effort,” Pitt replied.

“Among other things, the three of us have improved my country’s relationship with Turkey tenfold,” Lazlo boasted.

“Not to mention helping keep Atatürk’s vision of a secular Turkish government in play for a few more years,” Pitt noted.

“I think somebody should put us in for a Nobel Prize,” Giordino said with a smirk.

“I heard they found the body of Celik this morning,” Lazlo said.

“Yes, he was apparently strangled, then pitched into the Golden Horn,” Pitt said.

“Did you beat me to the task?”

Pitt smiled. “Not this time. A police detective told us they are pretty certain Mufti Battal is responsible. An undercover cop at Battal’s mosque reported seeing a man matching Celik’s description and dress in the building about the time of his estimated death.”

“A pair of devils, in my book,” Lazlo said.

An attractive nurse came into the room momentarily to check Lazlo’s medication, then left under his watchful gaze.

“Anxious to get home, Lieutenant?” Giordino asked.

“Not particularly,” Lazlo replied with a grin. “And by the way, it is now Commander Lazlo. I’ve received word of my promotion.”

“Let me be the first to congratulate you,” Giordino said, slipping him a bottle of whisky he had smuggled into the hospital. “Perhaps you can find someone around here to share it with,” he added with a wink.

“You Americans are all right,” Lazlo replied with a wide smile.

“How is the prognosis?” Pitt asked.

“I’m scheduled for surgery in Tel Aviv in another week, then will be subject to several weeks of therapy. But the recovery should be full, and I hope to report back to duty before the end of the year.”

They were interrupted by the entrance of a man in a wheelchair, who rolled in with his leg in a cast.

“Abel, there you are,” Lazlo greeted. “It’s time you meet the men who helped save your life.”

“Abel Hammet, master of the Dayan . Or ex-master, I should say,” he said, greeting Pitt and Giordino warmly. “Lazlo here has told me everything you did. You really put yourself out on a limb, and my crew and I can’t thank you enough.”

“I’m sorry your tanker was still lost in the end,” Pitt replied.

“The Dayan was a good ship,” Hammet said wistfully. “But the good news is that we’re getting a brand-new vessel. The Turkish government has committed to building us a replacement, apparently using the appropriated assets of one Ozden Celik to pay for it.”

“Who says there’s no justice in the world?” Giordino quipped.

As the men laughed, Pitt glanced at his watch.

“Well, the Aegean Explorer is due to shove off in about an hour,” he said. “I’m afraid we’re going to have to be on our way.”

He shook hands with Hammet, then turned to Lazlo.

“Commander, I’d be glad to have you by my side any day,” he said.

“It would be my honor,” Lazlo replied.

As Pitt and Giordino moved toward the door, Lazlo called out to them.

“Where are you headed? Back to your shipwreck?”

“No,” Pitt replied. “We’re sailing to Cyprus.”

“Cyprus? What’s waiting for you there?”

Pitt gave the commander a cryptic grin.

“A divine revelation, I hope.”