Crescent Dawn

1

The noonday sun burned through the dense layer of dust and pollutants that hung over the ancient city like a soiled blanket. With the temperature well over the century mark, few people lingered about the hot stones that paved the central court of al-Azhar Mosque.

Situated in eastern Cairo some two miles from the Nile, al-Azhar stood as one of the city’s most historic structures. Originally constructed in the year 970 A.D. by Fatimid conquerors, the mosque was rebuilt and expanded through the centuries, ultimately attaining status as Islam’s fifth most important mosque. Elaborate stone carvings, towering minarets, and onion-domed spires vied for the eye’s attention, reflecting a thousand years of artistry. Amid its fortress-like stone walls, the centerpiece of the complex was a wide rectangular court surrounded by rising arcades on every side.

In the shade of an arcade portico, a slight man in baggy trousers and a loose-fitting shirt wiped clean a pair of tinted glasses, then surveyed the courtyard. In the heat of the day, only a small number of youths were about, studying the architecture or walking in silent meditation. They were students from the adjacent al-Azhar University, a preeminent institution for Islamic learning in the Middle East. The man touched a thick beard that covered his own youthful face, then lifted a worn backpack to his shoulder. With a white cotton keffiyeh wrapped about his head, he easily passed as just another theology student.

Stepping into the sunlight, he trekked across the court toward the southeast arcade. The façade above the keel-shaped arches featured a series of ornate roundels and niches cut into the stucco, which he noticed had become favored roosting spots for some local pigeons. He walked toward a protruding central arch topped by a high rectangular panel, which signified the entrance to the prayer hall.

The call to midday salat , or prayer, had occurred nearly an hour earlier, leaving the expansive prayer hall nearly empty. Outside the foyer, a small group of students sat cross-legged on the ground, listening to a university instructor lecture on the Qur’an. Skirting around the group, the man approached the hall entry. There he met a bearded man in a white robe, who eyed him sternly. The visitor removed his shoes and quietly offered a blessing to Muhammad, then proceeded in with a nod from the doorman.

The prayer hall was an open expanse of red carpet punctuated by dozens of alabaster pillars that rose to a beamed ceiling. As in most mosques, there were no pews or ornate altars to provide orientation. Cupola-shaped patterns in the carpet, outlying individual positions of prayer, pointed toward the head of the hall. Noting that the bearded doorman no longer paid him any attention, the man made his way quickly along the pillars.

Approaching several men kneeling in prayer, he spotted the mihrab across the hall. An often unassuming niche carved into a mosque’s wall, it indicated the direction of Mecca. Al-Azhar’s mihrab was cut of smooth stone and arched with a wavy black-and-ivory stone inlay that had a nearly modern design.

Moving to a pillar closest to the mihrab , the man slipped off his backpack, then lay prone on the carpet in prayer. After several minutes, he gently pushed his pack to the side until it wedged against the base of the pillar. Spotting a pair of students walking in the direction of the entrance, he rose and followed them to the foyer, where he retrieved his shoes. Passing the bearded elder, he muttered, “Allahu Akbar,” then quickly stepped into the courtyard.

He pretended to briefly admire a rosette in the façade, then quickly made his way to the Barber’s Gate, which led out of the mosque compound. A few blocks away, he climbed into a small rental car parked on the street and drove in the direction of the Nile. Passing through a dingy industrial neighborhood, he turned onto the lot of a crumbling old brickyard and pulled behind its abandoned loading dock. There he pulled off his loose trousers and shirt, revealing a pair of jeans and silk blouse underneath. The eyeglasses were removed, along with a wig, and then the fake beard. The male Muslim student was no more, replaced by an attractive, olive-skinned woman with hard dark eyes and stylishly layered short black hair. Ditching her disguise in a rusty garbage bin, she hopped back into the car and rejoined Cairo’s sluggish traffic, crawling away from the Nile to the Cairo International Airport on the northeast side of town.

She was standing in line at the check-in counter when the backpack exploded. A small white cloud rose over al-Azhar Mosque as the prayer hall roof was blown off and the mihrab shattered into a pile of rubble. Though the explosion had been timed to detonate between daily prayers, several students and mosque attendants were killed and dozens more injured.

After the initial shock subsided, the Cairo Muslim community was outraged. Israel was blamed first, then other Western nations were targeted when no one claimed responsibility for the blast. In a few weeks, the prayer hall would be repaired and a new mihrab quickly installed. But to Muslims across Egypt and around the world, the anger at the assault on such a sacred site lasted much longer. Few could have recognized, however, that the attack was only the first salvo in a strategic ploy that would attempt to transform the very dominance of the entire region.

2

“Take the knife and cut it free.”

An angry scowl covered the Greek fisherman’s face as he handed his son a rusty serrated knife. The teenage boy stripped down to his shorts, then leaped off the side of the boat, the knife held firmly in one hand.

It had been nearly two hours since the trawler’s fishing nets had first snagged on the bottom, much to the surprise of the old Greek, who had safely dragged these waters many times before. He ran his boat in every direction, hoping to work the nets free, cursing loudly as his frustration mounted. Try as he might, the nets held firm. It would be a costly loss to cut away a portion of his nets, but the fisherman grudgingly accepted the occupational hazard and sent his boy over the side.

Though windswept on the surface, the waters of the eastern Aegean Sea were warm and clear, and at thirty feet down the boy could faintly see the bottom. But it was still well beyond his ability to free-dive, so he halted his descent and attacked the dangling nets with his knife. It took several dives before the last strand was cut free and the boy yanked to the surface with the damaged nets, exhausted and out of breath. Still cursing over his loss, the fisherman turned the boat west and putted off toward Chios, a Greek island close to the Turkish mainland, which rose from the azure waters a short distance away.

A quarter mile farther out to sea, a man studied the fisherman’s plight with curiosity. His frame was tall and lean yet robust, his skin deeply tanned from years in the sun. He lowered an old-fashioned brass telescope from his brow, exposing a pair of sea-green eyes that flickered with intelligence. They were reflective eyes, hardened by adversity and numerous brushes with death, yet they softened easily with humor. He rubbed his hand through thick ebony hair flecked with gray, then he stepped onto the bridge of the research vessel Aegean Explorer .

“Rudi, we’ve surveyed a good chunk of the bottom between here and Chios, haven’t we?” he asked.

A diminutive man with horn-rimmed glasses looked up from a computer station and nodded his head.

“Yes, our last grid ran within a mile of the eastern shore. With the Greek island situated less than five miles from Turkey, I don’t even know whose waters we’re in. We had about ninety percent of the grid complete when the AUV’s rear sensor blew a seal and flooded with salt water. We’ll be down at least two more hours while our technicians repair the damage.”

The AUV, or autonomous underwater vehicle, was a torpedo-shaped robot packed with sensing equipment that was dropped over the side of the research ship. Self-propelled and preprogrammed with a designated survey path, the AUV would cruise above the seafloor collecting data that was periodically relayed back to the surface ship.

Rudi Gunn resumed tapping at the keyboard. Dressed as he was in a tattered T-shirt and plaid shorts, nobody would have guessed he was the Deputy Director for the National Underwater and Marine Agency, the prominent government organization responsible for the scientific study of the world’s oceans. Gunn was normally confined to NUMA’s Washington headquarters rather than stationed aboard one of the turquoise-colored research vessels that the agency used to gather information on marine life, ocean currents, and environmental pollution. An adept administrator, he relished escaping the hubris of the nation’s capital and getting his hands dirty in the field, especially when his boss had escaped likewise.

“What sort of bottom contours have we seen in the shallows around here?”

“Typical of the local islands. A sloping shelf extends offshore a short distance before abruptly plunging to thousand-foot depths. We’re in about a hundred and twenty feet of water here. As I recall, this area has a fairly sandy bottom, with few obstructions.”

“That’s what I thought,” the man replied, a sparkle growing in his eye.

Gunn caught the look and said, “I detect a devious plot in the boss’s head.”

Dirk Pitt laughed. As the Director of NUMA, he had led dozens of underwater explorations, with remarkable results. From raising the Titanic to discovering the ships of the lost Franklin Expedition in the Arctic, Pitt had an uncanny knack for solving the mysteries of the deep. A quietly confident man with an insatiable curiosity, he’d been enamored of the sea from an early age. The lure never waned, and drew him out of NUMA’s Washington headquarters on a regular basis.

“It’s a known fact,” he said cheerily, “that most inshore shipwrecks are found by the nets of local fishermen.”

“Shipwrecks?” Gunn replied. “As I recall, our invitation from the Turkish government was to locate and study the impact of algae blooms reported along their coastal waters. There was no mention of any wreck searches.”

“I only take them as they come,” Pitt smiled.

“Well, we are out of commission for the moment. Do you want to drop the ROV over the side?”

“No, the nets of our neighborhood fisherman are snagged well within diving range.”

Gunn looked at his watch. “I thought you were leaving in two hours to spend the weekend in Istanbul with your wife?”

“More than enough time,” Pitt said with a grin, “for a quick dive on the way to the airport.”

“Then I guess this means,” Gunn replied with a resigned shake of the head, “that I gotta go wake up Al.”

Twenty minutes later, Pitt tossed an overnight bag into a Zodiac that bobbed alongside the Aegean Explorer , then climbed a portable ladder down into the boat. As he took his seat, a short barrel-chested man at the stern twisted the throttle on a small outboard motor, and the rubber boat leaped away from the ship.

“Which way to the bottom?” Al Giordino shouted, the cobwebs from an afternoon siesta slowly clearing from his dark brown eyes.

Pitt had taken a visual bearing using several landmarks on the neighboring island. Guiding Giordino inshore on a decided angle, they motored just a short distance before Pitt ordered the engine cut. He then threw a small anchor over the bow, tying it off when the line went slack.

“Just over a hundred feet,” he remarked, eyeing a red stripe on the line that was visible underwater.

“And just what do you expect to find down below?”

“Anything from a pile of rocks to the Britannic ,” Pitt replied, referring to a sister ship of the Titanic that was sunk by a mine in the Mediterranean during World War I.

“My money’s on the rocks,” Giordino replied, slipping into a blue wet suit whose seams were tested by his brawny shoulders and biceps.

Deep down, Giordino knew there would be something more interesting than an outcropping of rocks at the bottom. He had too much history with Pitt to question his friend’s apparent sixth sense when it came to underwater mysteries. The two had been childhood friends, in Southern California, where they’d learned to dive together off Laguna Beach. While serving in the Air Force, they’d both taken a temporary assignment at a fledgling new federal department tasked with studying the oceans. Scores of projects and adventures later, Pitt now headed up the vastly expanded agency called NUMA, while Giordino worked alongside him as his Director of Underwater Technology.

“Let’s try an elongated circle search off the anchor line,” Pitt suggested, as they buckled on their air tanks. “My bearing puts the net snag slightly inshore of our present position.”

Giordino nodded, then stuffed a regulator into his mouth and slipped backward off the Zodiac and into the water. Pitt splashed in a second later, and the two men followed the anchor line to the bottom.

The blue waters of the Aegean Sea were remarkably clear, and Pitt had no trouble seeing fifty feet or more. As they approached the darkened bottom, he noted with some satisfaction that the seafloor was a combination of flat gravel and sand. Gunn’s assessment was correct. The area appeared to be naturally free of obstructions.

The two men spread apart a dozen feet above the seafloor and swam a lazy arc seaward around the anchor line. A small school of sea bass cruised by, eyeing the divers suspiciously before darting away to deeper water. As they angled around toward Chios, Pitt noticed Giordino waving at him. Thrusting his legs in a strong scissors kick, Pitt swam closer, finding his partner pointing to a large shape ahead of them.

It was a towering brown shadow that seemed to waver in the thin light. It reminded Pitt of a windblown tree, its leafy branches sprouting skyward. Swimming closer, he saw that it was no tree but the remnants of the fisherman’s nets drifting lazily in the current.

Leery of entanglement, the two divers moved cautiously, positioning themselves up current as they approached. The nets were caught on a single point, protruding just above the seafloor. Pitt could see a faint trench scratched across the gravel-and-sand bottom, ending in an upright spar tangled with the nets. Kicking closer to the obstruction, he could see that it was a corroded T-shaped iron anchor about five feet in length. The anchor was tilted on its side, with one fluke pointing toward the surface, the fisherman’s nets hopelessly ensnarled around it, while the other fluke was embedded in the seafloor. Pitt reached down and fanned away around the base, revealing that the buried fluke was wedged between a thick beam of wood and a smaller cross frame. Pitt had explored enough shipwrecks to recognize the thick beam as a ship’s keel.

He turned away from the nets and eyed the wide, shallow trench that had recently been scratched across the bottom. Giordino was already hovering over it, tracking it to its origin. Like Pitt, he had surmised what happened. The fishing nets had snagged the anchor at one end of the wreck and dragged it along the keel line until it had caught a cross frame and held firm. The action had unwittingly exposed a large portion of an aged shipwreck.

Pitt swam toward Giordino, who was fanning sand from a linear protrusion. Clearing the protective sediment revealed several pieces of cross frame beneath the keel. Giordino gazed into Pitt’s dive mask with bright eyes and shook his head. Pitt’s underwater sense had sniffed out a shipwreck, and an old one at that.

Uncovering bits and pieces as they swept the perimeter, they could tell that the ship was about fifty feet long, and its upper deck had long since eroded away. Most of the vessel had in fact disappeared, with just a few sections of the hull surviving intact. Yet at the stern, portions of several small compartments were evident beneath soft sand. Ceramic dishes, tile, and fragments of unglazed pottery were visible throughout, although the ship’s actual cargo was not apparent.

With their bottom time beginning to run low, the two divers returned to the stern and scooped away sections of gravel and sand, searching for anything that might help identify the wreck. Poking through an area of loose timbers, Giordino’s fingers brushed upon a flat object under the sand and he dug down to find a small metal box. Holding it up to his mask, he could see a pin-type locking mechanism was encrusted to the front, though the shackle was mostly corroded away. Carefully wrapping it in a dive bag, he checked his watch, then swam over to Pitt and signaled that he was surfacing.

Pitt had uncovered a small row of clay pots, which he left undisturbed as Giordino approached. He was turning to follow Giordino to the surface when a small glint in the sand caught his eye. It came from opposite the pots, where his fins had brushed up some bottom sediment. Pitt swam around and fanned away more sand, exposing a flat section of ceramic. Though it was caked with concretions, he could see that the design featured an elaborate floral motif. Digging his fingers into the sand, he grasped the edges of a rectangular box and pulled it free.

The ceramic container was about twice the size of a cigar box, its flat sides emblazoned with a blue-and-white design that matched the lid. The box felt heavy for its size, and Pitt carefully tucked it under one arm before kicking toward the surface.

A steady afternoon breeze was building from the northwest, pestering the water with whitecaps. Giordino was already aboard the Zodiac, yanking up the anchor, when Pitt appeared. He kicked over to the rubber boat and handed Giordino the box, then climbed aboard and stripped off his dive gear.

“Guess you owe that fisherman a bottle of ouzo,” Giordino said, starting up the outboard motor.

“He certainly put us on an interesting wreck,” Pitt replied, drying his face with a towel.

“Not an amphora-carrying Bronze Age wreck, but she still looked pretty old.”

“Possibly medieval,” Pitt guessed. “A mere child, by Mediterranean wreck standards. Let’s get to shore and see what we’ve got.”

Giordino gunned the motor, driving the Zodiac up on its keel, then turned toward the nearby island. Chios itself was two miles away, but it was another three miles up the coast before they entered the small bay of a sleepy fishing village called Vokaria. They tied up at a weather-beaten pier that looked like it had been built during the Age of Sail. Giordino then threw a towel down onto the dock, and Pitt laid out the two artifacts.

Both items were covered in a layer of sandy concretion, built up over centuries underwater. Pitt located a freshwater hose nearby and carefully scrubbed away some of the layered muck on the ceramic box. Free of grime and held aloft under the sunlight, it dazzled the eye. An intricate floral pattern of dark blue, purple, and turquoise burst against a bright white background.

“Looks a bit Moroccan,” Giordino said. “Can you pop the top off?”

Pitt carefully worked his fingers under the overhanging lid. Finding a light resistance, he gently forced it free. Inside, the box was filled with dirty water, along with an oblong object that glittered faintly through the murk. Pitt carefully tilted the box to one side, draining it.

He reached in and pulled out a semicircular object that was heavily encrusted. To his shock, he could see that it was a crown. Pitt held it up gingerly, feeling the heavy weight of its solid-gold construction, the metal gleaming from portions that were free of sediment.

“Will you look at that?” Giordino marveled. “Looks like something straight out of King Arthur.”

“Or perhaps Ali Baba,” Pitt replied, looking at the ceramic box.

“That shipwreck must be no ordinary merchant runner. You think it might be some sort of royal vessel?”

“Anything is possible,” Pitt replied. “It would seem somebody important was traveling aboard.”

Giordino took hold of the crown and placed it on his head at a rakish angle.

“King Al, at your service,” he said, with a wave of his arm. “Bet I could attract a fine local lady wearing this.”

“Along with some men in white jackets,” Pitt scoffed. “Let’s take a look at your lockbox.”

Giordino set the crown back into the ceramic case, then picked up the small iron box. As he did, the corroded padlock slipped off, dropping to the towel.

“Security ain’t what it used to be,” he muttered, setting the box back down. Emulating Pitt, he worked the edges of the lid with his fingers, prying the top off with a pop. Only a small amount of seawater sloshed about inside, for the container was filled nearly to the rim with coins.

“Talk about hitting the jackpot,” he grinned. “Looks like we may be in for an early retirement.”

“Thank you, no. I’d rather not spend my retirement years in a Turkish prison,” Pitt replied.

The coins were made of silver and badly corroded, several of them melded together. Pitt reached to the bottom of the pile and pulled out one that glimmered, a lone gold coin that hadn’t suffered the effects of corrosion. He held it up to his eye, noting an irregular stamp, indicative of hammered coinage. Swirling Arabic lettering was partially visible on both sides, surrounded by a serrated ring. Pitt could only guess as to the age and origin of the coin. The two men curiously examined the other coins, which in their condition revealed few markings.

“Based on our limited evidence, I’d guess we have an Ottoman wreck of some sort on our hands,” Pitt declared. “The coins don’t look Byzantine, which means fifteenth century or later.”

“Somebody should be able to date those accurately.”

“The coins were a lucky find,” Pitt agreed.

“I say fund the project another month and avoid going back to Washington.”

A battered Toyota pickup truck approached along the dock, squealing to a halt in front of the men. A smiling youth with big ears climbed out of the truck.

“A ride to the airport?” he asked haltingly.

“Yes, that’s me,” Pitt said, retrieving his overnight bag from the Zodiac.

“What about our goodies?” Giordino asked, carefully wrapping the items in the towel before the driver could examine them.

“To Istanbul with me, I’m afraid. I know the Director of Maritime Studies at the Istanbul Archaeology Museum. He’ll find a good home for the artifacts and hopefully tell us what we found.”

“I guess that means no wild night out on Chios for King Al,” Giordino said, passing the towel to Pitt.

Pitt glanced at the sleepy village ringing the harbor, then climbed into the idling truck.

“To be honest,” he said as the driver began pulling away, “I’m not sure Chios is ready for King Al.”

3

The commuter plane touched down at Atatürk International Airport in Istanbul just before dark. Scurrying around a mass of commercial jumbo jets like a mosquito in a beehive, the small plane pulled into an empty terminal slot and bumped to a halt.

Pitt was one of the last passengers off the plane and had barely stepped into the tiled terminal when he was mauled by a tall attractive woman with cinnamon-colored hair.

“You were supposed to beat me here,” Loren Smith said, pulling away after a deep embrace. “I was afraid you weren’t going to come at all.” Her violet eyes beamed with relief as she gazed at her husband.

Pitt crooked an arm around her waist and gave her a long kiss. “A tire problem on the plane delayed our departure. Have you been waiting long?”

“Less than an hour.” She crumpled her nose and licked her lips. “You taste salty.”

“Al and I found a shipwreck on the way to the airport.”

“I should have guessed,” she said, then gave him a scolding look. “I thought you told me flying and diving didn’t mix?”

“They don’t. But that puddle jumper I flew in on barely cleared a thousand feet, so I’m plenty safe.”

“You get the bends while we’re in Istanbul, and I’ll kill you,” she said, holding him tight. “Is the shipwreck anything interesting?”

“It appears to be.”

He held up his overnight bag with the artifacts wrapped inside. “We retrieved a couple of artifacts that should be revealing. I invited Dr. Rey Ruppé of the Istanbul Archaeology Museum to join us for dinner tonight, in hopes that he can shed some further light.”

Loren stood on her toes and looked into Pitt’s green eyes, her brow wrinkled.

“It’s a good thing I knew when I married you that you’d always keep the sea as a mistress,” she said.

“Fortunately,” he replied with a grin while holding her close, “I have a heart big enough for the both of you.”

Grabbing her hand, they waded through the terminal crowd and collected his baggage, then caught a taxi to a hotel in Istanbul’s central historic district of Sultanahmet. After a quick shower and change, they hopped another cab for a short ride to a quiet residential area a dozen blocks away.

“Balikçi Sabahattin,” the cabdriver announced.

Pitt helped Loren out onto a quaint cobblestone lane. On the opposite side of the street was the restaurant, housed in a picturesque wood-frame house built in the 1920s. The couple waded past some tables outside to reach the front door and entered an elegant foyer. A thickset man with thinning hair and a jovial smile stepped up and shoved out a hand in greeting.

“Dirk, glad you could find the place,” he said, crushing Pitt’s hand in a vise grip. “Welcome to Istanbul.”

“Thanks, Rey, it’s good to see you again. I’d like you to meet my wife, Loren.”

“A pleasure,” Ruppé replied graciously, shaking Loren’s hand with less vigor. “I hope you can forgive an old shovel jockey’s intrusion on dinner tonight. I’m off to Rome in the morning for an archaeology conference, so this was the only opportunity I had to discuss your husband’s underwater discovery.”

“It’s no intrusion at all. I’m always fascinated by what Dirk pulls off the seafloor,” she said with a laugh. “Plus, you have obviously led us to a lovely dining spot.”

“One of my favorite seafood restaurants in Istanbul,” Ruppé replied.

A hostess appeared and escorted them down a hallway to one of several dining rooms fitted into the former house. They took their seats at a linen-covered table aside a large window that overlooked the back garden.

“Perhaps you can recommend some regional favorites, Dr. Ruppé,” Loren said. “It’s my first visit to Turkey.”

“Please, call me Rey. When in Turkey, you can never go wrong with fish. Both the turbot and sea bass are excellent here. Of course, I can never seem to eat my fill of kebobs, either,” he grinned, rubbing his belly.

After placing their orders, Loren asked Ruppé how long he had lived in Turkey.

“Gosh, going on twenty-five years now. I came over one summer from Arizona State to teach a marine archaeology field school and never left. We located an old Byzantine merchant trader off the shores of Kos that we excavated, and I’ve been busy here ever since.”

“Dr. Ruppé is the foremost authority on Byzantine and Ottoman marine antiquities in the eastern Mediterranean,” Pitt said. “His expertise has been invaluable on many of our projects in the region.”

“Like with your husband, shipwrecks are my true love,” he said. “Since taking the maritime studies post at the Archaeology Museum, I regrettably spend less time in the field than I’d prefer.”

“The burden of management,” Pitt concurred.

The waiter set a large plate of mussels with rice on the table as an appetizer, which they all quickly sampled.

“You certainly work out of a fascinating city,” Loren noted.

“Yes, Istanbul does live up to its nickname as the ‘Queen of Cities.’ Born to the Greeks, raised by the Romans, and matured under the Ottomans. Its legacy of ancient cathedrals, mosques, and palaces can grip even the most jaded historian. But as a home to twelve million people, it does have its challenges.”

“I’ve heard that the political climate is one of them.”

“Is changing it the purpose of your visit, Congresswoman?” Ruppé asked, with a grin.

Loren Smith smiled at the allusion. Though a long-serving House representative from the state of Colorado, she wasn’t much of a political animal.

“Actually, I only came to Istanbul to visit my wayward husband. I’ve been traveling with a congressional delegation touring the south Caucasus and just stopped off on my way back to Washington. A State Department envoy on the plane mentioned that there were U.S. security concerns about the growing fundamentalist movement in Turkey.”

“He’s right. As you know, Turkey is a secular state that is ninety-eight percent Muslim, mostly of the Sunni faith. But there has been a growing movement under Mufti Battal, who’s centered here in Istanbul, for fundamentalist reforms. I’m no expert in these matters, so I can’t tell you the actual extent of his appeal. But Turkey is suffering economic distress like other places, which breeds unhappiness and discontent with the status quo. The hard times seem to be playing right into his hands. He’s visible everywhere these days, really attacking the sitting President.”

“Aside from upsetting the Western alliances, I can’t help but think that a Turkish shift toward fundamentalism would make the entire Middle East an even more dangerous place,” Loren replied.

“With a Shia-controlled Iran flexing her military muscle, I fear your concerns are quite valid.”

Their dinners were brought to the table, Loren receiving a baked sea bass dish and Pitt a grilled grouper plate, while Ruppé dined on Black Sea turbot.

“Sorry to ruin the meal with politics, it’s a bit of an occupational hazard,” Loren apologized. “The sea bass is outstanding, I’m happy to report.”

“I don’t mind, and I’m sure Dirk is used to it,” Ruppé said with a wink. He turned to his old friend. “So, Dirk, tell me about your project in the Aegean.”

“We’re investigating a number of low-oxygen dead zones in the eastern Mediterranean,” Pitt replied between bites. “The Turkish Environment Ministry has steered us to a number of regional spots in the Aegean where recurring algae blooms have snuffed out all marine life. It’s a growing problem we’ve been seeing in many places around the globe.”

“I know that it’s been a major concern in the Chesapeake Bay, right in our own backyard,” Loren remarked.

“Dead zones in the Chesapeake have become quite large in recent summer months,” Pitt acknowledged.

“All due to pollutants?” Ruppé asked.

Pitt nodded. “In most instances, the dead zones are located near the delta areas of large rivers. Low oxygen levels are usually a direct result of nutrient pollution, primarily in the form of nitrogen from agricultural or industrial runoff. The nutrients in the water initially create a mass growth of phytoplankton, or algae blooms. When the algae ultimately die and sink to the bottom, the decomposition process removes oxygen from the water. If the process reaches critical mass, the water becomes anoxic, killing all marine life and creating a dead zone.”

“What have you found so far in Turkish waters?”

“We’ve confirmed the presence of a moderately sized dead zone between the Greek island of Chios and the Turkish mainland. We are continuing to conduct survey work in the region and will ultimately map the perimeter and intensity of the zone.”

“Have you traced its source?” Loren asked.

Pitt shook his head. “The Turkish Environment Ministry is helping identify potential industrial or agricultural polluters in the area, but we’re not close to identifying the source, or sources, just yet.”

The waiter appeared and cleared their dinner dishes, then brought a tray of fresh apricots and three coffees to the table. Loren was surprised to find that her coffee was already sweetened.

“Dirk, is your shipwreck located in the dead zone?” Ruppé asked.

“No, but not far off. We were actually laid up repairing our sensing equipment when we discovered the site. A fishing boat that is now short a few feet of net gave us some help.”

“In your call, you mentioned retrieving some artifacts?”

“Yes, I actually brought them with me,” Pitt replied, nodding toward a black bag that sat near his feet.

Ruppé’s eyes lit up, then he looked at his watch. “It’s after eleven, and I’ve probably kept you up too late as it is. But the museum is just a few minutes down the road. I’d love to take a look at the items, and then you can leave them in the safety of my lab, if you like.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Loren piped up, averting potential disappointment for her husband. “We’re both dying to have your assessment.”

“Great,” Ruppé smiled. “Let’s enjoy our coffee, and then we can go to my office to take a proper look at what you found.”

The coffee cups drained and the check paid, the trio wandered out of the restaurant and up the street. Ruppé stopped in front of a green Volkswagen Karmann Ghia convertible parked at the curb.

“My apologies for the lack of legroom, I know the backseat is pretty cramped,” he said.

“I love these old VWs,” Loren said. “I haven’t seen one this nice in ages.”

“She’s getting on in years but still runs like a top,” Ruppé said. “I’ve found it to be a great car for zipping around the cramped streets of Istanbul, though I miss having air-conditioning.”

“Who needs that when the top goes down?” Pitt mused, taking the passenger seat after Loren had wedged herself into the backseat.

Ruppé drove back into the heart of the city, then turned through a large arched gate.

“We’re entering the grounds of Topkapi, the old Ottoman palace,” he explained. “Our museum is located near the entrance to the inner courtyard. You should take a tour of the palace, if you have the chance. But go early, it’s a tourist favorite.”

Ruppé motored through a parklike setting studded with historic buildings. Driving up a slight rise, he pulled into an employee parking lot at the rear of the Istanbul Archaeology Museum. A half block away rose the high wall that surrounded the inner palace of Topkapi.

After uncoiling themselves from the cramped car, Loren and Pitt followed Ruppé toward a large neoclassical building.

“The museum actually encompasses three buildings,” Ruppé explained. “There’s the Museum of the Ancient Orient around the front, next to the Tiled Kiosk, which houses the Museum of Islamic Art. I kick around here in the main building, which houses the Archaeology Museum.”

Ruppé led them up the back steps of the columned building, constructed in the nineteenth century. After he unlocked the back door, they were greeted by a night watchman stationed just inside.

“Good evening, Dr. Ruppé,” the guard said. “Working late again?”

“Hi, Avni. Just a quick visit with some friends, and then we’ll be gone.”

“Take your time. It’s just me and the crickets.”

Ruppé led his guests through the main hallway, which was filled with ancient statues and carvings. Exhibit halls on either side show-cased elaborate tombs from across the Middle East. The archaeologist stopped and pointed out a massive stone sarcophagus covered with bas-relief carvings.

“The Alexander Sarcophagus, our most famous artifact. The scenes along the sides depict Alexander the Great in battle. Nobody knows who’s actually inside, though many believe it’s a Persian Governor named Mazaeus.”

“Beautiful artwork,” Loren murmured. “How old is it?”

“Fourth century B.C.”

Ruppé guided them down a side corridor and into a spacious office overflowing with books. A large lab table occupied one wall, its stainless steel surface covered with artifacts in varying stages of conservation. Ruppé flicked on a bank of overhead lights, which brightly illuminated the room.

“Let’s take a look at your soggy goods,” he said, pulling a couple of stools up to the table.

Pitt unzipped the bag and pulled out Giordino’s iron box, unwrapping it carefully from the towel.

“Somebody’s piggy bank, I believe,” he said. “The lock came off by itself,” he explained with a guilty grin.

Ruppé slipped on a pair of reading glasses and studied the box.

“Yes, it looks like the equivalent of a strongbox, quite old from the appearance.”

“The contents might make dating it a little easier,” Pitt remarked.

Ruppé’s eyes widened as he opened the lid. Spreading a cloth on the table, he carefully laid out the silver and gold coins, seven in all.

“I should have let you pay for dinner,” he said.

“My word, is that real gold?” Loren asked, picking up the gold coin and noting its heavy weight.

“Yes, looks to be from an Ottoman mint,” Ruppé replied, studying the stamped inscription. “They operated several around the empire.”

“Can you read any of the writing?” she asked, admiring the swirling Arabic script.

“It appears to be a rendition of ‘Allahu Akbar,’ or ‘God is great.’”

Ruppé crossed the room and scanned his bookshelf, finally retrieving a thick-bound volume from the shelves. Flipping its pages, he stopped at a photograph of several antique coins. Comparing the image with one of the coins, he nodded in satisfaction.

“A match?” Pitt asked.

“Spot-on. Identical to coins known to be minted in Syria, during the sixteenth century. Congratulations, Dirk, you’ve likely discovered an Ottoman wreck from the Age of Suleiman the Magnificent.”

“Who’s Suleiman?” Loren asked.

“One of the most successful and admired of the Ottoman sultans, perhaps only behind the reigning founder of the empire, Osman I. He expanded the Ottoman Empire across southeastern Europe, the Middle East, and North Africa during his reign in the mid fifteen hundreds.”

“Perhaps this was a gift or offering to the Sultan,” Pitt said, removing the ceramic box from his bag and slowly unwrapping it. Loren’s eyes brightened at the intricate design in blue, purple, and white that adorned the lid.

“What beautiful artistry,” she remarked.

“The old Muslim craftsmen did wonders with tile and ceramic,” Ruppé said. “I haven’t seen anything quite like this, however.”

He held the box up to the light and studied it carefully. There was a small uneven crack on one side, which he rubbed a finger over.

“The design is similar to items I’ve seen known as Damascus ware,” he said. “It’s a pattern from the well-known ancient kilns of Iznik, Turkey.”

He carefully pried the lid off, then removed the encrusted crown from inside.

“Oh my,” Loren said, inching closer.

Ruppé was equally impressed. “That’s something you don’t see every day,” he said, holding it for study under a portable lamp. He picked up a small dental pick and lightly scraped off a particle of sediment.

“This should clean up quite nicely, given a careful scrubbing,” he said. Examining it a bit closer, he squinted with a furrowed brow. “That’s odd,” he said.

“What is it?” Loren asked.

“There appears to be an inscription on the inside rim. I can just make out a few letters, but it appears to be Latin.”

“That doesn’t make much sense,” Loren said.

“No,” Ruppé agreed. “But I think after a bit of conservation, we’ll be able to figure it out. Should allow us a good chance at identifying its origin.”

“I knew we came to the right place,” Pitt said.

“It would seem that your shipwreck may contain more than one mystery,” Ruppé said.

Loren looked at the crown through tired eyes, then suppressed a yawn.

“I’m afraid I’ve kept you up far too late,” Ruppé remarked, placing the crown in a wall safe, then putting the lockbox, coins, and ceramic box into a plastic bin filled with fresh water. “I’ll be anxious to examine the items in more detail with the help of my associates as soon as I return from Rome.”

“I’d like to know what a gold crown inscribed in Latin is doing on an Ottoman shipwreck,” Pitt said.

“We may never know, but I’m curious to see what else is on that wreck,” Ruppé replied. “Strange as it seems, there’s actually been only a small number of Ottoman wrecks discovered in the Med.”

“If you can notify the Turkish authorities of our find, we’ll do what we can to help,” Pitt said. He handed Ruppé a nautical chart with the wreck’s location marked in red. “It’s pretty close to Chios, so the Greeks might have something to say about it.”

“I’ll make a call first thing in the morning,” Ruppé said. “Is there any chance you and your vessel could help initiate a full survey of the site?”

Pitt smiled. “I’d like nothing more than to figure out exactly what we found. I’ll manage to divert our vessel for a day or two. We have an archaeologist already aboard who can help direct the work.”

“Fine, fine. I’m on good terms with the Turkish Ministry of Culture. They’ll be pleased to know that the wreck is in good hands.”

He looked at Loren, who was fighting to keep her eyes open.

“My dear, forgive my historic ramblings. It’s very late, and I need to get you back to your hotel.”

“You better, before I lie down to sleep on one of the sarcophagi outside.”

Ruppé locked up his office, then escorted them past the guard and out of the building. As they were descending the museum’s steps, a pair of muted explosions erupted in the distance, and a series of nearby alarms sounded suddenly, echoing over the high walls of Topkapi. The trio stopped, astonished, and listened to the faint voices of men shouting and then the pop of gunfire rattling through the night sky. More shots were fired, the sounds drawing closer to them. Seconds later, the door to the museum opened behind them, and the security guard came running toward them with a horrified look on his face.

“The palace is under attack!” he yelled. “The Chamber of the Sacred Relics in Topkapi has been raided, and the guards at Bâb-üs Selâm are not responding. I must make sure the gate is barricaded.”

Bâb-üs Selâm, or the Gate of Salutations, was the main entry point into the enclosed sanctuary of Topkapi Palace. It was a high-towered palisade resembling a Disneyland castle, where tourists lined up in the morning to explore the palace and grounds of the grand Ottoman sultans. A security station was located just inside the gate, which housed several Turkish Army guards assigned to night duty. Situated just up the road, the gate was clearly wide open, and no guards were visible.

The museum guard, Avni, sprinted past Ruppé and across the parking lot. About a hundred yards from the gate, he ran past a white utility van parked just off the road. The van’s motor immediately turned over and coughed to life.

Its headlights were turned off, immediately triggering an uneasy feeling in Pitt. Sensing something amiss, he instinctively followed after Avni.

“Be right back,” he grunted, then took off at a sprint.

“Dirk!” Loren shouted, confused at her husband’s sudden reaction. But he didn’t bother to answer when he noticed the white van begin to pull forward.

Pitt knew what was about to happen but was powerless to prevent it. When the van lurched forward with a whining squeal from its motor, he could only watch as if it were a movie scene in slow motion. The van aimed for the museum guard and quickly picked up speed. Running at full tilt, Pitt shouted a warning.

“Avni! Behind you!” he yelled.

But it was a futile gesture. With its headlights still turned off, the van lurched forward and struck the museum guard from behind. His body flew high off the vehicle’s hood, then cartwheeled to the pavement with a thud. The van continued accelerating, then screeched to a stop in front of the open gate.

Pitt kept running, quickly approaching the prone guard. From the grotesque shape of the man’s head, Pitt could tell that the guard’s skull had been shattered, killing him instantly. Unable to do anything for him now, Pitt proceeded toward the van.

The van driver sat behind the wheel, anxiously staring through the open Bâb-üs Selâm portal. With the engine running, he failed to detect Pitt’s footsteps until he was alongside the van. He turned to look out the open side window and was met by a pair of hands that reached in and grabbed him by the collar. Before he could even resist, his head and torso were yanked halfway through the window.

Pitt heard additional footfalls approach, but only caught a shadow out of the corner of his eye as he wrestled with the driver. He had looped an elbow beneath the man’s chin and was nearly ripping his head off. The driver regained his wits and struggled to release Pitt’s grip, jamming his knees under the steering wheel and flailing with his arms. But Pitt was able to exert pressure on the driver’s throat until he gasped for air, then started to fall limp in his arms.

“Let him go,” a female voice suddenly barked.

Pitt turned toward the prone body of the dead museum guard while maintaining his grip on the choking van driver. Loren and Ruppé had followed him up the road to assist Avni and were now positioned alongside the dead man. Ruppé was leaning down on one knee, holding his hand to a bloody gash inflicted across his forehead, while Loren stood alongside looking at Pitt with fear in her eyes.

Standing beside them was a short woman wearing a black ski mask, sweater, and pants. She stood with her arm extended, pointing a pistol at Loren’s head.

“Let him go,” she said once more to Pitt, “or the woman dies.”

4

Topkapi palace was the grand residence of the Ottoman sultans for nearly four hundred years. A sprawling maze of garnished tiled buildings and chambers built on a hillside compound overlooking the Golden Horn, the palace contained a treasury of Turkey’s rich history. The popular and crowded guided tours provided a glimpse into the personal lives of the ruling sultans, while showcasing an impressive collection of art, weapons, and jewelry. Yet amid the royal opulence, the palace contained a serious collection of holy Islamic relics revered throughout the world. And it was these objects that the thieves had targeted.

A catering van had easily smuggled a small cache of arms and plastic explosives into the palace grounds several days before. The thieves merely entered the complex as tourists late in the day and quietly slipped aside, hiding in a groundskeeper’s shed. Under cover of darkness, long after the last tourists had left and the entrances secured, the thieves collected their weapons and moved on the Chamber of the Sacred Relics, where many of the holy objects were stored.

The actual assault took barely a minute, as they blasted their way through a side wall with the explosives, then shot and killed a nearby guard. They quickly gathered their desired relics, then escaped through the damaged wall.

The thieves had carefully orchestrated a series of small, diversionary explosions at various points around the compound as they made their way south on foot. Once past the main gate, they would be whisked off the grounds in the waiting van. It would take only a few minutes from there to reach the maze of Sultanahmet’s winding streets and become lost to the night.

Police sirens wailed in the distance as two men in black sprinted through Bâb-üs Selâm, each toting a canvas bag. The woman aiming the handgun at Loren immediately barked clipped orders to the men as they approached the van. The two thieves threw their bags in the back, then dragged the semiconscious driver there and laid him out. One of the men hurried around front and climbed into the driver’s seat, while the second man produced his own pistol and leveled it at Loren. The woman barked again at Pitt.

“You. Away from the van,” she ordered, training her gun on Pitt. “This woman is coming with us. If you wish to see her alive again, you will tell the police we escaped through the Gülhane Park Gate.” She motioned her weapon toward the northeast side of the compound.

Pitt’s hands clenched into fists, and his eyes nearly shot flames of anger, but there was nothing he could do. The woman sensed his wrath and leveled her gun at his head.

“Don’t even think about it,” she said.

The gunman grabbed Loren by the arm and roughly shoved her into the back of the van, then climbed in and closed the door behind them. The woman backpedaled to the front passenger door, holding her gun on Pitt until she jumped inside. The new driver immediately floored it, and the van squealed away with its tires smoking.

Pitt quickly ran to Ruppé, who had staggered to his feet but wobbled from the blow to his head administered by the woman.

“Your car,” Pitt said hurriedly.

Ruppé quickly fished out the keys.

“You go now. I’ll just slow you down.”

“Are you all right?”

“Just a scratch,” he replied with a weak smile, eyeing his blood-smeared hand. “I’ll be fine. You go ahead, and I will inform the police when they arrive.”

Pitt nodded as he grabbed the keys and dashed off toward the Karmann Ghia. The old Volkswagen fired on the first turn of the key. Pitt immediately jammed it into gear and chirped the tires as he sped off after the van.

The exterior grounds of Topkapi were laid out in the rough shape of a tilted A , with an entry gate at the base of each leg. Anticipating a more likely police response through the northern Gülhane Park Gate, the thieves headed for the Imperial Gate to the south. Despite a daily influx of tourist buses to the palace, the tree-lined roads through the grounds were narrow, curving affairs that limited speed.

Pitt took to the main road on which the van had exited, but the van was well out of sight by now. Passing several small side drives, Pitt felt his heart beat faster in the fear that he might not be able to locate the van. Professional thieves were usually not murderers, he tried telling himself. They would probably let Loren free at the first opportune moment. But then his mind flashed back to the image of the museum guard being intentionally run over. They had heard plenty of gunshots over the palace wall as well. An uncomfortable pang hit him at the realization that these thieves were in fact not afraid to kill.

He pushed the accelerator down harder, eliciting a painful wail from the Volkswagen’s air-cooled motor. The Karmann Ghia was far from a fast car, but its size and weight made it a nimble cornering vehicle. Pitt pushed the little car to its limits, constantly shifting between second and third gears as he shot down the curving road. Once he pushed it a little too far, sending a hubcap bounding into an elm tree when the back wheel kissed a curb.

The roadway straightened for a short stretch, then ended at a crossroads. Pitt slammed on the brakes, skidding into the empty intersection, as he contemplated which way to turn. A quick glance to either side revealed no traffic and no sign of the van. Pitt thought back to the woman’s remark about the Gülhane Gate. He had no clue where it was but recalled her wave of the pistol. Despite the twists and turns he had driven, he was certain that she had motioned to what was now his right. Jamming the gearshift into first, he stomped on the gas and popped the clutch, shooting off down the paved road to his left.

The wide canopies of aged oak trees whizzed by overhead as he accelerated hard, following the road as it faded to the right. Dropping down a low hill, he came to another crossroads. This time, he spotted a road sign in English, “Exit,” with an arrow pointing to the right. Slowing only slightly, he screeched through the turn with a squeal of blistering rubber, the Volkswagen drifting into the oncoming lane that was thankfully devoid of traffic.

The road opened onto an extended straightaway that led through the Imperial Gate. Pitt could sense an increase in light radiating ahead, as the trees and shrubs of the palace grounds gave way to the crowded urbanization of Istanbul’s ancient city center. Staring down the road, Pitt caught a glimpse of taillights turning just outside the gate.

It was the van.

Pitt felt a surge of hope as he held the throttle down and raced to the gate. The thieves must have been right, he thought. If the Istanbul police were responding to the alarm, they hadn’t yet made it to the Imperial Gate. As he approached the gate, he caught a glimpse of what appeared to be the bodies of two Turkish soldiers lying beside the road.

He ignored the sight, bursting past the gate and making a sharp right turn, slowing to avoid a loud squeal of tires. A glance ahead revealed that the van had cut south, down a perpendicular boulevard. Pitt quickly followed suit, flicking off his headlights as he made a sharp turn, then closed in on the van.

A congested mass of cars and people by day, the city’s historic Sultanahmet center was oddly quiet late at night. Pitt sped around a beat-up taxicab, then slowed as he saw the van stopped at a traffic light.

They were traveling past Hagia Sophia, one of the grandest monuments surviving from the Byzantine era. Built as a basilica by the Roman Emperor Justinian and later converted to a mosque, it stood as the largest domed building in the world for almost a thousand years. Its ancient frescoes and mosaics, along with its towering architecture, made it one of Istanbul’s most important cultural landmarks.

The van turned right again, crossing Sultanahmet Square and the forecourt of Hagia Sophia, where a handful of tourists milled about, taking photos of the illuminated exterior. Pitt tried to edge closer to the van but was cut off by a pair of taxis pulling away from the curb.

The van slowed its pace to avoid attention as a police wagon stormed by on a cross street with its lights and siren blazing, heading up the hill toward Topkapi. The small congregation of vehicles moved out of the square and down a block before stopping at a red light. A rusty garbage truck ambled down the cross street, then stopped near the corner to pick up a pile of trash. The truck momentarily blocked the van, which was wedged from behind by one of the taxis.

Sitting two cars behind that, Pitt watched a slow-moving garbageman attack the trash pile and decided the situation afforded him the chance to act. Without hesitation, he leaped out of the Karmann Ghia and rushed toward the back of the van, crouching low while hugging the sides of the taxis to avoid detection. The van’s rear panel doors had tinted windows, but Pitt could make out a figure seated on the right side who either had very short hair or was wearing a ski cap.

The light turned green, and the van lurched forward, then stopped, forced to wait while the lackadaisical garbageman slowly disposed of the pile of bulging plastic trash bags. Pitt approached the van in a crouch and placed a foot on its bumper, then grabbed the door handle with his right hand. Flinging the door open, he lunged in, his balled left fist coiled to strike.

It was a risky move, one that could get both Loren and himself killed. But he had the element of surprise on his side and rightly figured the gunman in the rear had let his guard down and was relishing the success of the theft. Deep down, there was another motive for abandoning caution. Pitt knew he could never live with himself if he failed to act and something happened to Loren.

With the door flung open, Pitt peered into the rear compartment while already in motion. He had gambled correctly and found the uninjured gunman seated on a bench to the right. Seated opposite was the original van driver, who was slowly regaining his color. Loren was seated beside him, wedged against a partition that divided the rear from the driver’s compartment. In the fraction of a second that they made eye contact, Pitt could see a look of fright in his wife’s eyes.

Surprise was completely his, as the gunman didn’t even have his pistol on Loren but was holding it down at his side. He gave Pitt a startled look through his ski mask before Pitt’s balled fist struck him on the chin. With surging adrenaline and controlled rage, Pitt could have probably put his fist through the van’s side panel had he aimed differently. The blow instantly knocked the man cold, sending him teetering to the floorboard without ever raising his weapon.

The other man reacted quickly, perhaps relishing the opportunity to retaliate against the earlier assault. He dove onto the back of Pitt’s outstretched body, pinning Pitt’s torso against the floor. The man had a gun in his pocket, which he struggled to retrieve while wrapping his other arm around Pitt. Pushed flat, Pitt immediately raised himself with his arms but couldn’t quite shake the man’s half bear hug. Seeking any measure of leverage he could, Pitt wedged a foot against the rear bumper, then tried shifting his weight to the rear. With his attacker glued to his back, Pitt heaved with both his arms and legs, flinging himself backward and out of the van.

The taxicab was idling just a foot or two behind the van. Hurtling through the air, the two intertwined bodies slammed backward onto the cab’s hood, the van driver sandwiched beneath Pitt and bearing the brunt of the impact. The man gasped as the breath was knocked from his lungs, and Pitt felt the grip around his torso soften. Spinning to his feet, Pitt pulled the man’s arm away, then shoved an elbow into the driver’s head with repeated blows. It was enough to stun the man into submission and he sank to the pavement before he could find the grip on his gun.

Catching his breath, Pitt looked up to see Loren scampering out of the van. In her hand, she was clutching one of the black bags.

“Quick, let’s go,” he urged, grabbing her arm and pulling her down the street. They staggered a few steps to the sidewalk, Loren resisting any attempts at speed.

“I can’t run in these shoes,” she pleaded.

Pitt heard a yell from the direction of the van but wasted no time looking. Instead, he roughly grabbed his wife and shoved her toward the alcove of a small square building a few steps away. He dove after her as two quick cracks from a pistol rang out. A pair of concrete chips flew in the air as the bullets peppered the ground near their feet.

The doorway provided cover, but just temporarily. It would only be seconds before the woman with the pistol stepped down the street far enough to have a clear shot at the two of them.

“Where to now?” Loren gasped, her heart pounding in fear.

Pitt quickly surveyed an ancient weathered door that stood at the top of the steps.

“A simple choice, I’d say,” he replied, nodding toward the door. “We go in.”

5

Two firm kicks on the wooden door were sufficient to dislodge the well-worn dead bolt from its housing and force an opening. Loren and Pitt quickly slithered into a plain, empty room, sided by a counter and cash register. At the back of the room was a wide, dimly lit stairwell that led to a lower level.

From outside the door, they could hear the sound of running footsteps approach. Pitt turned and swung the door closed as he caught a glimpse of the woman in black sprinting around the back of the taxi. He missed seeing the muzzle flash from her pistol as she fired again, but he saw the slug bury itself into the door a few inches from his face.

“I guess we go down,” he said, grabbing Loren’s hand and rushing to the stairs. They had hopped down a few of the carved stone steps when Loren yanked on his arm.

“I can’t make it that far in heels,” she said, noticing that the stairwell descended a considerable distance below them. She quickly yanked off her pumps, then proceeded to scurry down the stairs.

“Why does practicality never enter into the design of women’s shoes?” Pitt asked, catching up with her.

“Only a man would have to ask,” she grumbled, breathing hard from their exertion.

They continued plunging down the stairs, which descended over fifty steps. Their argument over footwear was lost to a sense of awe as their surroundings unfolded before them under sparse lighting.

They had descended into a huge man-made subterranean cavern. It was a totally unexpected and somewhat bizarre structure to find in the middle of bustling Istanbul. The steps ended at a wooden platform, which overlooked the deep cavern. Pitt admired a forest of thirty-foot-high marble columns that stretched into the darkness by the dozen, their capitals supporting a towering multi-arched ceiling. A bank of red overhead lights lightly illuminated the space, lending it a mysterious, almost hellish appearance.

“What is this place?” Loren asked, her voice echoing off the stone walls. “It’s breathtaking, in more ways than one.”

“It’s an underground cistern. A huge one, by the looks of it. The Romans built hundreds of them under the streets of Istanbul in order to store water, which was transported in from the countryside via aqueducts.”

They stood in what was actually the largest cistern in Istanbul, the Yerebatan Sarnici. Originally constructed by Emperor Constantine and later enlarged by Justinian, the structure stretched nearly five hundred feet in length. In its day, the cistern’s mortar-lined floor and walls were capable of holding 2.8 million cubic feet of water. Abandoned during the Ottoman reign, it became a forgotten, mud-filled bog until restored by the Turkish government in the twentieth century. As testament to Roman construction prowess, the floor of the cavern still stored a few feet of water for effect.

The vast chamber was nearly silent but for the splattering of water that occasionally dripped from the ceiling. The silence was suddenly disrupted by the sound of footsteps overhead as the armed woman in black rushed through the office and started down the stone steps. Pitt and Loren immediately took off running, following a raised wooden ramp that led toward the far end of the chamber.

The ramp ultimately split into a circular walkway that allowed tourists to view the myriad of carved columns that supported the cistern’s ceiling. Beneath it, the flat, shallow waters made a tranquil home to hundreds of colorful carp that never saw the light of day. Pitt and Loren had little time to admire the fish as they sprinted to the far end of the chamber.

The wooden ramps were wet from the dripping ceiling, and Loren slipped repeatedly in her stocking feet. Falling as they rounded a sharply angled corner, she lay for a second, catching her breath, until Pitt helped her to her feet. The sound of shoes rushing down the stone steps behind them echoed through the chamber.

“Why is she still bothering with us?” Pitt asked aloud as he dragged Loren around the corner.

“Might have something to do with this,” she replied, holding up the black bag still clutched in one hand. “I took it from the van. I thought it might be important.”

Pitt smiled at his wife’s instincts. “Yes, it probably is,” he said. “But it’s not important enough to get killed over.”

The pursuing footfalls had reached the bottom of the stairs, their tone changing to a muted thump on the wooden ramp. Pitt and Loren ran a few more yards, turning down a section of ramp that suddenly terminated in a dead end.

“Give me the bag, and you may walk away.”

The woman’s voice echoed through the cavern in angry repetition. After a silent pause, her steps resumed at a quickened pace. Though still out of view under the dim lights, she was audibly closing the gap.

“Into the water,” Pitt whispered, grabbing the black bag from Loren while guiding her to the rail. In her long dress, she clumsily climbed over the rail, then let Pitt help lower her quietly into the waist-deep water. Her body gave off an involuntary shiver, from both the cool water and the threat at hand.

“Move to the back of the far column and stay out of sight until I call for you,” he directed quietly.

“Where will you be?”

“Giving her the bag back.”

He leaned through the rail and gave her a quick kiss, then watched as she waded past several rows of marble columns before disappearing from sight. Satisfied that she was safely hidden, he turned and moved back down the platform. A thundering boom caused him to pause as a chunk of wooden railing splattered into the water a few feet ahead of him. He spotted the figure of the shooter a hundred feet away and he quickly sprinted ahead until a row of columns blocked her from view.

His mind raced in the few seconds of cover he had. He quickly contemplated the black bag, which was lightly weighed down by two separate objects. There was no place for concealment on the empty wooden ramps, so his eyes drifted upward at the huge columns nearby. He noted that every third column or so had a small red light fixture mounted near the crown, which backlit the cistern. As the sound of the woman’s footsteps drew closer, Pitt hoisted the bag and split the two objects through the exterior cloth. He then twisted the loose center cloth until the bag resembled a barbell, with the weighted objects at either end.

“Drop it!” he heard the woman’s voice yell.

In the dim light, Pitt gambled that she was still too far away for an accurate shot, so he took two quick steps toward the railing. The pistol barked again, twin muzzle flashes clearly visible out of the corner of Pitt’s eye as the shots thundered through the chamber. One bullet hit the rail while the other whistled past his ear. Already in motion, all he could do was keep moving.

With a third step, he swung the bag up from the floor and flung it upward with all his strength. Without breaking pace, he grabbed the top railing and pulled himself over the side. The bag spun like a pinwheel and was still drifting skyward when Pitt hit the water. He immediately spun under the surface toward the ramp, under its supports, kicking in the direction of the woman. With a controlled effort, he swam smoothly in the shallow water, trying not to break the surface. An old hand at free diving, he easily covered seventy-five feet before gently easing up for air.

He held perfectly still, quietly catching his breath beneath the ramp while checking where the woman was located. He correctly gauged that he had bypassed her beneath the ramp as she ran toward the point of his initial splash. Peering from the water’s edge, he saw her pacing on the far side with her gun pointed at the water.

Slipping back under the ramp, he cautiously followed it in the other direction until it made an angled turn. There was more illumination in the area than he preferred, but the bend offered a point of concealment as a staging area for attack. He started to pull himself up a support beam when he detected a new set of footsteps pounding down the stone stairs. A car horn honking on the street blared in the background.

“Miss Maria, we must leave at once,” shouted a male voice in Turkish. “The police are beginning to search outside of Topkapi.”

Pitt crept back into the water as the woman broke into a run in his direction. Hearing her pass overhead, he held perfectly still, listening as she began climbing the stone steps. Nearing the top, she hesitated for a moment, then a shrill voice boomed through the cistern.

“I shall not forget you!” she shrieked.

The sound of her footsteps fell away, and the car horn ceased honking. Pitt sat still in the cold water, listening to the eerie echo of the falling water droplets. Satisfied that the assailants were in fact gone, he climbed onto the ramp and made his way to the end, calling out Loren’s name along the way.

His freezing wife appeared from behind one of the columns and waded to the ramp, where Pitt hoisted her up. Though her hair was a mess, her dress soaked, and she shivered with cold, she still looked radiant to Pitt.

“You all right?”

“Yes,” she said. “Are they gone?”

Pitt nodded, holding her hand as they walked down the ramp.

“Nasty people,” she said. “I wonder how many they killed during the heist.”

Pitt could only speculate. “Did they hurt you?” he asked.

“No, but they clearly weren’t afraid to kill. They didn’t seem to care at all when I told them I was a U.S. Congresswoman.”

“They must have less regard for politicians here than in America.”

“Did you give her the bag?”

“No, I’m afraid she had to leave empty-handed. As you heard, she doesn’t intend to forget us.”

“Where did you hide it?”

Pitt stopped and pointed toward the crown of a marble column that rose from the water just a few feet away. Wrapped around a high-mounted light fixture atop the column, the twisted black bag hung dangling over the water.

“It’s not hidden,” he said with a slight grin. “It’s just a tad out of reach.”

6

“Another cup of tea, Sheikh?”

The guest nodded slightly as his host proceeded to refill his cup with black tea. Barely thirty, he was the youngest of five sons born to one of the ruling royal families of the United Arab Emirates. A slight man, he wore a perfectly pressed, bone-white headdress wrapped with a gold-threaded agal , which barely hinted at the multibillions of petrodollars that his family controlled.

“The Mufti’s movement appears to have a sound footing in Turkey,” he said, setting the teacup down. “I am pleased at the progress you have reported.”

“Mufti Battal has a devoted following,” the host replied, gazing toward a portrait of a wise-looking man in black robe and turban hanging on the far wall. “The times and conditions have been conducive to expanding the movement, and the Mufti’s personal popularity has enhanced its appeal. We have a real opportunity ahead to change Turkey and her role in the world. Achieving such change, however, requires considerable resources.”

“I am committed to the cause here, as I am committed to the Muslim Brotherhood in Egypt,” the Sheikh replied.

“Like our Egyptian brothers, we will unite in the way of Allah,” the host replied with a bow.

The Sheikh rose and crossed the high-rise office, which looked and felt like the interior of a mosque. Small kilim prayer rugs were aligned in an open space, facing a tiled mihrab aimed at Mecca. On the opposite wall, a high bookshelf was filled with antique copies of the Qur’an. Only a huge illuminating picture window warmed the otherwise austere and reverent interior.

The Sheikh moved to the window and admired the panorama before him. The office building was situated on the Asian bank of the Bosphorus and offered a breathtaking view of old Istanbul on the European shore, just across the slim waterway. The Sheikh stared at the towering minarets of the Süleymaniye Mosque in the distance.

“Istanbul has an earnest respect for its past, as it should,” he said. “One cannot attain greatness without building on the past.”

He turned to his host. “My brothers are all Western educated. They wear British-made suits and crave sleek automobiles,” he said with disdain.

“But you are not like them?”

“No,” the Sheikh replied thoughtfully. “I attended the Islamic University at Madinah. Since an early age, I have devoted myself to Allah. There is no greater purpose in life than to expound the words of the Prophet.” He turned slowly from the window with a distant look.

“The threats to our ways never cease,” he said. “In Cairo, the Zionists bomb al-Azhar, yet there is no global outrage.”

“Mufti Battal and I are outraged.”

“As am I. Such affronts cannot be ignored,” the Sheikh said.

“We must strengthen the foundation of our house to withstand all outside forces.”

The Sheikh nodded in agreement. “As you know, I have been blessed with a sizable fortune. I will continue to support the way of the Sunnah here. I share in the wisdom of Istanbul in venerating our past.”

“Upon it, we will build great blessings to Allah.”

The Sheikh eased toward the door. “I will arrange the transfer of funds shortly. Please pass my blessings to Mufti Battal.”

“He will be both grateful and delighted. Praise be to Allah.”

The Sheikh responded in kind, then joined an entourage waiting for him outside the door. When the Arab contingent had left the foyer, the host closed the door and returned to his desk, where he removed a key from the top drawer. Stepping to an inconspicuous side door, he turned the lock and entered an adjacent office nearly three times the size of the former. The room was not only large but also grand in appearance, and nearly the opposite in ambience. Brightly lit, it featured a stylish mix of contemporary art and classical oil paintings, unique tribal floor coverings, and nineteenth-century European furniture. Accented by overhead spotlights, the room’s prominent features were opposing banks of built-in shelves, which were loaded with expensive antiques and relics from the Ottoman era, including porcelain vases, detailed tapestries, and jeweled weaponry. In the center of one shelf was the collection’s show-piece, a gold-threaded tunic on a mannequin in a glass-enclosed case. A placard inside indicated that the tunic had been worn by Mehmed I, an Ottoman Sultan who ruled in the fifteenth century.

A petite woman with short black hair was seated on a divan, reading a newspaper. Her presence stirred a touch of annoyance in the man’s face, and he walked past her without saying a word. Reaching a carved desk near the window, he peeled off a keffiyeh and black robe, revealing a sport shirt and slacks underneath.

“Your meeting with the Sheikh was productive?” she asked, lowering her paper.

Ozden Aktan Celik nodded in reply.

“Yes, the nitwit runt of the royal litter has agreed to another infusion of cash. Twenty million, to be exact.”

“Twenty?” the woman replied, her eyes widening. “Your skills at persuasion are impressive indeed.”

“Simply a matter of playing one spoiled rich Arab off another. When our Kuwaiti benefactor learns of the Sheikh’s contribution, he will be forced to exceed it out of ego alone. Of course, your recent visit to Cairo helped up the ante.”

“Amazing how the Zionist threat can be milked for such profits. Just think of the money that would be saved if the Arabs and Israelis ever kissed and made up.”

“They’d each find another scapegoat to antagonize,” Celik said, taking a seat behind the desk. He was a well-proportioned man, with thinning black hair combed back on the sides. His nose was wide, but he had a strong face, and would not have looked out of place on the cover of Gentlemen’s Quarterly magazine. Only his dark eyes hinted at a personality quirk, dancing constantly in a pirouette of emotional intensity. They twitched with anger as they focused on the woman.

“Maria, I would have preferred that you not show yourself so quickly. Particularly given your chaotic performance last night.” His eyes centered on her with a glowering intensity.

Whatever intimidation he intended had absolutely no effect on the woman.

“The operation went off entirely as planned. It was only the intrusion by some meddling bystanders that delayed our exit.”

“And subverted the acquisition of the Muhammad artifacts,” he hissed. “You should have killed them all on the spot.”

“Perhaps. But as it turns out, two of them were U.S. government officials, including a Congresswoman. Their deaths would have overshadowed our objective. And our objective seems to have been attained.” She folded the newspaper she was reading and tossed it over to Celik.

It was a copy of Milliyet , a Turkish daily newspaper, its blazing headlines proclaiming “Murdering Thieves Attack Topkapi, Steal Holy Relics.”

Celik nodded. “Yes, I’ve read the accounts. The media is blaming domestic heathens for stealing and desecrating our nation’s sacred Muslim relics. Exactly the headlines we intended. But you forget that we have paid influence with a number of local reporters. What is it that the police believe?”

Maria took a sip from a glass of water before responding. “We can’t be certain. My informant within the department was only able to obtain an electronic copy of the incident report this morning. It appears they have no real suspects, though the American woman did give some physical descriptions and reported that our team appeared to be speaking in Arabic.”

“I told you I didn’t like the idea of using Iraqi operatives.”

“They are well trained, my brother, and, if caught, still provide a safe scapegoat. A Shia thief, even if from Iraq, is nearly as productive as a Western infidel for our purposes. They are well paid to keep quiet. And besides, they falsely believe they are working for their Shia brethren. I couldn’t have obtained this without them,” she added, opening a small suitcase at her feet.

Reaching inside, she pulled out a flat object wrapped in loose brown paper. She stepped over and placed the package on the desk in front of Celik. His darting eyes zeroed in on the package, and he began unwrapping it with trembling fingers. Beneath the paper he uncovered a green taffeta bag. Opening the bag, he gently removed its contents, a faded black banner that was missing chunks along its border. He stared at the banner for nearly a minute before gently picking it up and holding it reverently in the air.

“Sancak-ı Şerif. The sacred standard of Muhammad,” he whispered in awe.

It was one of the most treasured relics of Topkapi, and perhaps the most important historically. The black woolen banner, created from the turban of a defeated foe, had served as the battle standard for the prophet Muhammad. He had carried it with him into the key Battle of Badr, where his victory had allowed for the very rise of Islam itself.

“With this, Muhammad changed the world,” Celik said, his eyes a sparkling mixture of reverence and delusion. “We shall do the same.”

He carried it over and set it on the glass case housing Sultan Mehmed’s tunic.

“And how were the other relics lost?” he asked, turning and facing the woman.

Maria stared at the floor, pondering a reply. “The American woman grabbed the second bag when she escaped the van. They hid in the Yerebatan Sarnici. I was forced to leave before I could retrieve it,” she added with disdain.

Celik said nothing, but his eyes bored through the woman like a pair of lasers. Again his hands trembled, but this time in anger. Maria quietly attempted to stave off an explosion.

“The mission was still a success. Even if all of the targeted relics were not obtained, the impact is the same. The entry and removal of the battle standard will generate the desired public response. Remember our strategic plan. This is just one step in our quest.”

Celik slowly cooled but still sought an explanation.

“What were these American tourists doing at Topkapi in the middle of the night?”

“According to the police report, they were at the Archaeological Museum, near the Bâb-üs Selâm Gate, meeting with one of the curators. The man — his name is Pitt — is some sort of underwater expert for the U.S. government. He apparently discovered an old shipwreck near Chios and was discussing the artifacts with the museum’s nautical authority.”

Celik perked up at the mention of the wreck. “Was it an Ottoman vessel?” he asked, eyeing the encased tunic before him.

“I don’t have any other information.”

Celik stared at the colorful threads of the aged tunic. “Our legacy must be preserved,” he said quietly, as if in a trance that had taken him back in time. “The riches of the empire belong to us. See if you can find out more about this shipwreck.”

Maria nodded. “It can be done. What of this man Pitt and his wife? We know where they are staying.”

Celik continued staring at the tunic. “I do not care. Kill them if you want, but do it quietly. Then prepare for the next project.”

Maria nodded, a thin smile crossing her lips.

7

Sophie Elkin dragged a brush through her straight black hair, then took a hurried look at herself in the mirror. Dressed in worn khaki pants and a matching cotton shirt, and, without any makeup, she would have been hard-pressed to make herself appear any plainer. Yet there was no hiding her natural beauty. She had a narrow face with high cheekbones, a petite nose, and soft aquamarine-colored eyes. Her skin was smooth and flawless, despite the many hours she spent outdoors. The features were mostly inherited from her mother, a French woman who had fallen in love with an Israeli geology student studying in Paris and had migrated with him to Tel Aviv.

Sophie had always minimized her looks and femininity. Even at an early age, she spurned the dresses her mother would buy, preferring pants so she could join the neighborhood boys in rough-and-tumble activities. An only child, she’d been close to her father, who had ascended to the head of the Geology Department at Tel Aviv University. The independent young girl had relished accompanying him on field expeditions to study the geological formations in the surrounding deserts, where she raptly absorbed his fireside tales of biblical events on the very grounds where they camped.

Her father’s work led her to study archaeology in college. While attaining her advanced degrees, she was jolted by the arrest of a fellow student for stealing artifacts from the university archives. The incident introduced her to the dark world of underground antiquities trading, which she grew to detest for its impact in the destruction of historic cultural sites. Upon receiving her doctorate, she abandoned academics and joined the Israel Antiquities Authority. With passion and dedication, she worked up to head of the Antiquities Robbery Prevention Unit in a few short years. Her devotion left little time for a personal life, and she dated infrequently, preferring to spend most nights working late.

Grabbing a handbag, she left her small hillside apartment overlooking the Mount of Olives and drove toward the Old City of Jerusalem. The Antiquities Authority was housed in the Rockefeller Museum, a sprawling white limestone structure situated near the northeast corner of the Old City. Employing just twelve people, her department was tasked with the impossible duty of protecting the roughly thirty thousand ancient cultural resource sites located around Israel.

“Good morning, Soph,” greeted the department’s senior detective, a lanky, bug-eyed man named Sam Levine. “Can I get you a coffee?”

“Thanks, Sam, I’d like that,” she said, covering a yawn as she squeezed into her cramped office. “There was some sort of all-night construction going on near my apartment last night. I slept terribly.”

Sam returned with the coffee and plopped down on the other side of her desk.

“If you weren’t going to sleep, then you should have joined us on recon last night,” he said with a grin.

“Any apprehensions?”

“No, our Hebron grave robbers must have taken the night off. We gave up by midnight but did come away with a nice stack of picks and shovels.”

Perhaps the world’s second-oldest profession, grave robbing ranked near the top of the Robbery Prevention Unit’s criminal hit list. Several times a week, Sophie or Sam would lead a late-night stakeout of ancient grave sites around the country where signs of recent excavation had been observed. Pots, jewelry, and even the bones themselves could usually find a ready buyer in the underground antiquities market that pervaded Israel.

“Now that they know we are onto them, they’ll probably lay low for a couple of weeks,” Sophie said.

“Or move elsewhere. Assuming they’ve got enough cash to buy some new shovels,” he added, smiling again.

Sophie glanced through some reports and news clippings on her desk, then passed one of the articles to Sam.

“I’m concerned about this excavation at Caesarea,” she said.

Sam quickly skimmed the article.

“Yes, I’ve heard about this. It’s a university-sponsored excavation of the old port facilities. It says here that they have uncovered some fourth-century seaport artifacts and a possible grave. You really think the site is a theft target?”

Sophie drained her coffee, then set down the cup with an agitated stare.

“The reporter might as well have put up a banner and flashing lights. Any time the word ‘grave’ finds its way into print, it’s like a magnet. I’ve begged the news reporters a thousand times to avoid publicizing grave sites, but they are more interested in selling papers than protecting our heritage.”

“Why don’t we go down and take a look? We’re scheduled for a recon tonight, but I could reassign the boys down there. They’d probably enjoy a trip to the coast.”

Sophie looked at her desk calendar, then nodded. “I’m free after one. I suppose we could go check it out, and stay the night if it looks worthwhile.”

“Now you’re talking. For that, I’ll go steal you another cup of coffee,” he said, jumping out of his chair.

“Okay, Sam, you got a deal.” Then she looked at him sternly. “But just don’t use the word ‘steal’ around me!”

Situated on the Mediterranean coast about thirty miles north of Tel Aviv, Caesarea was a lightly populated enclave easily overshadowed by its historic past as a seat of Roman power. Built by King Herod the Great as a fortified port city in the first century B.C., Caesarea featured the famous hallmarks of Roman architecture. A high-columned temple, a grand hippodrome, and an ornate palace along the sea all graced the city, which was fed cool inland water via massive brick aqueducts. Herod’s most impressive engineering feat was not on land, however. He designed and built massive breakwaters out of concrete blocks, using them to create the largest protected harbor in the eastern Mediterranean. The success of the harbor propelled Caesarea to greater importance as the capital of Judaea under Roman rule, and the city remained a key commerce center for over three hundred years.

Sophie was well acquainted with the remains of the ancient city, having spent a summer at the site while in college. Turning off the busy coastal highway, she eased the car through a luxury-home development, then entered the remains of the Roman site, which was now a protected state park. The centuries had not been kind to the original construction, its old Roman buildings having long since crumbled. Yet many remnants of the city’s ancient features were still intact, including a large section of an arched aqueduct that stretched across the ocher sands, not far from a sizable amphitheater that faced the sea.

Sophie parked the car in a lot near the hilltop entrance, adjacent to some Crusader-era fortifications.

“The university team is excavating near the harbor,” she said to Sam. “It’s just a short walk from here.”

“I wonder if there’s anything to eat around here?” He eyed the barren park hills around them with trepidation.

Sophie tossed him a water bottle from the backseat. “I’m sure there are some restaurants back near the highway, but you’ll have to settle for a liquid diet for now.”

They walked down a trail that weaved toward the beach, broadening at several points along the bluff. They passed a long-forgotten road that had once been lined with residences and small businesses, their ghostly remnants little more than disorderly piles of stone. As they descended the trail, the small harbor opened up before them. There was little left to recognize its boundaries, as the original breakwaters had become submerged centuries ago.

The trail led to a wide clearing, where little piles of stone were scattered across the field in all directions. A cluster of beige tents was assembled farther down, and Sophie could discern a few people working under a large awning in the center. The trail continued another hundred yards down the hill, to where the waters of the Mediterranean lapped at the beach. Two men were visible working on a small spit of land, bracketed by a pair of generators that hummed loudly in the distance.

Sophie headed toward the large awning, which she could see was erected over an area of active excavation. Two young women stood near a mound of dirt, filtering the soil through a screened box. As she stepped closer, Sophie could see an older man hunched over in a trench, picking at the soil with a small trowel and brush. With rumpled clothes, a close-cropped gray beard, and a pair of glasses perched at the end of his nose, Keith Haasis bore the marked appearance of a distinguished university professor.

“How much Roman treasure have you unearthed today, Dr. Haasis?”

The bearded man stood up in the trench with an annoyed look on his face, which immediately transformed into a wide grin when he recognized the inquisitor.

“Sophie!” he thundered. “How good to see you.” He hopped out of the trench and rushed over, giving her a big bear hug.

“It’s been too long,” he said.

“I just saw you two months ago at the biblical archaeology conference in Jerusalem,” she chided.

“Like I said, much too long,” he laughed.

In her younger days, Sophie had attended numerous seminars held by the archaeology professor from the University of Haifa, which had led to a professional friendship. Haasis was a highly valued contact, as both an archaeology expert and as a source of information on newly discovered sites and destructive activity.

“Dr. Haasis, this is my assistant, Sam Levine,” she said, introducing her companion. Haasis introduced his nearby students, then led Sophie and Sam to a circle of camp chairs that surrounded a large cooler. The professor passed out chilled cans of soda, then wiped his brow and plopped into a chair.

“Somebody needs to turn up the ocean breeze today,” he said with a tired smile. Then, gazing at Sophie, he asked, “I presume this is an official visit?”

Taking a drink, Sophie nodded in reply.

“Any particular concerns?”

“A bit of overstated publicity in yesterday’s Yedioth Ahronoth ,” she said, retrieving the newspaper article from a shoulder bag. Passing the article to Haasis, she coldly eyed Sam drain his can of soda and snatch a second from the cooler.

“Yes, a local reporter stopped by for an interview a few days ago,” Haasis said. “His story must have been picked up in Jerusalem.”

He smiled at Sophie as he passed the article back.

“Nothing wrong with a little publicity for some proper archaeology,” he said.

“Nothing, that is, except a brazen invitation to every thief with a shovel,” she replied.

Haasis waved his arm through the air. “This site has been plundered for centuries. Any ‘Roman treasure’ that was buried around here is long gone, I’m afraid. Or didn’t your agent think so?”

“What agent?” Sophie asked.

“I was up in Haifa for a meeting, but my students said an antiquities agent stopped by yesterday and surveyed the project site. Stephanie,” he said, calling over his shoulder.

One of the girls at the screened box hurried over. A gangly coed of barely twenty, she stood before Haasis with a look of devotion.

“Stephanie, tell us about this fellow from the Antiquities Authority who came by yesterday,” he asked.

“He said he was with the Robbery Prevention Unit. He wanted to check the security of our artifacts, so I gave him a tour of the site. He seemed most interested in the harbor excavation and the papyrus document.”

Sophie and Sam looked at each other with raised eyebrows.

“Do you recall his name?” she asked.

“Yosef something. He was kind of short, dark-skinned, with curly hair. Looked Palestinian, to be honest.”

“Did he show you any identification?” Sam asked.

“No, I don’t think so. Is anything the matter?”

“No, not at all,” Haasis said. “Thanks, Stephanie. Why don’t you take some drinks down to the others?”

Haasis waited until the girl left with an armful of cans, then turned to Sophie.

“Not one of your agents?” he asked.

Sophie shook her head. “Certainly not from the Robbery Prevention Unit.”

“Maybe he was from the national parks authority, or one of your own regional offices. These darn kids don’t seem to remember anything these days.”

“It’s possible,” she replied in a doubtful tone. “Can you show us your excavation sites? I’m most interested in the tomb. As you know, the grave robbers around Jerusalem have created a cottage industry as of late.”

Haasis smiled, then jerked his thumb over his shoulder. “It’s right behind us.”

The trio stood and walked around to a wide trench that ran behind the chairs. A sprinkling of red plastic markers was pinned into the ground surrounding a small section of exposed bones. Sophie recognized a femur among the remains embedded in the dirt.

“There’s no formal tomb. We’ve just uncovered a single grave at the edge of the site. It’s really unrelated to the diggings here,” Haasis explained.

“What is this site?” Sam asked.

“We believe it was something of a shipping warehouse. We targeted the area after a set of bronze scales was uncovered here some years ago. Our hope is to collect samples of grains, rice, and other food staples that might have come through the port. If successful, it will provide us a better understanding of the type and volume of trade that passed through Caesarea when it was a thriving center of trade.”

“How does the grave fit in?” Sophie asked.

“We haven’t performed any dating, but my guess is this fellow was a casualty of the Muslim invasion of the city in 638 A.D. The grave lies just outside the foundation of the building, so I think we’ll find that he was a lone body hastily buried against the wall.”

“The newspaper article called it a tomb ‘rich with artifacts,’” Sam noted.

Haasis laughed. “Journalistic license, I’m afraid. We found a few buttons made of animal bone and the heel from a sandal before we halted excavation. But that’s the extent of any ‘rich artifacts’ from the grave site.”

“Our friendly neighborhood grave robbers are liable to be sorely disappointed,” Sam said.

“Indeed,” the professor replied. “For our real riches have been uncovered along the seawall.” He nodded toward the Mediterranean, where the hum from the generators still drifted up the hill. “We discovered an early papyrus document that has us very excited. Come, let’s take a walk down to the water, then I’ll show you the artifact.”

Haasis led Sophie and Sam to the trail, then guided them down the hill. Small ridges of scattered stone broke the soil in odd patterns around them, faint reminders of the city’s once congested multitude of buildings that had long ago been reduced to rubble.

“Using molds to pour and set his concrete blocks in place, King Herod constructed two large breakwaters that circled toward each other like a pair of arms,” Haasis lectured as they walked. “Warehouses were built atop the breakwaters, and a towering lighthouse stood at the harbor entrance.”

“I recall that an early research project mapped a large number of stones underwater believed to have fallen from the lighthouse,” Sophie said.

“A shame Herod’s work didn’t survive the sea’s ravages,” Sam said, looking out at the water and finding little visible evidence of the original breakwaters.

“Yes, most all of the blocks are now completely submerged. But this is where the heart of my interest lies,” Haasis said, motioning toward the invisible bay. “The warehouse up the hill makes a nice field school for the students, but the port facility is what makes Caesarea unique.”

They crossed the beach and hiked onto a small finger of land that poked into the wave-driven sea. Two male students were laboriously excavating a deep pit in the center of the rocky spit. Nearby, a diver could be seen working in the water, applying a compressor-driven water jet under the surface.

“This is where the main breakwater originated,” Haasis explained, speaking loudly to overcome the drone of a nearby compressor. “On this site we believe was situated the equivalent of a customs house. One of the boys recovered the papyrus document in a shattered pot over there,” he said, pointing to a nearby trench. “We expanded some test trenches in several directions but have found no other artifacts.”

“Amazing that it would survive so close to the water,” Sam said.

“We’ve found fragments of the foundation that are still above mean high-tide levels.”

They peered into the active test pit, where one of the students pointed out a small flat section of marble tiling.

“Looks like you’ve reached the basement,” Sophie remarked.

“Yes, I’m afraid there may not be much left to excavate.”

“What’s the diver up to?”

“He’s a marine engineer helping reconstruct the layout of the original port facilities. He seems to think there may be a subterranean chamber to our customs house and is poking around for an underwater access.”

Sophie walked over to the edge of the embankment and stared down at the diver. He was working in ten feet of water almost directly beneath her, manhandling a water jet against the hard-packed bottom. Without noticing the audience above him, the diver broke off his probing and began to ascend. He held the nozzle of the water jet upright, which sprayed a fountain of water skyward when he broke the surface. Standing right in its path, Sophie was doused with a blasting spray of salt water before she could jump out of the way.

“You damn fool!” she cursed, wiping the salt water out of her eyes with her dripping sleeves.

Realizing what he had done, the diver quickly spun the nozzle seaward, then swam to the edge of the embankment and shut off the compressor. Turning to his victim, he gazed at the wet clothes clinging tightly to her body, then spat out his regulator.

“Behold, a goddess from the sea?” he said with a wide smile.

Sophie shook her head and turned her back on him, growing angrier at the sight of Sam laughing out loud. Haasis suppressed his own mirth and came to her rescue.

“Sophie, there’s a towel in my tent. Come, let’s get you dried off.”

The diver popped his regulator back into his mouth and disappeared under the surface as Sophie followed Haasis up the trail. They reached the professor’s tent, where she rubbed her hair and clothes dry as best she could. The warm breeze would dry her clothes quickly, but she shivered at the sudden evaporative cooling effect on her damp skin.

“May I see the artifacts you have excavated?” she asked.

“Certainly. They’re right next door.”

The professor led her to a large peaked tent that was open at one end. Inside were the artifacts recovered from the warehouse site, mostly potsherds and tile fragments, strewn about a long linen-covered table. The student Stephanie was busy with a camera and notebook, carefully numbering and recording each piece before storing them in thin plastic boxes. Haasis ignored the artifacts and led Sophie to a small table at the back of the tent. A single sealed box was on the table, which Haasis handled cautiously as he removed the lid.

“I wish we had found more,” he said wistfully, standing aside to let Sophie peer into the box.

Inside was an elongated patch of brown material, pressed between two plates of glass. Sophie immediately recognized it as papyrus, a common writing surface in the Middle East up to the end of the first millennium. The sample was worn and frayed, yet clean rows of handwritten symbols were plainly visible down most of the document’s length.

“It appears to be a port facility record of some sort. I can make out references to a large quantity of grain and a herd of livestock being off-loaded at the wharf,” Haasis said. “We’ll learn more after laboratory analysis, but I think it might be a customs bill for a merchant vessel delivering goods from Alexandria.”

“It’s a splendid find,” Sophie complimented. “With luck, it will enhance the information gathered from the warehouse site.”

Haasis laughed. “My luck, it will prove entirely contradictory.”

They both turned as a tall figure entered the tent carrying a large plastic bin. Sophie saw it was the diver, still clad in a wet suit, his loose dark hair streaked with water. Still angered over her dousing, she began to make a caustic remark but felt her voice wither when she was met by a bright smile and a pair of deep green eyes that bored right through her.

“Dirk, there you are,” Haasis said. “May I introduce the lovely but damp Sophie Elkin of the Israel Antiquities Authority. Sophie, this is Dirk Pitt, Jr., on loan from the U.S. National Underwater and Marine Agency.”

The son and namesake of the agency head, Dirk walked over and set down the bin. Still flashing a disarming smile, he warmly shook hands with Sophie. She didn’t offer a protest when he was slow to release his grip.

“My apologies for the shower, I didn’t realize you were standing there.”

“No trouble, I’m nearly dry now.” She was inwardly startled at how her anger had suddenly been displaced by an odd tingle. She absently patted her hair to prove her point.

“I hope you’ll allow me the honor of buying you dinner tonight to make amends.”

Dirk’s forward proposal caught her off guard, and she stumbled to answer, muttering something unintelligible. Somewhere a voice inside screamed at her for losing her normally unflappable manner. Haasis thankfully intervened to save the awkward moment.

“Dirk, what’s in the box?” he asked, eyeing it curiously.

“Just a few goodies from the subterranean chamber.”

Haasis’s mouth dropped. “It truly exists?”

Dirk nodded.

“What chamber?” Sophie asked.

“While I was surveying the remains of the inshore breakwater, I found a small underwater opening near Keith’s test pits. I could only squeeze my arm in, but I could feel my hand break the water’s surface. That’s why I was using the water jet, to blast a larger hole through the mud and concretions.”

“How large is the cavity?” Haasis asked excitedly.

“It’s not much bigger than a crawl space, about six feet deep. But most of it is above water. I’ll go out on a limb and speculate that it was part of a cellar used for storage or records archives.”

“How did you come to that conclusion?” Sophie inquired.

Dirk dried off the plastic bin he had carried in and carefully pulled off the watertight lid. Inside were several ceramic boxes, rectangular in shape and colored a reddish orange. He pulled one out and handed it to Sophie.

“Hopefully you can decipher its contents,” he said. “They didn’t teach me ancient texts in marine engineering school.”

Sophie set the box on a table and gently pried off the lid. Inside were a half dozen tightly wound rolls of material.

“They’re papyrus rolls,” she said in a shocked voice.

Haasis could no longer contain himself, slipping on a pair of white gloves and squeezing in alongside Sophie.

“Let me take a look,” he said, pulling one of the rolls out and slowly unrolling it across the tabletop. An odd but orderly script filled the page, handwritten with a bold stroke.

“It appears to be Coptic Greek,” Sophie said, looking over the professor’s shoulder. An ancient text developed in Egypt using the Greek alphabet, Coptic script was a common written language in the eastern Mediterranean during the time of Roman rule.

“Indeed,” he confirmed. “It appears to be an annual record from the harbormaster, for port fees and dockage. These are the names of vessels, with their lading,” he said, running a gloved finger down a pair of columns.

“Isn’t that a reference to the Emperor?” Sophie asked, pointing to a block at the top.

“Yes,” Haasis replied, trying to interpret the heading. “It’s titled a report of Caesarea port fees, or something to that effect. Written on behalf of Emperor Marcus Maxentius.”

“If my memory serves, Maxentius was a contemporary of Constantine.”

“Maxentius ruled in the west and Constantine in the east, before the latter consolidated power.”

“So this must date to the early fourth century.”

Haasis nodded with a glimmer in his eye, then looked at the other scrolls. “These may offer us an amazing glimpse into life in Judaea under Roman rule.”

“Ought to provide fodder for a good thesis or two from your students,” Dirk said, as he emptied the bin of three additional ceramic boxes. Tucking the empty bin under his arm, he turned and headed out of the tent.

“Dirk, you just uncovered a magnificent historical find,” Haasis said with wonder. “Where on earth are you going?”

“I’m gonna go get wet like a damn fool,” he replied with a twisted grin, “because there’s plenty more where those came from.”

8

Ozden Celik arrived at the Fatih Mosque, one of Istanbul’s largest, an hour after morning salat and found the ornate interior halls of the complex mostly empty. Bypassing the main prayer hall, he followed a side corridor to the rear of the structure, then exited into a small courtyard. Marble paving stones led to a nondescript building located in an area cordoned off from tourists and worshippers. Celik made his way to the threshold and entered through a heavy wooden door.

Stepping inside, he found himself in a bright and bustling office. Cloisters of gray cubicles extended in all directions, fronted by a large wooden reception desk. The clamorous din of churning laser printers and ringing phones filled the air, lending the feel of a telemarketing call center. Only the odor of burning incense and photos of Turkish mosques on the walls indicated otherwise. That and the absence of any women.

Celik noted that all of the office workers were bearded men, many wearing long robes, tapping at their computers in apparent incongruity. A young man behind the counter stood as Celik approached.

“Good morning, Mr. Celik,” he greeted. “The Mufti is expecting you.”

The secretary led Celik past a line of cubicles to a large corner office. The room was sparsely decorated, containing only the requisite Turkish rugs on the floor for expression. More notable were the sagging rows of bookshelves that lined the walls, packed tightly with religious tomes reflecting the scholarly background of an Islamic Mufti.

Mufti Altan Battal sat at a barren executive desk, scribbling on a writing pad, with a pair of open books on either side of him. He looked up and smiled as the secretary ushered Celik into the office.

“Ozden, you have arrived. Please, take a seat,” he offered. “Hasan, let us talk in peace,” he added, shooing away the secretary. The assistant quickly backpedaled, closing the door on his way out.

“Just putting the finishing touches on Friday’s sermon,” the Mufti said, setting a pencil down on the desk beside a cell phone.

“You should have one of your Imams do that for you.”

“Perhaps. But I feel that it is my calling. Deferring to one of the mosque Imams might create jealousies as well. I would rather ensure that all of the Imams of Istanbul speak with one voice.”

As Mufti of Istanbul, Battal was the theological leader of all three thousand of the city’s mosques. Only the President of the Diyanet İşleri, a nonelected post in Turkey’s secular government, technically wielded greater spiritual authority over the country’s Muslim population. Yet Battal had developed far greater influence over the hearts and minds of the mosque-going public.

Despite his seniority, Battal appeared nothing like the stereo-typical stern gray cleric with a raging beard. He was a tall, powerfully built man with an imposing presence. Not yet fifty years old, he had a long face that expressed the sunny disposition of a Labrador puppy. He often wore suits instead of robes and inflected a deprecating sense of humor that made his brand of fundamentalist Islam almost seem fun.

Yet despite his sunny persona, the message he sold was a bleak one. Raised on the extreme fundamentalist tenets of Islamic interpretation, he vocally supported Islamism, the expansion of Islam as both a religious and political movement. His worldview taught the subjugation of women’s rights while strongly turning away from Western culture and mores. He had gradually built a power base by railing against the forces of foreign influence, then turned his sights on the secular government as economic conditions within Turkey soured. Although he hadn’t publicly taken a militant stance, he believed in jihad for the defense of Islamic territory. Like Celik, he was driven by a powerful ego, and privately aspired to command the country as both its religious and political leader.

“I have some very good news to report, on several fronts,” Celik said.

“My friend Ozden, you are always working behind the scenes on my behalf. What is it that you have done for our cause now?”

“I recently met with Sheikh Zayad of the Emirati Royal Family. He is pleased with the work you have done and wishes to make another substantial contribution.”

Battal’s eyes widened. “On top of his earlier generosity? This is wonderful news. I am still at a loss, however, as to his interest in our movement here in Turkey.”

“He is a man of vision,” Celik replied, “who supports adherence to the Sharia path. He is troubled by the growing threats against us, as evident by the recent mosque attacks here and in Egypt.”

“Yes, despicable acts of violence against our holy sites. And on top of that, there is the recent theft of the Prophet’s relics from Topkapi. These are intolerable assaults on our faith by outside forces of evil.”

“The Sheikh concurs with your sentiments. He sees his country’s security, and that of the entire region, being safer under a fundamentalist Sunni rule.”

“Which leads to your next bit of news?” Battal said with a knowing grin.

“So, the birds have been singing, eh? Well, as you may know, I met with the Felicity Party’s leadership council, and they have agreed to accept you as their presidential candidate. They actually appeared ecstatic at your willingness to replace Imam Keya as their presidential candidate.”

“A tragedy that he was killed in the Bursa Mosque blast,” Battal said with sincerity.

Celik suppressed a knowing look and nodded his head. “The party leadership has expressed their willingness to adopt your platform demands,” he continued.

“We are similar in philosophy,” Battal replied agreeably. “You are aware that the Felicity Party only garnered about three percent of the vote in the last presidential election?”

“Yes,” Celik replied, “but that was not with you atop the ballot.”

It was an alluring appeal to Battal’s ego, which had blossomed with his recent rise in popularity.

“The election is only a few weeks away,” he noted.

“Which is perfect for us,” Celik replied. “We will catch the ruling party by surprise, and they will barely have time to react to your candidacy.”

“Do you think I really have a chance?”

“Polling figures indicate that if you entered the race, you’d be less than ten percentage points behind. It’s a deficit that could easily be overcome by events.”

Battal stared off at his bookshelf of Muslim writings. “It may be a singular opportunity to erase the wrongdoings of Atatürk and lead our country back to its rightful path. We must adhere to Sharia, the law of Islam, in every aspect of our governance.”

“It is your duty to Allah,” Celik replied.

“There will be strong opposition to my candidacy, particularly on constitutional grounds. Are you positive we can overcome the challenges?”

“You forget that the Prime Minister is a hidden ally to our cause. He has kept his true faith concealed from the public and will be with us in forming a new government.”

“I enjoy your confidence, Ozden. I will of course have a key role for you in leading our new state, praise Allah.”

“I am counting on it,” Celik replied smugly. “As for your announced entry into the presidential race, I will assist your advisers in coordinating a large public rally. With some of the Sheikh’s money, we will be able to create a media blitz that will flood the opposition. I am also working on some other programs to boost your popularity.”

“So be it,” Battal said, standing and shaking hands with Celik. “With you by my side, my friend, what can we not achieve?”

“Nothing, my master. Nothing at all.”

Celik left the meeting with a skip in his step. The foolish naïf could be played like a violin, he thought. Once elected, Celik would be pulling all the strings. And should Battal have a change of heart, Celik had a slew of dirty tricks up his sleeve to keep the Mufti in line.

Exiting the mosque under an unusually clear and sunny sky, he felt the future was looking very bright indeed.

In a dimly lit cubicle within the secured walls of Fort Gordon, Georgia, Turkish language analyst George Withers listened to the conversation through a set of cushioned headphones. An employee of the NSA’s Georgia Regional Security Operations Center, Withers was one of an army of linguists paid to eavesdrop on Middle East communications from the Army base tucked amid the forested hills surrounding Augusta.

Unlike most of his voice intercept work that involved real-time translation of phone calls captured from satellite transmissions, this conversation was hours old. The data had originated from a listening post at the U.S. Embassy in Istanbul, which had intercepted a cellular phone call to the Turkish National Intelligence Organization. The call had been digitally recorded and encrypted, then sent to Fort Gordon via an NSA relay station in Cyprus.

Withers had no way of knowing that the call had actually originated from Battal’s own cell phone. Sitting idle on his desk, the phone had been remotely activated by the Turkish intelligence agency. Like most modern cell phones, Battal’s had a built-in tracking device, which allowed it to be targeted with a secret software download. Sitting unused or even turned off, the cell phone’s microphone could be turned on remotely, gathering all nearby audio inputs. Once activated, the audio could be transmitted through a normal cell call without the user’s knowledge. The Mufti had been placed on a watch list by Turkey’s Intelligence Director, a hardened secularist who had grown nervous of Battal’s growing popularity and power. Battal’s conversation with Celik, and every other person who entered his office, was now on a direct feed to the Turkish intelligence agency. The American linguist listening in was therefore an eavesdropper on an eavesdropper.

Correctly gauging the nature of the call and guessing that it was transmitted by an unauthorized recording, Withers decided that it was worth forwarding to an intelligence analyst for further assessment. Glancing at a desk clock and seeing that it was time for his lunch break, he quickly typed in a computer command. Seconds later, a written transcript of the conversation appeared on his computer monitor, courtesy of the agency’s voice recognition software. Withers reviewed the transcript, correcting a few errors and clarifying a comment or two that the software failed to decipher, then added his own comments to a summary page. E-mailing it to an agency specialist in Turkish affairs, he rose from his desk and headed to the cafeteria, thinking that the report would probably never again see the light of day.

9

The U.S. Director of National Intelligence sat quietly through his weekly staff briefing on Eurasian and Middle Eastern affairs. A taciturn retired Army general named Braxton, he was the President’s chief intelligence funnel for the Defense Department, Homeland Security, the CIA, and a dozen other agencies responsible for protecting the nation’s security.

The briefing was dominated by the usual field updates of events taking place in Afghanistan, Pakistan, Iraq, and Iran. A parade of intelligence officers and Pentagon officials marched in and out of the secure conference room at the Liberty Crossing Intelligence Campus, the recently constructed home of the DNI located in McLean, Virginia.

The briefing was on its third hour before the agenda turned to Israel. John O’Quinn, a deputy national intelligence officer for western Asia, slipped away from the mammoth conference table to refill his coffee cup as a CIA intelligence officer discussed the latest developments on the West Bank.

“All right, all right, there’s nothing new there,” Braxton interrupted impatiently. “Let’s move on to the rest of the Med. What’s the latest on the al-Azhar Mosque bombing in Cairo?”

O’Quinn hurried back to the table as the CIA officer fielded the question.

“The final death toll was only seven, as the blast occurred at a time of sparse attendance. We don’t know if that was intentional or not. There was a single explosion, which severely damaged the mosque’s main prayer hall. As you know, al-Azhar is considered the state mosque of Egypt, and is also one of the oldest and most revered sites in Islam. The public outrage has been intense, with several anti-Israel marches taking place throughout the streets of Cairo. We’re quite sure that the protests are being organized by the Muslim Brotherhood.”

“Does Cairo know who is responsible for the bombing?”

“They don’t,” the CIA man replied. “No one with any credibility has taken responsibility, which isn’t surprising given the nature of the attack. Our fear is that the Muslim Brotherhood will gain renewed traction from the attack to make further inroads into the Egyptian parliament.”

“That’s all we need is for the Egyptians to go fundamentalist on us,” Braxton muttered with a shake of his head. “What’s our intelligence assessment as to who pulled it off?”

“We really don’t know, sir. We’re looking at potential al-Qaeda connections, but have nothing firm at the moment. There’s a somewhat curious detail from the Egyptian National Police, and that is that they claim to have found residue samples of HMX from the blast site.”

“The meaning being?”

“HMX is a tightly controlled plastic explosive. It’s high-end stuff, mostly used for nuclear devices and rocket propellant. It’s not something we’d normally associate with al-Qaeda, and we find it a bit odd that it surfaced in Egypt.”

Sitting in an adjacent chair, O’Quinn felt the hair on the back of his neck rise. He quickly cleared his throat.

“You sure it was HMX?” he asked.

“We’re awaiting our own test samples, but that’s what the Egyptians reported.”

“That mean something to you, O’Quinn?” General Braxton asked.

The intelligence officer nodded. “Sir, there was a planted bomb explosion at the Yeşil Mosque in Bursa, Turkey, three days before the al-Azhar blast. You may have seen a field brief on it. Three fatalities, including a prominent leader in the fringe Felicity political party. Like in Egypt, it was an old, venerated mosque.” He took a quick sip of his coffee, then added, “The Turkish authorities have confirmed that the blast was caused by a planted parcel of HMX explosives.”

“So we have two planted bombs in two countries three days apart,” the general stated. “Both in historic mosques, both ostensibly with a low designated kill rate, and both ostensibly using the same explosive material. All right, then, somebody please tell me who and why.”

An uneasy silence filled the room before O’Quinn finally braved to speak.

“Sir, I don’t think anyone was aware of the similarities in explosives until just now.”

The CIA man agreed. “We’ll get some analysts to search for a possible link right away. Given the nature of the explosives, I might speculate that the Iranians have some involvement.”

“What do the Turks think?” Braxton asked.

“Like Egypt, there have been no claims of responsibility. We have had no indication that the Turks have identified any suspects.”

The general began fidgeting in his seat, his cobalt blue eyes boring into O’Quinn like a pair of drill bits. O’Quinn had worked for the general for less than a year but had slowly gained his professional respect. He could tell by his demeanor that the Director wanted more, and finally he asked for it.

“What is your assessment?” the general asked gruffly.

O’Quinn’s mind churned to expel a coherent reply, but he had more questions than answers.

“Sir, I can’t formulate the Egyptian blast, but, as far as the Bursa mosque bombing, some believe there may be a link to the recent artifact thefts at Topkapi Palace in Istanbul.”

“Yes, I read about that,” the general replied. “I understand a Congresswoman was somehow involved in the incident.”

“Loren Smith, of Colorado. She recovered a portion of the stolen artifacts but was nearly killed in the process. She somehow managed to keep her name out of the papers.”

“Sounds like someone I could use on my staff,” Braxton muttered.

“I believe some sort of explosives were used during the Topkapi break-in,” O’Quinn continued. “I will make an immediate inquiry to determine if there is a match to the Bursa and Cairo bombings.”

“What would be the motive?”

“The typical incidences of mosque bombings, as we’ve seen in Iraq, are Shia attacks on Sunni mosques, or visa versa,” offered the CIA officer. “Though in the case of Turkey, I believe the Shia Muslims in the country are a nonviolent minority.”

“That’s correct,” O’Quinn stated. “A more likely culprit would be Kurdish separatists. Turkey is holding national elections in less than four weeks. It’s possible that the Turkish attacks were instigated by the Kurds, or another fringe political party trying to stir up trouble, though I’m not sure that would explain a link to Cairo.”

“I would think the Turkish authorities would have been quick to publicly blame the Kurds if they thought they were actually behind the attacks,” Braxton said.

“You’re probably right,” O’Quinn replied, flipping through his briefing notes. His fingers stopped at a copy of the NSA intercept transcript recorded by George Withers.

“Sir, there’s another development on the Turkish front that may be cause for alarm.”

“Go ahead,” the general said.

“Altan Battal, the Muslim Mufti of Istanbul and a leading fundamentalist cleric in Turkey, will be entering the upcoming presidential election, according to an NSA call intercept.”

“President Yilmaz has had a stable leadership run for several years,” Braxton noted. “And Turkey is strongly secular. I can’t imagine that this Battal fellow represents more than a marginal candidacy.”

“I’m afraid that’s not the case,” O’Quinn replied. “President Yilmaz’s popularity has waned considerably due to the poor state of the economy, and he’s been stung by recent corruption charges within his administration. Mufti Battal, on the other hand, has become a rising public figure in the country, particularly with the poor and unemployed. There’s no telling how he’ll perform as a political candidate, but many fear he could represent a legitimate challenge to the incumbent.”

“Tell me more about this Battal,” the general asked.

“Well, sir, his claimed bio states that he was orphaned at an early age and forced to fight for survival in the ghetto slums of west Istanbul. He escaped a life of poverty when he came to the aid of an old man being robbed by a neighborhood thug. In gratitude, the man, a mosque elder, sent Battal to a private Muslim school, where he paid the boy’s room and board well into his teens. The school was heavily fundamentalist, which apparently drives his views today. He has a heavy scholarly bent yet also a gift for oration, which helped accelerate his rise through Istanbul’s Muslim hierarchy. He now stands as the chief theologian for all of Istanbul. Though personally charming, his writings and sermons espouse Taliban-like interpretations of Islam, with plenty of rallying about the evils of the West and the dangers of foreign influence. There’s no telling what would happen if he was elected, but we’d have to face the real possibility of losing Turkey overnight.”

“Does he have a chance to win the election?” Braxton asked with rising dread in his voice.

O’Quinn nodded. “Our assessment is that he could have a real shot at it. And if the Turkish military should sustain his election, then all bets are off.”

An Air Force colonel seated at the table gasped. “A fundamentalist takeover of Turkey? That would be an unmitigated disaster. Turkey is a NATO country and one of our strongest allies in the region. We have a variety of military resources in the country, including tactical nuclear weapons. The Air Force base at Incirlik is critical for our operations in Afghanistan.”

“Not to mention the listening posts on their soil we use to monitor the Russians and the Iranians,” added the CIA man.

“Turkey is currently a key transfer point for supplies into Afghanistan, as they were for Iraq,” grieved an Army major seated beside the colonel. “Loss of those supply lines would jeopardize our entire Afghan campaign.”

“We foresee all kinds of potentially disastrous scenarios,” O’Quinn added quietly, “from a closure of the Bosphorus, and its flow of Russian oil and gas, to an emboldened Iran. The entire Middle East would be affected, and the impact of such a change on the balance of power is nearly impossible to predict.”

“Turkey has been a quiet friend and trading partner of Israel, exporting large quantities of food and fresh water, among other things,” the CIA officer said. “If Turkey and Egypt were both to make a turn toward fundamentalism, it would heighten Israel’s isolation. In addition to emboldening Iran, I would fear a greater aggression from Hamas, Hezbollah, and other frontline adversaries of Israel, which would only lead to greater violence in the region. Such a turnabout in ruling power could in fact become the trigger point that we have long feared, the one that sparks World War Three from the heart of the Middle East.”

The room fell silent as Braxton and the others digested the words with quiet dread. The general finally shook off the uneasy tension and barked a stream of orders.

“O’Quinn, I want a full report on this Mufti Battal on my desk first thing in the morning. I’ll also need an executive summary for the Presidential Daily Brief. We’ll reconvene here Friday, where I expect a full assessment from both State and CIA. Assign whatever resources are necessary,” he added with clenched teeth, “but don’t let this get ahead of us.” He slammed his briefing book shut, then glared at the CIA man.

“World War Three?” he hissed. “Not on my watch!”

10

The call to morning salat drifted through the open hotel window, waking Pitt earlier than he would have preferred. Leaving the warm comfort of Loren’s side, he rose from bed and peered out the window. The black-tipped minarets of Istanbul’s Sultanahmet Mosque scratched a hazy sky just a few blocks away. Pitt noted wryly that the Islamic call to prayer no longer came from a muezzin shouting from the heights of the minaret but rather from loudspeakers situated around the mosque.

“Can you turn that racket off?” Loren mumbled from beneath a blanket.

“You’ll have to take it up with Allah,” Pitt replied.

He closed the window, then gazed through the pane at the towering architecture of the nearby mosque and the blue waters of the Sea of Marmara just beyond. A large contingent of freighters was already assembling in line, waiting their turn to sail up the narrow Bosphorus Strait. Loren materialized out of the bed, slipping into a robe and joining her husband at the picture window.

“I didn’t realize that blaring came from the mosque,” she said a bit meekly. “It’s quite beautiful. Built by the Ottomans, I presume?”

“Yes, in the early seventeenth century, I believe.”

“Let’s go have a look after breakfast. But after last night’s excitement, that may be all the sightseeing I’ll be up for today,” she said with a yawn.

“No shop-till-you-drop at the Grand Bazaar?”

“Maybe next time. I want our lone full day together in Istanbul to be relaxing.”

Pitt watched a red freighter chug off the shoreline, then said, “I think I have just the ticket.”

They quickly showered and dressed, then ordered breakfast brought to their room. They were readying to leave when the phone rang. Pitt answered and spoke for several minutes, then hung up the receiver.

“It was Dr. Ruppé, calling from the airport. He wanted to make sure you were okay,” he explained.

“I’d feel better if you told me the police had captured those criminals.”

Pitt shook his head. “Apparently not. Rey is a little irate, as the local media is blaming the break-in and murders on an anti-Muslim movement. Apparently, some valuable jewelry was ignored at Topkapi in favor of several Muhammad relics.”

“You said murders in the plural,” Loren remarked.

“Yes, there were a total of five security guards killed in the ordeal.”

Loren grimaced. “The fact that several of the murderers were Persian-looking didn’t clue the police in another direction?”

“The police have our account. I’m sure they are operating under a different scenario.” Deep down, Pitt wasn’t so sure but hid his anger at the thought of his wife’s kidnappers escaping scot-free.

“The other news, according to Ruppé,” he continued, “is that they kept our names and involvement out of the paper. Apparently, there is widespread outrage at the theft, which is being viewed as a deep insult to the Muslim community.”

“Even after our near-death experience, that’s okay with me,” Loren mused. “By the way, what exactly did they end up stealing?”

“They made off with a battle standard that belonged to Muhammad. Apparently, the outrage would have been even more magnified if you hadn’t liberated the second black bag.”

“What did it contain?”

“A cloak of Muhammad’s, called the Holy Mantle, along with a letter written in his hand. Part of what is known as the Sacred Trusts.”

“It’s terrible that somebody would try to steal such relics,” Loren said, shaking her head.

“Come on, we better go see the rest of this town before anything else disappears.”

They exited the lobby of the hotel and entered the bustling streets of old Istanbul. Pitt noticed a man in mirrored sunglasses staring at Loren as he passed on his way into the hotel. Tall and sporting a near-ballerina figure, Loren seldom failed to attract the male eye. Dressed in light slacks and an amethyst blouse that nearly matched the color of her eyes, she looked vivacious despite the turmoil of the night before.

Walking down a block or two, they stopped and peered in the window of an upscale rug shop called Punto of Istanbul, admiring an elegant Serapi carpet that hung on the wall. Strolling to the end of the street, they crossed the Hippodrome, a long, narrow park around which the chariots raced in the Byzantine era. Just beyond was the mosque of Sultan Ahmet I.

Completed in 1617, it was the last of Istanbul’s great imperial mosques. The exterior featured a rising cascade of domes and semi-domes that climbed in height and grandeur until culminating in a massive central dome. By the time Pitt and Loren had entered the mosque’s arched courtyard, most of the morning worshippers had been replaced by camera-toting tourists.

They made their way into the prayer hall, its expansive interior dimly lit by high banks of stained-glass windows. Overhead, the curving domes were covered in a maze of intricately patterned tiles, many in shades of blue, which gave the building its nickname, the Blue Mosque. Pitt studied an archway filled with familiar-looking floral tiles, which were manufactured in the nearby city of Iznik.

“Look at that design,” he said to Loren. “It’s nearly identical to the pattern on the ceramic box we pulled from the wreck.”

“You’re right,” Loren agreed, “though the coloring is a little different. Congratulations, it’s more evidence that your wreck sank around sixteen hundred.”

Pitt’s satisfaction was short-lived. Eyeing a green-tiled wall on the opposite side of the prayer hall, he spotted a man in sunglasses looking in his direction. It was the same man who had gawked at Loren outside the hotel.

Without saying a word, Pitt slowly herded Loren toward the exit, consciously staying close to a group of German tourists on a guided tour. He casually surveyed the crowd scattered about the mosque, trying to discern whether Sunglasses had any partners. Pitt noticed a thin Persian man with a bushy mustache shuffling along nearby, a serious scowl on his face. He appeared incongruous among the other tourists standing with their necks craned toward the ceiling. It seemed unlikely that the Topkapi thieves would have tracked them down so quickly, though Pitt recalled the threatening words of the woman in the cistern. He decided to find out for sure.

Following the Germans out of the prayer hall, Pitt and Loren pulled on the shoes they had removed earlier and followed the tour group into the courtyard. Pitt watched from the corner of his eye as the Persian followed suit.

“Stay here,” Pitt told Loren, then turned and quickly strode across the marble tile toward the man.

The Persian immediately turned, pretending to study a nearby column behind him. Pitt strode right up and gazed down at the man, who stood a head shorter.

“Excuse me,” Pitt said. “Can you tell me who’s buried in Atatürk’s tomb?”

The man at first avoided Pitt’s gaze, peering instead toward the prayer hall exit where Sunglasses now stood. Spotting a shake of the head, he turned and faced Pitt with a look of contempt.

“I wouldn’t know where that dog lies,” he spat, his eyes glistening with an arrogant intimidation born of a hardened life in the streets. An undercover police agent he was clearly not. When Pitt noticed the telltale bulge of a holstered handgun under the man’s loose shirt, he decided not to press the issue. He gave the man a cold, knowing look, then turned and stepped away. Walking back to Loren, he half expected a bullet in the back and silently hoped the crowds and mosque security were sufficient deterrents to spare an immediate attack.

“What was that about?” Loren asked as he returned.

“Just checking the time. Come on, let’s see if we can catch a cab.”

The German tour group was slowly moving toward the courtyard exit, but Pitt grabbed Loren’s hand and dragged her past them, slipping out before they converged on the doorway. Pitt didn’t bother looking back, knowing full well that Sunglasses and the Persian would be in pursuit. Prodding Loren to the street, he got lucky and commandeered a cab that was off-loading an elderly pair of tourists out front.

“To the Eminönü ferry docks, as fast as you can,” he directed the cabdriver.

“Why all the rush?” Loren asked, slightly agitated at being hustled into the car.

“I think we are being tailed.”

“That man you spoke to inside the mosque?”

Pitt nodded. “And another fellow wearing sunglasses who I saw earlier outside our hotel.”

As the cab pulled into traffic, Pitt looked out the back window. A small orange sedan screeched up to the curb with a lone driver inside. Pitt looked across the mosque grounds to see the German tourist group still congregated around the mosque exit. He smiled as he spotted the Persian clumsily fighting his way through the thick crowd.

“Why don’t we go to the police?” Loren asked, a rising note of alarm in her voice.

Pitt flashed a reassuring grin. “What, and ruin our one and only relaxing day in Istanbul?”

11

The yellow taxi quickly melted into traffic, leaving the domed mosque and its minarets in the rearview mirror. Had the driver turned north and wound through the crowded maze of the historic old city, he would have easily lost the orange sedan to thick traffic. But the judicious cabdriver, thoughtful to make good time, instead turned south and headed toward a divided motorway called the Kennedy Caddesi.

The pursuers desperately attempted to catch up. The orange sedan sped away from the mosque after picking up its two passengers, nearly getting sideswiped by a tourist bus as it wove through traffic.

“I think they turned right,” the driver said in a hesitant voice.

“Go,” Sunglasses directed from the front passenger seat while nodding at the driver to follow his instincts.

The car turned south, bolting through a red light, before slowing behind a procession of crawling vehicles. Seated in the backseat, the Persian suddenly pointed down the road, spotting a yellow cab two blocks ahead turning onto the Caddesi.

“I think that is their cab,” he shouted.

The driver nodded, his knuckles tightening around the steering wheel. There was little he could do to prod his way through the clogged traffic, and he anxiously cursed the surrounding vehicles while the seconds ticked by. Finally spotting a break in oncoming traffic, he burst down the left lane for a block, then nosed back into the right lane. The traffic moved forward, and he quickly entered the Caddesi, flooring the accelerator and weaving down the highway like a Formula 1 racer.

The highway looped around the eastern boundary of Topkapi, hugging the Bosphorus shoreline. Traffic moved briskly as the road turned north then west along the Golden Horn, a natural water inlet that divided the European sector of Istanbul. Pitt looked down at the waterway, admiring a large green dredge ship that was churning the waters off the shoreline. As the cab approached the Galata Bridge, which stretched north over the Golden Horn into the district of Beyoğlu, a throng of cars and buses suddenly materialized, impeding movement to a crawl. The cab exited the Caddesi at the first opportunity, snaking down to a ferry dock near the base of the bridge.

“Boğaz Hatti dock at Eminönü,” the cabdriver announced. “The next ferry departure will be right over there,” he added with a wave of his arm. “If you hurry, you can just catch it.”

Pitt paid the driver, adding a healthy tip, then surveyed the road behind them as he exited the cab. Seeing no sign of the orange sedan, he casually escorted Loren to the ticket window.

“You just can’t stay away from the water, can you?” Loren said, eyeing several large ferryboats on the waterfront.

“I thought a relaxing cruise on the Bosphorus was just what the doctor ordered.”

“Actually, that does sound enticing,” she admitted, relishing some fresh-air sightseeing. “Just so long as we’re alone and there’s lunch involved.”

Pitt grinned. “Lunch is guaranteed. And I think we’ve lost our friends.”

Purchasing their tickets, they walked down one of the busy docks and boarded a modern passenger ferry, grabbing some seats by a window. A triple blast of the ship’s horn signaled its departure before the gangway was pulled aside.

On the road out front, the orange sedan screeched to a halt, its two passengers flying out of the side doors. Bypassing the ticket booth, they sprinted down to the dock, only to watch the ferryboat churn into the strait. Panting to catch his breath, Sunglasses stared at the ferry, then turned to the Persian.

“Find us a boat,” he hissed. “Now!”

At twenty miles in length and seldom more than a mile wide, the Bosphorus Strait was at once one of the world’s busiest and most scenic waterways. Dividing the heart of Istanbul, it had been a historic trading route, utilized by the ancient Greeks, Romans, and Byzantines. In modern times, it had become a major conduit for Russia, Georgia, and other countries bordering the Black Sea. Tankers, freighters, and containerships constantly clogged the narrow waterway that split the European and Asian continents.

The ferryboat steamed north at a comfortable clip, easing past the hilly skyline of Istanbul under a clear blue sky. The vessel soon passed under the Bosphorus Bridge and later the Fatih Sultan Mehmet Bridge, both towering suspension bridges that rose high above the waterway. Pitt and Loren sipped hot tea while surveying the neighboring boat traffic and the hillside architecture. The crowded shoreline slowly receded into a line of stately waterfront mansions, diplomatic missions, and former palaces that resided against a green forested backdrop.

The ferry made several leisurely port stops before approaching almost within sight of the Black Sea.

“Care to go up to the top deck for a better view?” Pitt asked.

Loren shook her head. “Looks too breezy for me. How about another tea instead?”

Pitt duly agreed and walked over to a small café and ordered two more black teas. Had they climbed to the top deck, Pitt might have observed the small speedboat carrying three men that raced up the strait toward the ferryboat.

The ferry soon turned toward the European shore and docked beside a pair of smaller car ferries at the Port of Sariyer. An old fishing village, Sariyer still exuded the historic Turkish charm of many upper Bosphorus havens that were slowly being overrun with affluent retirees.

“There are supposed to be some good seafood restaurants here,” Loren said, reading from a tour book. “How about we get off for lunch?”

Pitt agreed, and they soon joined a throng of sightseers clogging the gangway to exit the ship. The dock was near the base of a large hill, with the town spread along shoreline flats to their right. The town’s main road fed into a small waterfront park to their left, which caught Pitt’s eye when an old Citroën Traction Avant motored onto the grassy field.

They walked through a small fish market, observing a fresh catch of sea bass being unloaded from a small fishing boat. Ambling past a row of competing seafood restaurants, they selected a small waterfront café at the end of the block. A spry waitress with long black hair seated them at a patio table along the water’s edge, then quickly covered their table with meze, small appetizer portions of various Turkish dishes.

“You have to try the calamari,” Loren said, shoving a rubbery blob into Pitt’s mouth.

Pitt playfully crunched one of her fingers with his teeth. “A nice match with the white cheese,” he replied after swallowing the fried squid.

They enjoyed a leisurely meal, watching the sea traffic maneuvering down the strait, along with the tourists bustling through the adjoining restaurants. Finishing their seafood dishes, Pitt was reaching for a glass of water when Loren suddenly clutched his arm.

“Swallow a bone?” he asked, noting a tight-lipped grimace on her face.

Loren slowly shook her head as she released her grip. “There’s a man standing outside the door. He was one of the men in the van last night.”

Pitt took a drink from his water glass, casually turning his head toward the café’s front door. Outside the entrance, he could see a brown-skinned man in a blue shirt milling about the door. He had turned toward the street, obscuring his face from Pitt.

“Are you certain?” Pitt asked.

Loren saw the man steal a quick glance through the window before turning away again. She looked at her husband with fear in her eyes and nodded.

“I recognize his eyes,” she said.

Pitt thought the profile looked familiar, and Loren’s reaction convinced him she was right. It had to be the man Pitt had slugged in the back of the van.

“How could they have tracked us here?” she asked, slightly hoarse.

“We were the last ones on the boat, but they must have been close enough to see us board,” Pitt reasoned. “They probably followed in another boat. It wouldn’t have taken long to scout the restaurants near the ferry dock.”

Though he kept a calm demeanor, Pitt felt a deep uneasiness over the safety of his wife. The Topkapi thieves had proven last night that they weren’t afraid to murder. If they had taken the trouble to track them down, it could be for only one reason — retaliation for disrupting the burglary. The threat by the woman in the cistern suddenly didn’t sound so hollow.

The café’s waitress appeared and, while clearing away their lunch dishes, asked if they wanted dessert. Loren started to shake her head, but Pitt spoke up.

“Yes, indeed. Two coffees and two orders of your baklava, please.”

As the waitress scurried back to the kitchen, Loren admonished Pitt.

“I can’t eat any more. Especially not now,” she added, glaring toward the front door.

“Dessert is for him, not us,” he replied quietly. “Make a show of heading for the restroom, then wait for me by the kitchen.”

Loren responded immediately, pretending to whisper in Pitt’s ear, then slowly rising and moving down a short hall that led to both the kitchen and restrooms. Pitt noted the man at the door stiffen slightly as he observed her movement, then relaxed when the waitress delivered the coffee and dessert to the table. Pitt surreptitiously slipped a stack of Turkish lira on the table, then poked a fork into the thick slab of baklava. Taking a peek toward the door, he saw the blue-shirted man turn again toward the street. Pitt dropped his fork and rose from the table in a flash.

Loren stood waiting at the end of the hallway as Pitt rushed by, grabbed her hand, and yanked her into the kitchen. A startled chef and dishwasher simply stopped and stared as Pitt smiled and said hello, then squeezed past some boiling pots with Loren in tow. A back door opened onto a small alley that curved to the main front street. They hustled up to the corner and turned to head away from the restaurant when Loren squeezed Pitt’s hand.

“How about that trolley?” she asked.

An antiquated open-air trolley used to shuffle locals and tourists from one end of town to the other was moving slowly down the street toward them.

“Let’s board on the other side,” Pitt agreed.

They crossed the street just before the trolley approached and then quickly jumped aboard. The seats were all taken, so they were forced to stand as the trolley passed by the front of the café. The man in the blue shirt still stood out front and casually surveyed the trolley as it motored by. Pitt and Loren turned away and tried to screen themselves behind another passenger, but their cover was limited. The man’s eyes froze at the sight of Loren’s purple blouse, then he swung around and pressed his face to the restaurant window. Pitt could see the shock in the man’s face as he turned back and watched the trolley recede down the street. Quickly stumbling after the trolley, he yanked a cell phone from his pocket and frantically dialed as he ran.

Loren looked at Pitt with apologetic eyes. “Sorry, I think he spotted me.”

“No matter,” Pitt replied, trying to stifle her fears with a sure grin. “It’s a small town.”

The trolley made a brief stop at the fish market, where most of the passengers climbed off. Observing their tail still in pursuit a block away, Pitt and Loren grabbed a seat and crouched low as the trolley resumed speed.

“I think I saw a policeman earlier near the dock,” Loren said.

“If he’s not around, we might be able to short-hop another ferry.”

The trolley cruised another block, then approached its stop near the ferry dock. The old vehicle’s wheels were still turning when Pitt and Loren jumped off and scurried toward the dock. But this time, it was Pitt’s turn to grab Loren’s arm and freeze.

Ahead of them, the dock was now empty, the next ferry not due for another half hour. Of greater concern to Pitt was the appearance of two men near the dock’s entrance. One was the Persian from the Blue Mosque, pacing about the quay, alongside his friend in the sunglasses.

“I think we best find some alternate transportation,” Pitt said, guiding Loren in the other direction. They quickly stepped toward the road, where a 1960s-era Peugeot convertible rambled by, followed by a small group of locals on foot trailing it to the waterfront park. Pitt and Loren approached the Turks and tried to melt into the small party for cover. Their attempt failed when the blue-shirted man from the restaurant appeared down the road. Shouting to his cohorts on the dock, he waved excitedly, then pointed in Pitt’s direction.

“What do we do now?” Loren asked, seeing the men on the dock move in their direction.

“Just keep moving,” Pitt replied.

His eyes were dancing in all directions, searching for an avenue of escape, but their only immediate option was to keep moving with the crowd. They followed the group into the park, finding the open grassy field now lined with two uneven rows of old cars. Pitt recognized many of the highly polished vehicles as Citroën and Renault models built in the fifties and sixties.

“Must be a French car club meet,” he mused.

“Wish we could actually enjoy it,” Loren replied, constantly gazing over her shoulder.

As the group of people around them began to disperse across the field, Pitt led Loren to a cluster of people in the first row. They were congregated around the star of the show, a gleaming early-fifties Talbot-Lago with a bulbous body designed by Italian coach-maker Ghia. Working their way to the back of the crowd, Pitt turned and surveyed their assailants.

The three men were just entering the park together at a brisk pace. Sunglasses was obviously the team leader, and he promptly directed the other two men to either edge of the field while he slowly moved toward the center row of cars.

“I don’t think we’ll be able to leave the way we came in,” Pitt said. “Let’s try to keep ahead of them. We might be able to cut up to the main road from the other end of the park and flag down a car or bus.”

“I wouldn’t be opposed to attempting a carjacking at this point,” Loren replied grimly. She moved quickly, skirting around and between the cars, with Pitt a step or two behind. They tried as best they could to use other onlookers as cover, but the crowds thinned as they moved down the row. They soon reached the last car, a postwar two-door convertible painted metallic silver and green. Pitt noticed an older man seated inside taping a “For Sale” sign to the windshield.

“The last of our cover,” Pitt remarked. “Let’s move fast to the trees.”

Pitt grabbed Loren’s hand, and they started to run across the last section of grass field. A thick line of trees circled the park’s perimeter, beyond which Pitt was certain the coastal road lay just to the west.

They’d run just twenty yards when the sight ahead ground them both to a dead stop. Beyond the trees, they could now see a high stone wall that enveloped the southern half of the park. As a deterrent to the private residence on the other side, the wall was topped with shards of broken glass. Pitt knew that even with his help there was no way Loren could quickly scale the wall and outrun their pursuers, let alone avoid a bloody scrape in the process.

Pitt wheeled around and quickly spotted the three men. They were still picking their way through the cars, slowly converging on them. Tugging Loren’s hand, Pitt began walking back toward the line of cars.

“What do we do now?” Loren asked, fear evident in her voice.

Pitt looked at her with a devilish sparkle in his eye.

“In the words of Monty Hall, let’s make a deal.”

12

“Does she sport a cotal transmission?” Pitt asked.

The older bearded man leaned over and opened the car’s driver’s-side door.

“She certainly does,” he said in a clearly American accent. “You familiar with Delahayes?” His face perked up as he gazed at the tall, dark-haired man and his attractive wife.

“I’ve long admired the marque,” Pitt replied, “especially the coachwork-bodied vehicles.”

“This is a 1948 Model 135 convertible coupe, with a custom body from the Paris shop of Henri Chapron.”

The large two-door convertible had clean but heavy lines that exemplified the simple designs of auto manufacturers immediately after World War II. Loren admired the striking green-and-silver paint scheme, which made the car look even longer.

“Did you restore it yourself?” she asked.

“Yes. I’m a miner by trade. I ran across the car at an old dacha in Georgia while working a project on the Black Sea coast. It was in rough shape but all there. Brought it back to Istanbul and had some local talent help me with the restoration. It’s not concours quality, but I think she looks nice. They squeezed a lot of speed out of her six-cylinder engine, so she runs like a demon.” He reached out a hand toward Pitt. “My name is Clive Cussler, by the way.”

Pitt shook the man’s hand, then quickly introduced himself and Loren.

“She’s a beauty,” Pitt added, though his eyes were focused on the nearby crowd. The man with the sunglasses was staring at him from five cars away, walking casually in his direction. Pitt spotted the other two men farther afield but closing from the flanks.

“Why are you selling the car?” he asked while quietly motioning Loren to approach the passenger door.

“I’m headed over to Malta for a bit and I won’t have room for it there,” the man said with a disappointed look. He smiled as Loren opened the left side suicide door. A black-and-tan dachshund sleeping on the seat gave her an annoyed look, then hopped out and ran to its owner. Loren slid into the leather-bound front passenger seat, then waved to Pitt.

“You look good in the car,” Cussler said, turning on the sales charm.

Loren smiled back. “Would it be all right if we took it for a little test-drive around the park?” she asked.

“Why, of course. The keys are in it.” He turned to Pitt. “You’re familiar with the Cotal transmission? You only need to use the clutch to start and stop.”

Pitt nodded as he quickly slipped behind the wheel of the right-hand-drive car. Turning the ignition key, he listened with satisfaction as the motor immediately fired to life.

“We’ll be back shortly,” he said, waving to the man out of the window.

Pitt reversed the car, then turned down the back row of show cars, hoping to avoid Sunglasses. The assailant stepped around the last car in line and spotted Pitt behind the wheel just as the Delahaye pulled forward. Pitt gently mashed the throttle, trying to keep the rear wheels from spinning on the slick grass as the car lurched ahead. Sunglasses hesitated, then yelled for him to stop. Pitt promptly ignored the plea as the tires found their grip and the old car accelerated quickly, leaving the man in his tracks.

Pitt could hear additional shouting over the whine of the engine, then Loren called out a warning ahead. The Topkapi thief in the blue shirt appeared along the row of cars a dozen yards ahead.

“He’s got a gun,” Loren yelled as the accelerating car drew them closer.

Pitt could see that the man had produced a handgun, which he tried to obscure by holding it flat against the side of his leg. He stood near the back of a Peugeot wood-paneled wagon, waiting for the Delahaye to draw alongside.

With the motor screaming at high revolutions, Pitt popped the French car’s tiny dash-mounted shifter into second gear. Just a few feet ahead, the blue-shirted man raised his arm holding the pistol.

“Duck down,” Pitt shouted, then floored the accelerator.

The triple-carbureted engine spurted power, throwing Pitt and Loren back into their seats. The sudden acceleration threw off the gunman’s timing as well, and he quickly struggled to aim the weapon toward the windshield. Pitt refused to give him the chance.

Yanking the steering wheel hard to the right, Pitt aimed the Delahaye’s curved prow directly for the startled gunman. Blocked by the back of the Peugeot, the man had only one way to move. Furiously backpedaling, he abandoned making a precise shot in order to avoid becoming a hood ornament.

The Delahaye’s front fender scraped along the Peugeot’s bumper before creasing the gunman’s leg, knocking him away from the car. Two shots rang out from his pistol before he crumpled alongside the Peugeot, writhing in agony. Both shots flew high, one shredding through the canvas roof, the other catching air.

Pitt hurriedly cranked the steering wheel back to avoid ramming the remaining row of cars. Fishtailing across the lawn, the Delahaye nearly struck a farmer’s pickup truck entering the park loaded with melons. Shocked visitors scattered from their path as Pitt pounded on the horn in warning. Stealing a glance in the rearview mirror, he spotted Sunglasses and the Persian approaching the downed gunman, but neither had a weapon drawn.

Loren peeked up from beneath the dash, the color drained from her face. As they wheeled toward the park exit, Pitt gave her a reassuring wink.

“That fellow was right,” he said with a slight grin. “She is a demon.”

Pitt made as if he knew where he was going, bursting out of the park and turning left down the main road, which headed south along the Bosphorus toward Istanbul. The park gunmen showed no hesitation in making pursuit, quickly commandeering the farmer’s idling truck at gunpoint. Shoving their injured accomplice in first, the other two men hopped into the vehicle and roared out of the park while melons flew off the truck bed like fired cannon shot.

Despite the Delahaye’s age, Pitt and Loren had the advantage in vehicles. The French car’s roots had been in racing, with Delahayes competing successfully in the prewar Le Mans races. Hidden beneath the streamlined bodies custom-built for rich and famous Parisians were high-performing motor machines. A taut suspension and high-revving engine, by 1950s standards, gave Pitt ample opportunity to drive fast. The narrow, winding road, sprinkled with afternoon traffic, would prove to be an equalizer, however.

Screaming through the curves with the pedal to the floor, Pitt quickly shifted through the Cotal transmission. With the use of electromagnetic clutches, the transmission allowed Pitt to change gears by simply flicking the small gear lever mounted on the dash. He was well versed in driving old cars, having his own collection of antique vehicles housed in an airport hangar near Washington, D.C. It was a passion akin to his love of the sea, and he found he was actually enjoying himself, if not the circumstances, in pushing the old Delahaye to its limits.

Loren kept a resolute eye out the convertible’s rear window as they squealed through a tight S-turn. She noticed Pitt frowning as he glanced at the instrument panel.

“Something wrong?”

“The fuel gauge is tickling empty,” he replied. “I’m afraid a test-drive to Istanbul isn’t in the cards.”

An uptick in traffic began to impede their headway, and on a straight section of road Loren spotted the truck behind them playing catch-up at high speed.

“We need to find a busy place to lose them,” she suggested.

There were few options on the small road, which traveled through an area filled with stately mansions. More cars clogged the roadway as they approached the village of Buyukdere, and Pitt passed the slower vehicles at every opportunity. Aided by the traffic, the pickup truck had steadily closed to within a quarter mile, with just a handful of interceding cars in between.

Pitt considered entering the populated portion of the village to the west, but slow-moving traffic clogged the artery into town. Skipping the cutoff, he clung to the coastal road, which suddenly spurted over the water on a lengthy bridged section. Finding a letup of oncoming traffic, Pitt accelerated hard, passing a line of cars slowed by a lethargic dump truck. He shook free of most of the traffic as the road touched land again, winding past the Bosphorus version of Embassy Row, where numerous foreign consulates occupied opulent summer retreats along the waterside.

“How’s our melon truck holding up?” Pitt asked, his eyes glued to the road ahead.

“Just passing that dump truck, about a half mile back,” Loren reported, before the vehicles behind them disappeared in a sweeping curve.

The green Delahaye tore past the ornate grounds of the British Summer Embassy when Pitt was suddenly forced to downshift while braking hard. Up ahead, a large moving van was unsuccessfully trying to back into a private drive, blocking both lanes of traffic in the process.

“Get out of the way!” Loren found herself yelling.

The truck driver never heard her, but it wouldn’t have mattered. He casually inched the truck forward for a second try, ignoring the blare of car horns honking from the other direction.

Pitt quickly scanned the road for an out and found only one. Dropping the car into low gear, he sped forward and turned into the open gate of a walled estate to his right. The paved road turned to crushed gravel as they entered the grounds of an aging wooden mansion once owned by the Danish Royal Family. A sweeping circular drive divided a vast overgrown garden before looping past the steps of the salmon-colored main residence.

A gardener tending roses in the center island looked on incredulously as the old French sports car entered the grounds, appearing as if it was an original inhabitant of the estate. He watched curiously as the Delahaye slowed to a stop behind some thick shrubs rather than continuing on to the manor’s front steps. A few seconds later, he realized why.

Preceded by the screech of skidding tires, the weathered pickup truck suddenly barreled through the front gate. The driver took the turn too fast, and the truck’s tail drifted into a stone entry pillar, clipping the left rear fender. A few surviving melons popped out of the truck bed and disintegrated against the side of the pillar, leaving a trail of sticky orange flesh dripping to the ground.

The driver quickly regained control and charged toward the Delahaye, which sat idling straight ahead. Pitt intentionally baited the truck, not wanting it to stop and blockade the gate. He quickly stomped on the gas and popped the clutch, spewing a cloud of gravel and dust as the car shot forward. The truck closed fast, but not before Pitt reached the semicircular portion of the drive that curved past the residence. He accelerated hard as he turned left, blowing past the manor and into the opposite curve.

In the truck a dozen yards behind, the Persian leaned out the passenger window with a Glock automatic and began firing at the French car. Because of the angle of the curve, he had to reach out in front of the truck’s windshield to aim, handicapping his accuracy. A few shots tore through the Delahaye’s trunk, but the passengers and car mechanicals went unscathed.

By now, Pitt was drifting the car through the second curve, feathering the throttle to maintain momentum. At the outer edge of the turn, a large statue of Venus stood off the drive, with one raised arm pointing to the heavens.

“Look out,” Loren shrieked as the speeding Delahaye drifted toward the marble statue.

Pitt held the wheel firm and eased his foot harder on the accelerator. As a succession of gunshots whistled over the roof, the car continued to slide toward the edge of the drive and the imposing Venus. The car’s tires spun, then slowly bit into the loose gravel as the vehicle’s momentum gradually shifted forward. Loren gripped the dashboard with white knuckles as the Delahaye’s prow slipped onto the grass, heading for the bulk of marble. But the rear tires found their grip, shoving the front of the car just past the statue before nosing back onto the drive. Pitt and Loren heard a sharp scraping sound as the rear fender skimmed Venus’s base, which ceased when all four wheels regained the gravel.

“You tore her arm off,” Loren remarked, peering out the back window at the statue.

“I certainly hope that the Delahaye’s owner carries collision insurance,” Pitt said without looking back.

As the Delahaye charged toward the front gate, it was the truck’s turn to navigate the second curve. The Persian still had his pistol dangling out the passenger door, lofting shots at the Delahaye while urging the driver to go faster. But with a higher center of gravity and balding tires, there was no way the truck could match the French convertible’s slalom through the curve. Attempting to match speed, the ungainly vehicle almost immediately lost traction and began a sideways slip in the direction of the statue. Panicking as they started to drift off the driveway, Sunglasses stomped on the brakes, which only served to exacerbate the lateral drift.

The groundskeeper stared with his jaw open as the old truck smashed into Venus at a hard angle. The mangled artwork disappeared in a cloud of dust as the truck bounded forward and into a spin. Sliding back across the gravel drive, the truck spun three times before plowing into a thicket of small willows. The vehicle continued to slide, finally jarring to a halt against a thick chestnut tree as the three occupants were hurled against the dashboard.

Sunglasses slumped back into his seat, rubbing a fat lip obtained from kissing the steering wheel. Beside him, the man in the blue shirt was stemming the flow of blood from a mashed nose. Only the Persian escaped the collision unscathed, having braced himself with his free arm.

Listening to the engine idling without damage, he turned to the driver.

“Let’s keep after them.”

Sunglasses shook off his daze and reversed gear, roughly bouncing the truck back onto the drive. Hitting the brakes, a loud clattering arose from behind the cab. The Persian glanced out the rear window to see the decapitated head of Venus rolling about the truck bed with a clatter.

By the time they got back onto the drive, Pitt had already exited the estate. As he had hoped, the diversion had allowed sufficient time for the moving truck to sort itself out, and the coastal road was now clear. Pitt quickly pushed the old car up to high speed on the paved road.

“We might have bought a little time,” he said, “but we’re about out of gas.”

Loren leaned over to see the fuel gauge needle flicker directly above the E .

“Maybe they’ll stay in the clutches of Venus,” she said hopefully.

Speeding past the Austrian Summer Embassy, the road opening up, they could see another shoreside village up ahead. A large car ferry was visible at the town dock, loading passengers and vehicles for a run down the Bosphorus.

“That ferry might be our best bet,” Pitt said as the road dropped sharply to the waterfront.

“Yes, for that peaceful, relaxing cruise you were telling me about,” Loren muttered.

A roguish grin crossed Pitt’s lips. “Peaceful, perhaps, for someone,” he replied.

They drove past a sign proclaiming the town of Yenikoy, and made their way through light traffic to the dock. Pitt pulled up behind an open truck loaded with oriental carpets waiting to board the ferry. He quickly scanned the dockside, eyeing a row of waterfront bars and restaurants similar to those in Sariyer.

“There’s the truck,” Loren suddenly blurted.

Pitt looked back up the road, catching a glimpse of the truck approaching the town a half mile away. He turned to Loren and motioned up a side street with his thumb.

“I want you to slip up to that restaurant with the green awning and order me a beer,” he said.

“The dingy place with the darkened windows?” she asked, looking past a number of clean, respectable establishments.

Pitt nodded.

“What about our cruise?”

“We’re going to give our seats up for our friends. Stay put until I get there. Now, go,” he directed, giving her a quick kiss.

He watched as she climbed out of the car and hightailed it up the street, then tentatively entered the scruffy bar. A few seconds later, he spotted the pickup truck in his rearview mirror rumbling up to the dock. Pitt noted with some amusement that the truck’s front fender was mashed flat and streaked with white marble dust. A demolished front headlight left a vacant cavity that now resembled an empty eye socket. There was no doubt that the assailants had spotted the French car as the battered truck took its place in line to board the ferry three cars behind Pitt.

Pitt noticed the carpet truck in front of him dawdle as the ramp to the ferry cleared free and he quickly revved the Delahaye and jumped past the big vehicle, eliciting an angry honk from the driver. The truck offered a slight buffer of concealment, which Pitt hoped would hide the fact that he was the lone occupant in the car.

Pitt paid the toll attendant and drove onto the car deck of the covered ferry, pulling up behind a small sedan packed with young kids. He quickly jumped out of the car and looked behind him. The carpet truck was stuck idling alongside the toll attendant, blocking the other vehicles as its driver fished in his pockets for fare money. If any of the gunmen had hopped out of the pickup truck, they weren’t yet visible. Pitt turned around and surveyed the ferryboat.

It was a double-decker, with the covered lower deck carrying the vehicles while passengers sat topside. He started to step toward a staircase when he spotted a vendor selling popcorn to the kids parked in front of him. The man was almost Pitt’s height and build, with similar dark wavy hair.

“Excuse me,” Pitt called to the man. “Would you be kind enough to watch my car while I go to the restroom?” He pulled a ten-lira Turkish bill out of his wallet as he asked the question.

The vendor spotted the note and nodded profusely. “Why, yes, of course,” he answered.

Pitt stuffed the bill into the man’s hand, then guided him to the driver’s door.

“Please sit inside,” Pitt requested. “Nobody will bother my car if it is occupied.”

The man set down his rack of popcorn and eagerly jumped inside, excited to sit in the stylish old car.

“I’ll be right back,” Pitt said with a wink, then hurried toward the staircase.

He climbed to the upper deck and melded through the passengers as he made his way to the stern. The pickup truck was just coming up the ramp as he peered over the side, spotting all three figures sitting inside the cab.

The pickup was the last vehicle to board, and the dock crew soon pulled away the car ramp while the ferry crew raised a collapsible gate across the stern. Pitt felt the engine rumble belowdecks, then three blasts of the horn announced the ferry’s imminent departure. Making his way to the stern rail, he waited for the ferry’s prop to engage, then glanced forward.

At the head of the center stairwell, he saw Sunglasses appear, searching the crowd in frantic haste. Pitt could only imagine the look in the gunmen’s faces when they had approached the Delahaye only to find a popcorn vendor sitting behind the wheel. He had little time to consider the amusement, though, as the deck suddenly swayed beneath his feet and a surge of boiling water arose off the ferry’s stern.

He quickly climbed over the rail, creating a minor stir among the surrounding passengers that immediately drew Sunglasses’ attention. The gunman started running across the deck, but Pitt disappeared from sight. He lowered himself from a rail stanchion until he hung by outstretched arms and then dropped himself to the lower deck. Landing in a tuck, he sprang to his feet and vaulted over the lower deck stern gate, then leaped from the transom in a furious lunge for the dock.

The ferry had pulled a few feet away when he jumped, and Pitt just managed to catch a foot on the edge of the auto ramp and roll forward. Tumbling down the ramp, he regained his balance and slowly stood up. The accelerating ferry was moving quickly into the channel, already putting nearly twenty feet between itself and the dock.

Pitt looked up to see Sunglasses rush to the ferry’s upper rail and stare dismally at the growing distance between ship and shore. The assailant turned his gaze to Pitt, instinctively reaching a hand toward the holster he wore beneath a light jacket before abandoning the notion.

Pitt studied the figure, then threw him a jovial wave as if he were an old friend. Sunglasses stood impervious, staring back at Pitt with a face of chilled granite, as the ferry slowly made its way down the strait.

13

The setting sun cast a golden hue on the Mediterranean’s westerly breakers as they crashed against the Israeli shoreline. Sophie gazed at the blue horizon thankful that the heat of the day had finally passed, then turned and stepped into the artifact tent. Professor Haasis was hunched over a papyrus scroll, his face aglow as he attempted to decipher the ancient script. Sophie smiled to herself, thinking how he resembled a wide-eyed kid in a candy shop.

“Give your brain a rest, Professor,” she said. “They’ll still be here in the morning.”

Haasis looked up with a sheepish grin. On a long table before him were spread over a dozen of the ceramic boxes, each housing an assortment of the small papyrus scrolls. He reluctantly rolled up the scroll he was examining and placed it back in one of the boxes.

“Yes, I suppose I should take a break to eat,” he said. “I just can’t help myself. It is such an amazing wealth of data. This last scroll, for example,” he said, tapping the box for emphasis, “it describes how an Anatolian merchant ship loaded with grain from Egypt was forced to seek safe harbor here when its mast shattered. Little gems like that make my heart beat faster.”

“That doesn’t exactly sound on par with the Dead Sea Scrolls,” Sophie replied with a chuckle.

“Well, the average man on the street may not care about this,” he replied, “but for those who make history their life’s work, it’s like discovering a window to the past that used to be shuttered.”

Haasis pulled off a pair of white gloves. “I really need to get these transferred to the university lab for proper analysis and conservation, but I just can’t resist taking a first look.”

He had examined all but three of the boxes by the time he stood and stretched.

“What’s become of Dirk?” he asked. “I haven’t seen him since he delivered the final box.”

Sophie shrugged her shoulders, trying to appear indifferent. But the same question had been lingering in her head. Dirk’s earlier dinner invitation had given her a rush all afternoon. She even sneaked off to wash up and to brush her hair, angry for once in her life that she hadn’t carried any makeup with her. She felt her heart stop when a figure suddenly entered the tent behind them. Spinning around, she looked in disappointment to see that it was only Sam.

“You guys ready for dinner? The mess tent is featuring spaghetti and meatballs,” he announced. A smear of red sauce on his chin revealed that he had already made a first pass through the chow line.

“Sounds great,” Haasis replied. “Come along, Sophie, let’s eat.”

The antiquities agent moved slowly toward the exit, trying hard to hide her disappointment.

“Sam,” she asked, “are we set up for tonight?”

Her assistant nodded. “Raban and Holder will be arriving within the hour. I told them we’d run surveillance till about midnight.”

“Professor Haasis has offered us a tent, so I think I will stay the night. You can hitch a ride home with the boys, if you’d rather.”

“I think I will. Sleeping on the ground isn’t as much fun as it was when I was thirteen,” Sam replied, rubbing his back.

They walked out of the tent to find Dirk standing outside with a beach towel draped over his arm like a waiter. He was dressed in khakis and a polo shirt, and Sophie couldn’t help but think how nicely he had cleaned up. She fought hard to suppress a smile.

“I believe we had a dinner date,” he said to her with a slight bow.

“I almost forgot,” she lied.

He took her arm and escorted her behind Sam and Haasis as the group walked to the mess tent nearby. Sophie turned to follow the two men into the tent but felt Dirk suddenly tug her in the opposite direction.

“We’re not eating with the others?” she asked.

“Not unless you have a craving for spaghetti that comes out of a can,” he replied.

“No, not particularly,” she replied, shaking her head.

“Good. Then it’s off to Cape Pitt.”

He guided Sophie down to the shoreline, where they walked along the beach a short distance. When they reached a rocky ledge that jutted into the sea, Dirk turned and helped her climb over the boulder-strewn surface.

“This was the site of a Roman palace,” Sophie said, recalling the prior excavation of a large structure that featured Greek columns and a decorative pool.

“Many believe it was King Herod’s, built after he constructed the harbor,” Dirk replied, showing he had studied up on Caesarea.

“I don’t remember there being a restaurant located here,” Sophie said, with a playful grin.

“It’s just behind that last wall.”

They climbed through the ruins to the tip of the promontory. Just past a crumbled stone wall, they reached a sheltered recess that offered a commanding view of the sea. Sophie laughed when she spotted an ice chest parked beside a small hibachi, its charcoal embers glowing red-hot.

“King Herod’s Café, open for business. Hope you don’t mind eating alfresco,” Dirk said, spreading out the towel on a sandy spot. He quickly produced a bottle of white wine from the cooler and poured them each a glass.

“To damn fools,” he said, clinking his glass against hers. Sophie blushed, then quietly sipped her wine.

“What’s on the menu?” she asked, trying to change the subject.

“Fresh sea bass, snared by yours truly this afternoon. Grilled in lemon and olive oil, and accompanied by a vegetable kabob, organically grown on a kibbutz up the road.” He held up a pair of skewers loaded with peppers, tomatoes, and onions.

“I’m sure glad I passed on the spaghetti,” Sophie replied.

Dirk threw the kabobs and a pair of fish fillets onto the small grill and quickly had dinner served. Sophie found the fresh food tasted delicious and hungrily devoured her entire plate.

“It was terrific,” she said, setting down her empty plate. “You sure you’re not a professional chef?”

Dirk laughed. “Far from it. Put me in a kitchen, and I don’t get much past peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. But show me a hot grill, and I’ll happily run amok.”

“You run amok with nice results,” she said with a smile.

As he sliced up a small melon for dessert, she asked how he liked working at NUMA.

“I couldn’t ask for a better job. I’m able to work in and around the sea, virtually anywhere in the world. Most of our projects are both interesting and fundamentally important to preserving the health of our oceans. And on top of that, I get to work closely with my family.”

He noticed a faint look of alarm cross Sophie’s face at the mention of his family.

“My father is the Director of NUMA,” he explained. “And I have a twin sister named Summer who is a NUMA oceanographer. It’s actually on account of my father that I was able to come to Israel. He relieved me on a survey project we’ve been working on along the coast of Turkey.”

“Professor Haasis told me that he has several old friends at NUMA and holds the organization in high regard.”

“He has certainly done some fine work here himself,” Dirk replied.

“So your time in Caesarea is short?”

“I’m afraid so. Two more weeks, then I must head back to Turkey.”

He passed her a plate of sliced melon, then asked, “Okay, now it’s your turn. How did you come to be an archaeologist with a gun?”

Sophie smiled. “An interest in geology and history, instilled by my father from an early age, I suppose. I love archaeology and digging up the past, but I have always felt pain at seeing our cultural treasures being looted for profit. Working at the Antiquities Authority, I feel like I can help make a difference, although we are vastly outnumbered by the bad guys.”

Dirk waved a hand toward the coastline. “Caesarea has been pretty well picked through over the centuries. You think the professor’s small diggings here are really at risk?”

“Your discovery today proved that there are still cultural riches to be found. I was actually more concerned about the grave site, which a local reporter foolishly publicized in the press. The presence of someone masquerading yesterday as an antiquities agent doesn’t help my radar any, either.”

“Well, at least we haven’t uncovered any gold or treasure. Any looter ransacking our site is apt to be sorely disappointed.”

“You’d be surprised at the varied desires of the high-end artifact collector. Many collectors value cultural antiquities as much as treasure, to everyone’s detriment. Those scrolls of yours would fetch a small fortune on the black market. I know I’ll feel a lot better when Professor Haasis has all of the artifacts safely transported to the University of Haifa.” She glanced at her wristwatch.

“I really should get back and coordinate our evening reconnaissance.”

Dirk poured her a half glass of wine.

“How about a small one for the road?”

Sophie nodded and took the glass as Dirk sat close beside her with his own glass. The surf pounded the rocks around them as a deep blue twilight settled over their heads. It was a relaxing romantic moment, the kind that had escaped Sophie’s life for quite some time. She turned to Dirk and whispered, “I’m sorry I yelled at you today.”

He leaned over and kissed her softly, letting their lips linger.

“You can make it up to me another time.”

Snuggling close, they finished the wine before Sophie forced herself to end their time together. Holding hands, they retraced their steps across the beach and up the hill toward camp. A generator-powered string of lights swayed over the assembly of tents, illuminating the campsite in a chalky glow. Sam was settled on a rock wall to one side, speaking to two men in dark clothes.

“I’m in the last tent on the left,” Dirk said to Sophie. “Make sure the grave robbers don’t disturb my sleep, will you?”

“Good night, Dirk.”

“Good night.”

Dirk watched Sophie join her colleagues, then turned toward the row of tents. Before turning in, he stepped over to the large artifact tent, which was still ablaze with light. Haasis was back at it, hunched over a scroll of papyrus with a magnifying glass in one hand.

“Uncover any secrets for the ages?” Dirk asked.

Haasis looked up momentarily, then gazed back at the papyrus.

“Nothing that weighty here, but still fascinating. Come take a look, I think you will appreciate this.”

Dirk stepped closer, looking over Haasis’s shoulder at the thin layer of fibered paper lined with a bold flowing script.

“It’s all Greek to me,” he said with a smirk.

“Oh, sorry,” Haasis replied. “I’ll give you a rough translation. This scroll provides a description of port activity sometime around 330 A.D., I believe. There is a brief description of a damaged Cypriot marauder that was captured adrift by an imperial Roman trireme . The vessel was subsequently towed to Caesarea, where the port authorities discovered that its decks were covered in blood and that a small cache of Roman armament was aboard. Many of the crew bore evidence of fresh wounds from an earlier battle.”

“They were pirates?” Dirk said.

“Yes, apparently so. The incident created a stir, it says, as the personal armaments of a centurion named Plautius were found aboard. He was identified as a Scholae Palatinae , whatever that was.”

“Probably didn’t result in a nice consequence for the Cypriot crew.”

“No, it didn’t,” Haasis replied. “The vessel was impressed into service as an imperial merchant ship, while the crew were summarily executed.”

“Swift justice, indeed,” Dirk said, picking up one of the ceramic boxes. “Do all of the scrolls contain such gripping accounts?”

“Only to an antiquities voyeur like me,” Haasis said with a grin, then rolled up the scroll and put it back in one of the boxes. “I’ve reviewed most of the scrolls, and they are primarily bureaucratic records of port revenues and the like. Nothing too astounding individually, but collectively they will provide an important snapshot of daily life here nearly two millennia ago.”

He wrapped the box in a loose cloth and placed it on top of a filing cabinet, then turned off an adjacent overhead light. The other boxes had all been carefully wrapped and stored in plastic bins for transport to the university.

“I’ll leave something to look at in the morning,” he said with a yawn. “You think you found everything in the chamber?”

“I believe so,” Dirk replied, “but I’ll borrow one of your trowels and take a second look, just to be sure.”

“I never thought inviting a marine engineer to a field dig would generate such an abundance of work for me,” Haasis said as he guided Dirk out of the tent.

Up the hill, they both spotted Sophie walking along the perimeter with one of her agents.

“Coming to Caesarea, I never thought there were such dazzling discoveries to be made,” Dirk replied with a wink, then strolled toward his tent for the night.

14

The rattle of automatic gunfire sent Dirk bolt upright in his cot.

The shots sounded dangerously close. Dirk heard some shouting and then the return fire from a handgun. He quickly slipped into a pair of shorts and sandals, then staggered out of his tent as a cascade of gunfire from multiple weapons erupted above the camp. His first clouded thoughts were of Sophie, but he had little time to react. He heard, then spotted two figures charging down the trail, brandishing assault rifles.

Dirk immediately ducked behind the side of his tent, then scurried to a low retaining wall a short distance to the rear. He silently slipped over the wall and followed its cover away from the tents. To the rear of the camp were the crumbled remnants of several buildings that had once served the ancient port city. He threaded his way through the mounds of weathered debris, following a slight rise to a small corner partition. The darkened stone barrier provided a tight point of concealment by which he could observe the entire camp.

While his quick reaction had allowed for his escape, his fellow camp mates were not so fortunate. Sophie had been the next to react, bursting out of her tent near the trail with gun in hand. But one of the gunmen stood just a few feet away and quickly trained his assault rifle on her before she could shake the cobwebs from her eyes. Staring down the gun barrel, she had no choice but to reluctantly drop her weapon to the ground. The gunman responded by viciously jabbing the rifle into her shoulder, knocking her hard to her knees.

“What’s going on here?” Professor Haasis shouted, emerging from his tent half dressed.

“Shut up,” the other gunman ordered, swinging his rifle stock into the professor’s ribs. Haasis sprawled forward, emitting a pained gasp as his body struck the ground. Sophie crawled over and helped him to his feet, both swaying weakly under the overhead lights. Another thug appeared on the trail and took over guarding Sophie and Haasis, while the other gunmen herded the archaeology students from their tents. Sophie gazed toward Dirk’s tent, reacting with muted surprise when one of the gunmen found it empty.

Up the trail, there was a noisy commotion before several figures came into view. One of the antiquities agents, his right arm a bloody mess, staggered down the trail while struggling to support Sam. Sophie’s deputy had a nasty gash across his forehead and shuffled his feet in a dazed state. Two more gunmen marched from behind, prodding the wounded men into camp.

“Sam, are you all right?” Sophie cried, moving cautiously toward the two agents. She grabbed hold of Sam and helped him sink to the ground beside the other seated captives. One of the female students assisted the agent named Raban, wrapping a torn shirt around his wounded arm, while Sophie held a palm to Sam’s bleeding forehead.

“Where’s Holder?” she whispered to Raban.

The agent gave her a grim look and shook his head.

Recovering from his blow, Haasis stood and shouted at his captors.

“What do you want? There’s nothing here worth killing for.”

Sophie studied the group of armed assailants for the first time. They appeared to be Arabs, each wearing a black headdress that covered his lower face. Yet they weren’t the typical dirt-digging grave robbers looking for a few shekels from an old pot or two. They wore dark military-style fatigues and black boots that appeared nearly new. And they carried modern AK-74 assault rifles, updated versions of the venerable Kalashnikov AK-47. Sophie wondered for a moment if they might be a militant commando group that had stumbled onto their camp by mistake. But then one of them replied to Haasis’s query.

“The scroll. Where is it?” barked the gang’s obvious leader, a heavy-browed man who bore a deep scar along his right jawline.

“What scroll?” Haasis replied.

The man reached beneath his jacket and retrieved a small holstered SIG Sauer pistol. Casually aiming it at Haasis’s thigh, he squeezed the trigger once.

The gun’s report elicited a scream from one of the students as Haasis collapsed to the ground, grabbing his leg above the bloody wound. Sophie quickly spoke up.

“They’re in the large tent,” she said, pointing the way. “There is no need for further shooting.”

One of the gunmen ran into the tent and rummaged around a few minutes before emerging with a ceramic box in one hand and a papyrus scroll in the other.

“There are many scrolls. Secured in plastic bins, more than a dozen of them,” he reported.

“Do not leave any behind,” the leader barked. Then he nodded toward the captives.

“Take them down to the amphitheater,” he ordered two of his other men.

The pair of gunmen motioned with their weapons for the captives to stand and move. Sophie helped Sam to his feet while a pair of students helped up Dr. Haasis. With prods and shoves, the captives were herded along the path that led down to the beach. The scar-faced leader walked over to the artifact tent and grabbed the scroll from his subordinate’s fingers. He studied it under one of the hanging lights for several minutes, then grabbed the ceramic box and ordered the man to retrieve a truck parked outside the grounds.

Dirk watched from his hiding spot until Sophie and the others had been marched out of the camp. He then quietly crept through the ruins, making his way toward the beach on a parallel track to the captives. His mind raced to try to develop a rescue plan or find something to use as a weapon, but his options were few against men armed with automatic assault rifles.

There was little ambient lighting once he moved from the camp, and he struggled to keep his footing over the rocky ground. He kept his eyes on the beam of a flashlight that danced to his right, carried by the guard leading the group. The hillside leveled briefly as Dirk crossed what had once been a stone-paved road. The flashlight beam disappeared behind a wall less than fifty feet to his side, but he could still track the shuffling steps of the captives making their way down the path. Wary of the sound of his own footsteps, he stopped and crouched low for a minute or two until the procession moved well ahead, then he made his way to the back side of the wall. Loose gravel crunched underfoot as he approached the barrier. Feeling along its sides, he moved to the end, then peered around the edge to find the meandering beam of light.

A cold ring of steel suddenly jabbed into the side of his throat, nearly blocking his windpipe. Dirk jerked his head to see one of the scarf-clad Arabs materialize from the other side of the wall, pressing an assault rifle farther into his neck. Even under the dim light, Dirk could detect the malicious hostility in the man’s dark eyes.

“Do not move or you are dead,” he whispered.

15

The rifle’s muzzle never left the back of Dirk’s neck as he was marched up the trail into camp. He was forced into the artifact tent, where one of the Arabs was busy stacking up the plastic bins for removal. The man had let his scarf slip, allowing Dirk to observe his small, ferretlike facial features. A second later, the terrorist leader entered the tent.

“Cover your face,” he barked to the man in Arabic. The subordinate immediately retied his scarf with a quiet look of indignation. The leader then turned toward Dirk and the other guard.

“Why did you bring this man here?” he demanded.

“I counted the occupied tents, and we were a body short. I spotted him trailing his friends down to the beach.” He held up a pair of night vision goggles that had proved Dirk’s undoing.

The leader nodded in acknowledgment as he looked Dirk over.

“Shall I kill him here or put him with the others?” the guard asked.

The leader shook his head. “Tie him up and put him in the truck. A hostage might be useful until we are clear of here.” He pulled out his pistol and leveled it at Dirk, allowing the other man to follow his directive.

Cutting some rope from the tent awning, the guard tightly bound Dirk’s wrists and arms behind his back. Jabbing again with his rifle, he prodded Dirk out the tent and up the hillside. A hundred yards along the trail, they passed the body of the antiquities agent named Holder, lying facedown in a pool of blood. Parked nearby was a dilapidated utility truck that had been backed from the parking lot to the side of the path.

The guard led Dirk to the back of the truck and gave him a hard shove, propelling him facedown onto the truck bed. Before Dirk could roll over, the guard climbed up and quickly tied his ankles together with a spare piece of rope.

“Do not try to leave the truck, my tall friend, or I shall kill you,” the guard said. He then gave Dirk a swift kick to the ribs before jumping off the back of the truck.

Dirk shook off the sting as he watched the guard turn and walk back to the camp. He struggled with his wrist bindings, but they were tied too tightly to try to work free. Sliding around the back of the truck, he felt around for a loose tool or object but only bumped into a short stack of artifact bins. He then slithered around until he faced the open back of the truck.

The vehicle had folding double doors, leaving a straight drop to the ground. Dirk looked over the lip of the truck bed and eyed the rear bumper, a rusty plate of curved steel covered in flaking white paint. The inner edge of the bumper was thin and corroded but could serve as a cutting edge.

Reaching the bumper with his hands behind his back required a delicate balancing act, and he almost rolled out of the truck at first. But straining against one end of the bumper, he was able to press the rope against the ragged edge and work it back and forth. He’d barely begun to fray the rope when he heard steps along the path and he quickly slid back onto the truck bed with his hands beneath him.

The earlier guard, along with the ferret-faced man, appeared, carrying plastic artifact bins, which they placed on the back of the truck. Ferret-face then hopped in and stowed the bins near the cab, taking the opportunity to do his cohort one better by kicking Dirk in the back of the head as he passed by.

Dirk exaggerated the pain from the blow, groaning loudly and writhing as if in severe pain. The Arab chuckled at the result, jabbering to his comrade as they returned to camp. Dirk immediately resumed his position against the bumper, grating against the wrist ties. After one frenzied stroke, the rope frayed, and he felt the serrated edge scratch his wrist. He quickly worked the rope free, unraveling it from his wrists and arms. Rolling to an upright position, he attacked the rope around his ankles with his freed hands. But he hesitated when a crunching sound of footsteps on gravel sounded down the path. A stubborn knot was holding the line tight. He quickly relaxed the tension in his legs and worked the knot free. As the rope fell slack, he slid back into the truck, loosely wrapping the line around his ankle, then lying down with his arms behind him.

There was only one Arab on the trail, which Dirk recognized as Ferret-face. Dirk smiled to himself when he saw that the man was carrying an armload of artifact bins and no weapon. Like before, he placed the bins on the truck bed, then climbed inside to position them near the cab. Dirk resumed his artificial moans while writhing about to better position himself. He waited until the bins were stacked and the Arab turned to give him the obligatory kick. But the second Ferret-face’s foot was raised, Dirk sprang forward, rolling his body forcefully into the man’s other ankle.

Standing on one foot, the man was immediately thrown off balance by the impact. As he was falling down, Dirk jumped up, grabbed the foot that had been thrust at his chest, and shoved it skyward. The startled assailant crashed to the truck bed, landing on his head and shoulders while sending a trio of artifact bins flying. One of the bins turned over at Dirk’s feet, releasing the ceramic box inside. Dirk reached down and grabbed the box, then lunged at Ferret-face. The Arab was struggling to his knees as Dirk smashed the box against the man’s temple. The box shattered, sending him sprawling on the bed unconscious.

“Sorry about that, Dr. Haasis,” Dirk muttered as he collected a mangled roll of papyrus in his hand and stuffed it in a bin. He then quickly tied Ferret-face into the same configuration as he himself had been bound, then jumped off the truck.

The trail was still quiet as Dirk moved to the front of the truck, checking but failing to find the vehicle’s ignition keys. He continued across the parking lot, moving quietly and methodically, before slipping down into an adjacent field at a run. Leery now of the gunmen’s night vision goggles, he figured his best chance at avoiding detection was to just get quickly out of sight.

He started down the hillside toward the beach, sticking to low-lying gullies and washes that offered the most concealment. He contemplated running out of Caesarea Park and trying to obtain outside help but knew that by the time any police would respond, the thieves would be long gone. And so might Sophie, Haasis, and the others.

He staggered across the stony remnants of a two-thousand-year-old residence and then past an ancient garden until he reached a bluff that overlooked the beach. Below and to his left rose the shadow of a Roman amphitheater. It was one of the best-preserved structures at Caesarea, a towering semicircle of stone seats that stood mostly intact and was still utilized for outdoor concerts and theater performances. With dramatic flair, the Romans had positioned the open end along the beach, offering theatergoers a spectacular view of the Mediterranean Sea as a stage backdrop.

Dirk worked his way along the bluff until he could see over the high stands of the amphitheater. A crossed pair of flashlight beams on the ground illuminated the group of captives, huddled in a mass on the beach behind the stage. Dirk could make out the two armed gunmen striding back and forth in the light, jabbering to each other over the crash of the nearby waves. He could also see that they were positioned in a difficult spot to approach undetected, with wide beachfront on either side and the flat expanse of open stage in front.

He watched as a silver-tipped breaker crashed onto the beach, rolling to within twenty yards of the group before dissipating away. It was nearly high tide, he observed. Watching another wave roll high onto the beach, he made up his mind. Guarding the captives, the gunmen had their backs to the sea and wouldn’t expect an attack from that direction. A seaward approach was his only chance.

He gazed up the beach, barely making out the spit of land angling into the sea where he had discovered the ancient scrolls. Mentally searching for a tactic, he cursed that most of his dive equipment was back in his tent. But there was the pit excavation, which was still incomplete. There was a good chance that some digging tools were still nearby. And there was also his generator and water jet.

He thought for a moment, then twisted his face into a grimace.

“Well, a mad plan is better than no plan,” he muttered to himself, then hastily descended the bluff toward the sea.

16

Sophie felt the eyes of the gunman stare at her incessantly. Stalking back and forth like a hungry tiger, the shorter of the two gunmen aimed his bloodshot eyes at her with nearly every step. She intentionally avoided making eye contact, tending to Sam and Raban or looking away toward the sea. This only served to frustrate the guard, and he finally demanded her attention.

“You,” he said, waving his gun at her. “Stand up.”

Sophie rose slowly to her feet but kept her eyes focused on the ground. The gunman poked his rifle beneath her chin, forcing her to raise her head.

“Leave her alone,” Raban cried in a weakened voice.

The gunman stepped over and thrust a boot at the agent, striking him on the side of the jaw. Raban crumpled over, lying on the sand in an open-eyed daze.

“Coward,” Sophie said, finally looking the Arab in the eye with contempt.

He slowly moved close to her. Easing his rifle up, he gently poked her in the cheek and jaw with the weapon’s muzzle.

“Mahmoud, you like that one?” his partner said, watching the confrontation with amusement. “She is pretty, for a Jew. And even prettier for an antiquities agent,” he added with a laugh.

Mahmoud said nothing, his eyes boring salaciously into Sophie’s. He eased the gun barrel down the side of her neck, then followed the border of her open-collared shirt, pressing the cool metal against her skin. When the barrel reached the top button of her blouse, he held it there, straining against the clasp. When it failed to give, he slowly pulled the barrel to one side, attempting a glimpse of her left breast.

Sophie wanted to knee him in the groin but opted for a quick kick to the shin, hoping it would lessen the likelihood of him killing her. Mahmoud jumped back, grunting in pain as he hopped about on one foot. His partner laughed aloud at the scene, heaping further humiliation on the gunman.

“You have a spirited one there. I think she is too brazen for you,” he taunted.

Mahmoud shook off the blow and marched over to Sophie. He stood so close that she could smell the dank odor of his breath.

“We shall see who is spirited,” he hissed, a rabid glare to his eyes.

He turned to hand his rifle to his partner when the loud whine of a generator erupted down the beach. A few seconds later, a pounding splash of cascading water echoed over the waves. All eyes turned that direction, and a faint silvery arc could be seen shooting over the horizon.

“Mahmoud, go and see what that is,” the partner ordered, his demeanor suddenly serious.

Mahmoud leaned toward Sophie and whispered in her ear, “I shall have fun with you when I return.”

Sophie eyed him with daggers as he turned and marched down the beach, his rifle at the ready. She then collapsed onto the sand, trying to hide her hands that trembled with fright. Trying to calm herself, she thought again of Dirk and wondered whether he might have had anything to do with the commotion.

As the figure of Mahmoud disappeared into the darkness, the other gunman paced nervously in front of the captives. He scanned down either stretch of beach, then stepped around the captives and surveyed the empty seats of the amphitheater with a flashlight. Finding nothing amiss, he resumed his position along the beachfront.

Lying on the sand, Sam rolled to a sitting position, finally regaining his bearings after an earlier blow to the head.

“How are you feeling, Sam?” Sophie asked him.

“Okay,” he answered in a slurred voice. He looked around at his fellow captives, slowly reorienting himself. His gaze shifted toward the gunman, and he raised an unsteady arm in his direction and asked, “Who’s that?”

“One of several terrorists holding us hostage,” Sophie replied bitterly. But she nearly choked on her last words as she glanced toward the guard and realized that wasn’t who Sam was asking about.

A dozen yards behind the Arab, a shadowy figure had emerged from the surf and was making a quick beeline toward the guard. He was tall and thin and carried a blunt object in his arms. Sophie’s heart nearly pounded out of her chest when she recognized the owner of the profile.

It was Dirk.

The gunman stood with his back to the sea, his eyes focused on the area around the amphitheater. Just a turn of the head would expose Dirk’s approach, leaving him quick fodder for the assault rifle. Sophie realized she had to hold the guard’s attention so that Dirk could approach unseen.

“What… what is your name?” she stammered.

The gunman gave her a quizzical look, then laughed.

“My name? Ha. You can call me David, the boy shepherd tending to my flock.”

He was proud of his joke and gazed at Sophie with beaming eyes. Sophie tried not to look past him as the shadowy figure moved closer.

“What will you do with the artifacts, David?” she asked, struggling to keep the man engaged.

“Why, turn them into cash, of course,” he replied with a chuckle. It was then that he detected movement behind him, but he turned too late.

The flat blade of a shovel struck him in the side of the head as he turned. The blow stunned him, dropping him to his knees, as he fumbled to train his gun. Dirk quickly reversed his swing, leveling a second blow to the other side of the man’s head, which knocked him down and out.

“Everybody here all right?” Dirk asked, catching his breath as the salt water dripped off his body.

Sophie jumped up and grabbed his arm, relieved at his presence.

“We’re okay, but there’s another gunman who just walked down the beach.”

“I know. I set off the water jet to lure him away.”

As he spoke, they could hear the distant generator sputter to a halt, the cascading waterfall dying with it.

“He’ll be coming right back,” she said in a low tone.

Dirk quickly surveyed the small group of captives. Sam sat with a dazed look in his eye, leaning against the bloodied agent Raban. Dr. Haasis was lying down with his leg wrapped in a shirt bandage, looking as if he was in a state of shock. The remaining students — three women and two men — sat looking at him with hopeless anxiety. Dirk could plainly see that the collected group would be unable to make a speedy escape. He gazed at the sleeping gunman, then turned to Sophie.

“Help me get his jacket off.”

Dirk lifted the man’s torso off the ground while Sophie stripped off his loose black jacket. Holding him under the arms, Dirk dragged the man around to the back side of the captives.

“Bury his legs in the sand, then sit in front of his upper body,” he told the two male students. They quickly shoved sand over his feet and legs, then tried to conceal the rest of his body by sitting cross-legged in front of it.

Dirk yanked off the gunman’s scarf and wrapped it around his head, then slipped into the black jacket. He ran back around to the front of the group and picked up the assault rifle.

“He’s coming,” someone whispered in a frightened voice.

“Sit back down,” Dirk said to Sophie as he checked the weapon. It was a mass-produced AK-74, likely smuggled into the country through Egypt. Dirk was vaguely familiar with the gun, having fired a similar version at a shooting range one time. He felt along the left side of the receiver to ensure that the fire selector switch was on automatic, then pulled back on the charging lever. He quickly raised the weapon and faced the group as if standing guard.

Mahmoud appeared along the beach and trudged up to the captives with an annoyed scowl.

“Someone made a water fountain with a generator,” he muttered. “Shot fifty feet into the sky.”

Dirk kept his back toward the man, waiting for him to step closer. When he felt him draw near, he slowly wheeled around, casually leveling the AK-74 at Mahmoud’s chest.

“You take good care of the girl while I was gone?” the Arab asked. Then he froze.

It dawned on him that his silent partner had suddenly grown taller, was sporting a wet pair of short pants, and gazed bitterly at him through a pair of green eyes. Then there was the Kalashnikov rifle pointed in his direction.

“Drop your weapon,” Dirk ordered.

Sophie repeated the command in Arabic, but it was unnecessary. Mahmoud knew exactly what Dirk meant. The Arab looked at Sophie and the students, then back to Dirk. Amateurs, he thought. His partner, Saheem, might have been duped, but he wouldn’t be.

“Yes, yes,” he said with a nod, extending his weapon toward the ground. But with a sudden move, he dropped to one knee and pulled the rifle stock to his shoulder while taking aim at Dirk.

The AK-74 in Dirk’s hands barked first. Four slugs tore into Mahmoud’s chest, throwing him backward, before he had a chance to squeeze the trigger. A heaving gasp dribbled from his lips, but his dying words were drowned by a frightened scream from one of the students. Sophie jumped to her feet and stepped close to Dirk.

“He was a filthy pig,” she said, eyeing the dead man.

Dirk took a deep breath to calm his pounding pulse, then walked over to Mahmoud and picked up his rifle. Up the hill, the horn on the utility truck suddenly blared, echoing down to the beach.

“A probable call to arms,” Dirk said. “We need to get everyone away from here and out of sight.”

He walked over to the group and called to one of the students, a wiry man with long legs.

“Thomas, we need you to go get us some help. There’s a housing development less than a mile up the beach. Find a phone, and see if you can get some police here pronto. Just be sure to tell them what they’ll be up against.”

The young man stood up and looked hesitantly at his friends, then turned and took off down the beach at a sprint. Dirk quickly scanned the area around them, then stood before the remaining group.

“We need to move before they come looking for their friends. Let’s see if we can get around the back side of the amphitheater, for starters,” he said.

“This one is stirring,” replied one of the students, motioning toward the prone figure of Saheem.

“Leave him be,” Dirk replied. He stepped over to Sophie and handed her one of the assault rifles. “Did you serve in the Israel Defense Forces?” he asked.

“Yes, I did my two years,” she said. Israel’s mandatory military conscription also applied to women. She took the gun without hesitation.

“Can you cover our retreat?” he asked.

“I can try.”

Dirk leaned over and kissed her forehead. “Stay close to us.”

He walked over and helped Dr. Haasis to his feet. The professor’s eyes were dull and his skin pale from the shock of his wound. With help from the other male student, Dirk hauled him across the sand. With the others in tow, he led them over the amphitheater’s stage and toward the far edge of the tiered seats. Sophie followed the group a few paces behind, peering through the darkness for any approaching figures.

Gasping for breath, Dirk muscled the deadweight of Haasis to the rear of the towering structure. Nearby was a storage shed that had been constructed to house concert equipment and was positioned against the side of the theater. Dirk dragged Haasis behind the shed and gently laid him on the ground. The other students and the wounded agents fell in alongside the professor as Sophie brought up the rear.

“We’ll hold up here and wait for the police to arrive,” Dirk said, finding the corner a manageable defensive position.

“Dirk, I see lights coming down the trail,” Sophie reported quietly.

They peered around the side of the shed toward a pair of faint lights that bobbed down the hill. The beams slowly made their way along the beach, accompanied by an occasional shout of a name. One of the beams sprayed upon Saheem, who had managed to stand up but was staggering about in a daze. The dead body of Mahmoud was soon discovered, amplifying a frenzied murmur of voices. One of the lights turned and fanned across the interior of the amphitheater. Dirk wrapped an arm around Sophie and jerked her back from the edge.

“Sorry,” he whispered, relaxing his grip only slightly. “They have night vision goggles.”

Sophie slipped an arm around Dirk’s torso and squeezed back. They clung to each other for a minute before Dirk attempted another peek. To his relief, both light beams were proceeding down the beach and could soon be seen bounding up the hill. A few minutes later, the faint rumble of the utility truck was heard making its way out of the park.

A wail of sirens and flashing lights arrived at the park just ten minutes later. Dirk and Sophie hiked up to the camp as a patrol of armed police with high-beamed flashlights and barking German shepherds burst down the trail. They led the police to the amphitheater, where Haasis and the injured agents were quickly evacuated by ambulance. Dirk noted with curiosity that the body of Mahmoud had disappeared, dragged up the hill by his comrades and carted off with the stolen artifacts.

After extensive questioning by the police, Dirk took a look inside the artifact tent. As he expected, all of the scroll boxes had been removed. What he didn’t expect to find were the storehouse artifacts, which were still scattered about the tables in varying states of analysis and conservation. He exited the tent to find Sophie approaching from the parking lot. Under the overhead lights, he could see her eyes were red, and she appeared to be trembling. Dirk stepped over and grabbed her hand.

“They just took Arie away,” she said, referring to agent Holder. “Shot dead over some stupid artifacts.”

“They were as apt at stealing as they were at killing. They heisted only the scrolls, didn’t even bother with the other artifacts,” he replied, nodding toward the tent.

Sophie’s face seemed to harden. “The phony antiquities agent tipped them off. The young student, Stephanie, thought he was one of the gunmen here tonight.”

“Any idea who would use such commando tactics to acquire black market antiquities?”

Sophie nodded. “I would have to suspect the Mules. A gang of Lebanese smugglers with suspected ties to Hezbollah. They’re mostly known for transporting weapons and drugs, but they’ve drifted into antiquities before. They’re the only ones I know of who would kill for artifacts.”

“I wouldn’t think those scrolls would be very easy to pawn.”

“They’ve probably already been paid for. This was likely a contract job for a wealthy collector. One who knows no bounds.”

“Catch them,” Dirk said quietly.

“For Holder’s sake, I will,” she replied firmly. She gazed at the sea for a while, then looked at Dirk with a softened expression.

“I’m not sure any of us would be alive if you hadn’t showed up on the beach.”

Dirk smiled. “I just wanted to make sure I got a second date.”

“That,” she said, standing and giving him a peck on the cheek, “I can almost guarantee.”

17

Pitt stood in the terminal waiting area and let out a slow sigh of relief. Looking out the window, he watched Loren’s plane back away from the gate and head toward a line of jets awaiting takeoff from Atatürk International Airport. At last he could relax, knowing his wife was out of danger.

It had been an uneasy interval since he had stood on the dock of Yenikoy and watched the would-be assassins sail off on the Bosphorus ferry. He and Loren had quickly hailed a cab and raced back to Istanbul, sneaking into the rear entrance of their hotel and quietly checking out. They crisscrossed the city to ensure they weren’t being followed, then checked into a modest hotel near the airport for the night.

“We probably should have gone to the U.S. Mission and reported the whole thing,” Loren complained as they entered their bland room. “They could have at least provided us security at a nice hotel.”

“You’re right,” Pitt conceded. “After thirty-seven briefings with a dozen bureaucrats, they’d probably find a safe place for us by a week from Thursday.” He wasn’t surprised that she hadn’t pushed for diplomatic aid earlier. Despite her years in Congress, she rarely used her status to press for special treatment.

“The State Department is going to hear about it all the same,” she replied. “Those creeps need to be put behind bars.”

“Just do me a favor and wait until you are safely home before you blow your horn.”

Rebooking their flights, he saw her off on the first departure to Washington. With time to kill before catching his flight to Chios, he ate breakfast at an airport café, then tried phoning Dr. Ruppé. He was surprised when the archaeologist answered the number in Rome he had given Pitt.

“You calling from the airport?” Ruppé asked as a highly amplified boarding announcement blared from a speaker above Pitt’s head.

“Yes, I just saw Loren off and I’m waiting for my flight out.”

“I thought you two were staying another day.”

Pitt filled him in on their adventure up the Bosphorus.

“Thank goodness you two are safe,” Ruppé said, shocked at the story. “Those guys must certainly be well connected. Have you reported this to the police?”

“No,” Pitt replied. “I was a bit leery after they discovered our whereabouts so quickly.”

“Probably a wise move. The Turkish police have had a reputation for corruption. And based on my spate of bad news, you were probably right to think that way.”

“What happened?”

“I got a call from my assistant at the museum. Apparently, someone broke into my office and tossed the place during daylight hours. The good news is, they didn’t find my safe, so your gold crown is still safe.”

“And the bad news?”

“They took the coins and some of my papers, which included your charts showing the location of the wreck. I can’t say for sure, but it would seem to me there has to be a connection with all these events. Nothing like this has ever happened to me before.”

“Another by-product of the leaky Turkish police?” Pitt asked.

“Might well be. My assistant already reported the crime, and they are conducting an investigation. But like the Topkapi robbery, they claim to be working without any leads.”

“They ought to have a bushelful by now,” Pitt lamented.

“Well, I guess there’s not much more to be done. I’ll try to have an interpretation of your crown when I get back to Istanbul.”

“Take care, Rey. I’ll call in a few days.”

Pitt hung up the phone, hoping that his involvement with the Topkapi thieves was at an end.

But deep down, he had a feeling that it wasn’t.

18

The Moroccan-styled villa commanded an arresting view of the Mediterranean from its rocky perch along the Turkish coastline. While not as gargantuan as some of the moneyed estates situated near the sea, it was built with a discerning eye for detail. Exquisitely glazed tiles covered every external wall, while miniature spires capped each roofline. Yet functionality superseded opulence, and a high premium was placed on the resident’s privacy. A high stone wall encircled the landward perimeter, obscuring the interior compound from the eyes of locals and tourists alike who traveled along the coastal road to the nearby beach resort of Kuşadasi.

Ozden Celik stood at a large picture window, staring beyond the shimmering blue sea toward the faint outline of Samos, a Greek island fifteen miles away.

“It is a travesty that the islands off our own shore have been taken by another nation,” he said bitterly.

Maria sat at a nearby desk, reviewing a stack of financial documents. The sunlit room was decorated similarly to the Bosphorus office, with tribal rugs on the floor and collectible artifacts from the Ottoman era gracing the walls and shelves.

“Do not antagonize yourself over the failings of men long dead,” she said.

“The land was still ours when Suleiman ruled. It was the great Atatürk who sacrificed our empire,” he said in a sarcastic tone.

Maria ignored the comment, having heard her brother rail against the founder of modern-day Turkey many times before. Celik turned to his sister, his eyes ablaze with intensity. “Our heritage cannot be forgotten nor our rightful destiny denied.”

Maria nodded quietly. “The Sheikh’s wire transfer has cleared,” she said, holding up a bank transmittal.

“Twenty million euros?” he asked.

“Yes. How much did you promise the Mufti?”

“I told him to expect twelve million, so let’s give him fourteen, and we’ll keep the remainder as before.”

“Why so generous?” she asked.

“It’s important to maintain his trust. Plus, it will allow me greater influence as to where the money is spent.”

“I assume you have a strategy for that?”

“Of course. Attorneys and judicial bribes will absorb a large portion, to ensure that the Felicity Party, with Mufti Battal atop the ticket, appears on the ballot come Election Day. The remaining funds will be used for traditional political expenses; organized rallies, promotion and advertising, and additional fund-raising.”

“His coffers must be filling fast, given the squeeze he’s putting on his mosques, not to mention his general rising popularity.”

“All of which we can take credit for,” Celik replied smugly.

It had taken Celik several years to find and cultivate the right Islamic leader to front his goals. Mufti Battal had just the right mix of ego and charisma to lead the movement while still being malleable to Celik’s designs. Under Celik’s carefully choreographed campaign of bribes and threats, Battal had consolidated pockets of fundamentalist Islamic support throughout Turkey and gradually built it into a national movement. Working behind the scenes, Celik was about to turn the religious movement into a political one. Smart enough to realize his own aspirations would meet public resistance in some quarters, he hitched his wagon to the populist Mufti.

“It appears from the media reports that public outrage is still high over the Topkapi theft,” Maria said. “It is being viewed as a very visible affront to the Muslim faithful. I would be surprised if it didn’t raise the Mufti’s popularity a percentage point or two.”

“Exactly the intent,” Celik replied. “I must ensure that he releases a public statement strongly condemning the heinous thieves,” he added with a wry smile.

He stepped over to the desk, noting an array of coins in a felt box beside a stack of research journals and a nautical chart. They were the objects stolen from Dr. Ruppé, taken by Maria when she ransacked the archaeologist’s office while visiting the museum dressed as a tourist.

“A bit risky, returning to the scene of the crime?” he asked.

“It wasn’t exactly the Topkapi Privy Chamber,” she replied. “I thought there was an outside chance our second bag of Muhammad relics might have ended up there, until I heard otherwise from the police. It was a quick and easy job to access his office.”

“Anything of interest beyond the coins?” he asked, admiring one of the gold pieces he pulled from the container.

“An Iznik ceramic box. There’s a note by the archaeologist that says it dates to the Age of Suleiman, along with the coins. They apparently all came from the shipwreck discovered by the American.”

Celik’s brow rose in interest. “So it is a Suleiman shipwreck? I wish to know more.”

There was a knock on the office door, which opened a second later to reveal a large man in a dark suit. He had a light complexion and gray, hardened eyes that had clearly witnessed the darker side of life.

“Your visitors have arrived,” he said in a coarse voice.

“Show them in,” Celik ordered, “and return with another Janissary.”

The term Janissary dated back many centuries and referred to the personal guards and elite troops of the Ottoman sultans. In an odd twist of loyalty, the original Janissaries who served the Islamic palace typically were not Muslim themselves but Christians from the Balkans area. Conscripted as young boys, they were schooled and groomed as servants, bodyguards, and even Army commanders in service to the Sultan’s empire.

In a similar fashion, Celik’s Janissaries were Christian recruits from Serbia and Croatia, mostly former military commandos. In Celik’s case, however, they were hired strictly as bodyguards and mercenaries.

The Janissary disappeared for a moment, then returned with a companion, who escorted three men into the room. They were the assassins who had chased Pitt and Loren up the Bosphorus. They shuffled in with a noticeable hint of apprehension, all avoiding direct eye contact with Celik.

“Did you eliminate the intruders?” Celik asked without greeting.

The tallest of the three, who had worn the mirrored sunglasses, spoke for the group.

“The man named Pitt and his wife apparently detected our presence and fled on a ferryboat to Sariyer. We established contact with them, but they escaped.”

“So you failed,” Celik said, letting the words hang in the air like an executioner’s sword. “Where are they now, Farzad?”

The man shook his head. “They checked out of their hotel. We don’t know if they are still in the city.”

“The police?” he asked, turning to Maria.

She shook her head. “Nothing has been reported.”

“This man Pitt. He must be lucky, if not resourceful.”

Celik walked over to the desk and picked up the gold coin from Ruppé’s office.

“He will no doubt return to his shipwreck. An Ottoman shipwreck,” he added with emphasis. He walked close to Farzad and looked him in the eye. “You have failed once. I will not tolerate a second failure.”

He stepped back and addressed all three men. “You will be paid in full for your work. You can collect your wages on the way out. Each of you is to remain underground until called for the next project. Is that clear?”

All three men nodded quietly. One of the Janissaries opened the door, and the men made a quick retreat for the exit.

“Wait,” Celik’s voice suddenly boomed. “Atwar, another word with you. The others may go.”

The man who had worn the blue shirt stood where he was while Farzad and the Persian left the room. The first Janissary stayed in the room, closing the door then moving behind Atwar. Celik stepped close to the Iraqi.

“Atwar, you let this man Pitt subdue you during the Topkapi theft. As a result, we lost the Holy Mantle of the Prophet that was in our hands. Now yesterday, you let him elude you again?”

“He caught us all by surprise,” Atwar stammered, looking to Maria for support.

She said nothing as Celik pulled open a desk drawer and retrieved a three-foot-long bowstring. As with his Ottoman ancestors, it was his favored tool for execution.

“Unlike Farzad, you have failed me twice,” Celik said, nodding at the Janissary.

The guard stepped up and grabbed Atwar in a bear hug from behind, pinning the man’s arms to his side. The Iraqi tried to struggle, but the Janissary was too powerful to break the grip.

“It was her fault,” he cried, motioning his head toward Maria. “She ordered us to abduct the woman. None of this would have happened if we had let her go.”

Celik ignored the words, slowly stepping closer until he was inches from the struggling man’s face.

“You will not fail me again,” Celik whispered in his ear. Then he flung the cord around Atwar’s neck and tightened it with a lacquered wooden cylinder.

The man screamed, but his voice was quickly snuffed out as the cord tightened around his throat. His face turned blue and his eyes bulged as Celik twisted the block, applying greater pressure to the cord. A perverse look of delight filled Celik’s eyes as he stared into the face of the dying man. He held the twisted cord tight well after his victim’s body fell limp, seeming to savor the moment. He finally unraveled the garrote, taking his time removing it from the dead man’s throat before returning it to the desk drawer.

“Take his body offshore after dark and dump it into the sea,” he said to the Janissary. The guard nodded, then dragged the stiffening body out of the room.

The act of murder seemed to invigorate Celik, and he paced the room with nervous energy. The gold coin was back in his hand, fondled like a child’s toy.

“You should have never brought in these imbeciles to do our work,” he barked at Maria. “My Janissaries would have not failed at the task.”

“They have served us well in the past. Besides, as you have just shown, they are expendable.”

“We can’t have any mistakes going forward,” he lectured. “The stakes are too high.”

“I will personally lead the next operation. Speaking of which, are you certain you wish to proceed in Jerusalem? I’m not sure the benefits are worth the risk.”

“It has the potential to create a massive unifying impact. Beyond that, with a bit of inflated Zionist fright, it will be good for another twenty million euros from our Arab backers.” Celik stopped pacing for a moment then gazed at his sister. “I realize it is not without danger. Are you committed to the task?”

“Of course,” she replied without batting an eye. “My Hezbollah contact has already made arrangements with a top operator who will assist with the mission for the right price. And should there be any difficulties, they will offer the necessary culpability.”

“Hezbollah was not opposed to the nature of the mission?”

“I didn’t provide them all of the details,” Maria replied with a sly smile.

Celik walked over to his sister and gently stroked her cheek. “You have always proven to be the best partner a man could ask for.”

“We have a destiny,” she replied, echoing his earlier words. “When our great-grandfather was exiled by Atatürk in 1922, the first Ottoman Empire ended. Our grandfather and father spent their lives as outcasts, failing to fulfill the dream of restoration. But by the grace of Allah, a renewed empire is now within our fingertips. We have little choice but to act, for the honor of our father and all those before him.”

Celik stood silent as teardrops welled in his eyes, his hand squeezing the gold coin until his fist shuddered.