Crescent Dawn

19

The lemon yellow submersible slipped beneath the sloshing waters of the moon pool and rapidly disappeared from sight. The pilot descended quickly, not wishing to loiter about the mother ship while fierce currents matched wits with a Force 7 wind.

The frigid waters off the Orkney Islands northeast of the Scottish mainland were seldom mild. North Atlantic storm fronts routinely pounded the rocky islands with towering waves, while gale force winds seemed to blow without relief. But a hundred feet beneath the raging waters, the submersible’s three passengers quickly turned a blind eye to the violent surface weather.

“I was a bit afraid of the descent, but this is actually much calmer than that rolling ship,” stated Julie Goodyear from the rear seat. A research historian from Cambridge University on her first dive, she had been fighting the ill effects of seasickness since boarding the NUMA research vessel Odin in Scapa Flow three days earlier.

“Miss Goodyear, I guarantee that you are going to enjoy this flight so much, you’re not going to want to go back to that bouncing tub,” replied the pilot in a Texas drawl. A steely-eyed man with a horseshoe mustache, Jack Dahlgren toggled the diving controls with a surgeon’s deft touch as he eased their descent.

“I believe you may be correct. That is, unless the claustrophobia in here gets the better of me,” Julie replied. “I don’t know how you two manage the confinement in here on a regular basis.”

Though Julie was a tall woman, she still gave up a few inches to both Dahlgren and the woman seated in the copilot’s seat. Summer Pitt turned and flashed her a comforting smile.

“If you focus your vision on the world out there,” she said, motioning toward the submersible’s forward viewing port, “then you tend to forget how cramped it is in here.”

With long red hair and bright gray eyes, Summer posed a striking figure even in her grease-stained dive jumpsuit. Standing six feet tall in her bare feet, the daughter of NUMA’s Director, and the twin sibling to her brother, Dirk, she was well accustomed to tight quarters. Employed as an oceanographer for the underwater agency, she had spent many an hour studying the seafloor from the constricted confines of small submersibles.

“How about I shed a little light on the matter,” Dahlgren said, reaching up and flicking a pair of overhead toggle switches. Twin banks of external floodlights suddenly came on, illuminating the dark green sea surrounding them.

“That’s better,” Julie said, peering nearly forty feet into the depths. “I had no idea that we would be able to see so far.”

“The water is surprisingly clear,” Summer remarked. “It’s much better visibility than we had in Norway.” Summer and the crew of the Odin were returning from a three-week project off the Norwegian coast where they had monitored temperature changes in the sea and its impact on local marine life.

“Depth of one hundred seventy feet,” Dahlgren reported. “We should be nearing the bottom.”

He adjusted the submersible’s ballast tanks to neutral buoyancy as a sandy brown bottom appeared in the depths beneath them. Engaging the vessel’s electric motor, he applied forward thrust, making a slight course correction as he eyed a gyrocompass.

“We’re near high water, and the current is still ripping through here at about two knots,” he said, feeling the push against the submersible’s outer hull.

“Not a fun place to go free diving,” Summer replied.

They glided just a short distance before a large tubular object filled the view port.

“Mark one funnel,” Dahlgren said as they hovered over the huge tube.

“It’s so large,” Julie said excitedly. “I’m used to looking at the funnels in proportion to the ship on grainy old black-and-white photographs.”

“Looks like it came down pretty hard,” Summer remarked, noting one end of the thin rusting funnel was twisted and crushed flat.

“Eyewitness reports claim that the Hampshire stood on her bow and actually flipped over as she sank,” Julie said. “The funnels would have popped out at that point, if not earlier.”

Summer reached to a console and engaged a pair of high-definition video cameras.

“Cameras rolling. Jack, it looks like there’s the beginning of a debris field to our left.”

“I’m on it,” Dahlgren replied, guiding the submersible across the current.

A short distance beyond the funnel, a scattering of dark objects poked from the sand. They were mostly undecipherable debris long on corrosion that had fallen from the ship as it tilted and sank to the bottom.

Summer noted a brass shell casing and a ceramic plate mixed with unidentifiable bits and pieces as the concentration of objects intensified. Then a towering black figure slowly materialized in the water directly ahead of them. Inching closer, they saw it was the unmistakable form of a massive shipwreck.

A near century underwater had taken its toll on the World War I British cruiser. The vessel appeared as a tangled mass of rusted steel, sitting upright on the bottom with a heavy lean to starboard. Sections of the ship were nearly buried in sand, due to the effects of a scouring current. Summer could see that the superstructure had long since collapsed, while the teak decking had eroded away decades ago. Even sections of the hull plating had fallen in. The grand cruiser and survivor of Jutland was sadly just a shadow of her former self.

Dahlgren guided the submersible over the Hampshire ’s stern, hovering above it like a helicopter. He then piloted it across the ship’s length until reaching the bow, which was partially buried in the sand, the ship having augured into the seabed by her prow. He turned and guided the submersible several more times across its length, a video camera capturing digital footage while a secondary still camera snapped images that would later be pieced into a mosaic photo of the entire wreck.

As they returned to the stern, Summer pointed to a jagged hole cut into the exposed deck plate near an aft hold. Beside the hole was an orderly pile of debris that stood several feet high.

“That’s an odd hole,” she remarked. “Doesn’t look like it had anything to do with the ship’s sinking.”

“The pile of debris alongside tells me that some salvors have been aboard,” Dahlgren said. “Did somebody get inside her before the government protected the wreck site?”

“Yes, the wreck was first discovered by Sir Basil Zaharoff in the nineteen thirties and partially salvaged,” Julie said. “They were after some gold rumored to have been aboard. Due to the treacherous currents, they reportedly didn’t salvage a great deal off the ship. Nobody seems to believe they found much gold, if any at all.”

Dahlgren guided them over the curved surface of the stern hull until he found a pair of empty drive shafts protruding from below.

“Somebody got her big bronze propellers, anyway,” Dahlgren noted.

“The British government didn’t secure the wreck site until 1973. No one has legally been allowed to dive on the wreck since. It took me three years to obtain approval simply to conduct a photographic survey, and that only happened because my uncle is an MP.”

“Never hurts to have family in high places,” Dahlgren remarked, giving Summer a wink.

“I’m just glad your agency offered the resources to help,” Julie said. “I’m not sure I could have obtained the grant money necessary to hire a commercial submersible and crew.”

“We had the help of a couple of Cambridge microbiologists on our Norway project,” Dahlgren replied. “Brought some Old Speckled Hen with them. Darn nice people, so we were only glad to reciprocate.”

“Old Speckled Hen?” Julie asked.

“An English beer,” Summer said with a slight roll of her eyes. “The fact of the matter is, once Jack heard there was a shipwreck involved, there was no way we weren’t going to help.”

Dahlgren just smiled as he powered the submersible along a few feet above the cruiser. “Let’s see if we can find out where they struck that mine,” he said finally.

“Was it a mine or a torpedo that sank the Hampshire ?” Summer asked.

“Most historians believe she struck a mine. There was a fierce gale blowing the night she sank. The Hampshire attempted to sail with several escort destroyers, but they couldn’t keep pace in the rough seas so the cruiser continued on without them. An explosion occurred near the bow, which supports a collision with a mine. The German submarine U-75 was in the area and had reported releasing a number of mines farther up the coast.”

“It sounds as if it was a terrible tragedy,” Summer remarked.

“The ship sank in less than ten minutes. Only a handful of lifeboats were lowered, and they were either crushed against the ship or capsized in the heavy seas. Those men that were able to stay afloat were still doused by the frigid water. Most of the crew died of exposure long before reaching shore. Of the six hundred and fifty-five crewmen aboard, only twelve men survived.”

“Lord Kitchener not being one of them,” Summer said quietly. “Did they find his body?”

“No,” Julie replied. “The famed field marshal didn’t take to the lifeboats but went down with the ship.”

A reflective silence filled the submersible as the occupants pondered the sunken war grave visible just beneath them. Dahlgren steered along the port hull near the main deck, which had collapsed in some areas by several feet. As they neared the bow, Dahlgren detected some buckling along the hull plates. Then the underwater lights fell upon a gaping cavity near the waterline that stretched almost twenty feet across.

“No wonder she sank so fast,” Dahlgren remarked. “You could drive a pickup truck through that hole.”

He angled the submersible until its lights were pointed inside the blast hole, revealing a twisted mass of metallic carnage that spread over two decks. A large haddock emerged from the interior, staring curiously at the bright lights before disappearing into the darkness.

“Are the cameras still shooting?” Julie asked. “This will make for some great research footage.”

“Yes, we’re still rolling,” Summer replied. “Jack, can you move us a little closer to the impact?” she asked, staring intently out the view port.

Dahlgren tweaked the propulsion controls until they hovered just a foot or two from the gouged section of hull.

“Something in particular catch your eye?” Julie asked.

“Yes. Take a look at the blast edge.”

Julie scanned the jagged rust-covered steel without comprehension. In the pilot’s seat, Dahlgren’s eyes suddenly widened.

“I’ll be. The lip of that mangled steel looks to be shoved outward,” he said.

“Appears to be the case around the entire perimeter,” Summer said.

Julie looked from Dahlgren to Summer in confusion.

“What are you saying?” she finally asked.

“I think she’s saying that the Germans got a bum rap,” Dahlgren replied.

“How so?”

“Because,” Summer said, pointing to the hole, “the blast that sank the Hampshire appears to have come from inside the ship.”

Ninety minutes later, the trio sat in the wardroom of the Odin reviewing video footage of the Hampshire on a large flat-screen monitor. Dahlgren sped through the wreck’s initial footage, then slowed the viewing speed as the camera approached the port-side hole. Julie and Summer sat alongside with their noses to the screen, carefully studying the images.

“Stop right there,” Summer directed.

Dahlgren froze the video on a close-up image of the shattered hull plate.

“That view shows it quite clearly,” Summer said, pointing to the serrated steel edge that flared out like flower petals. “The force of the blast that created that had to come from within the ship.”

“Could it have been caused by Zaharoff’s salvage team?” Julie asked.

“Not likely,” Dahlgren replied. “Though they probably made use of explosives here and there, they probably cut their way into the interior spaces they were seeking. They would have had no reason to create such a massive entry point, especially this close to the main deck.” He hit the “Play” button on the video controls as he spoke. “We saw evidence of an internal explosion all around the opening, which wouldn’t be the case if Zaharoff had just tried to enlarge the existing hole.”

“How about an internal munitions explosion that might have been triggered by a mine or torpedo attack?” Summer asked.

“Not big enough,” Dahlgren replied. “From what we could view inside, there was plenty of internal damage, but it was all focused near the hull. If the ship’s munitions had gone off, it would have blown away major sections of the ship.”

“Then that leaves an internal explosion,” Julie said. “Perhaps there is something to the old rumors after all.”

“What rumors would those be?” Summer asked.

“The death of Lord Kitchener in 1916 was a momentous event. He had been the hero of Khartoum in the Sudan two decades earlier and was considered a key architect for the eventual defeat of Germany in World War One. Of course, he may have been best known for his iconic recruiting poster, which displayed his image pointing an outstretched finger, urging you to join the Army. When his body was never found, wild conspiracy theories took root, suggesting that he had survived the sinking or that a double had been sailing in his place. Others claimed that the IRA had planted a bomb aboard the ship when it was overhauled in Belfast a few months earlier.”

“I guess this throws a new wrench into your biography,” Summer remarked.

“Is that why you wanted to survey the Hampshire , because of Kitchener?” Dahlgren asked.

Julie nodded. “Documenting the state of the Hampshire was actually suggested by my dean, but the driving force was certainly my biography of the field marshal. I guess I’ll have to return to Kitchener’s old estate near Canterbury and take another look at his archives.”

“Canterbury?” Summer asked. “That’s not too far from London, is it?”

“No, less than a hundred miles.”

“London is my next stop after we return to Yarmouth.”

“Yarmouth is our next port of call after we drop you at Kirk-wall,” Dahlgren explained to Julie. “We’re going to resupply there, then some of us are headed to Greenland for another project,” he added, giving Summer an envious look.

“I will be flying to Istanbul next week to join my brother on a project in the Mediterranean.”

“Sounds sunny and warm,” Julie said.

“You’re telling me,” Dahlgren grunted.

“Maybe I can help you with your research for a few days, before my flight leaves London,” Summer offered.

“You’d do that?” Julie asked, surprised at the offer. “Diving into some dusty old books is not the same as diving into a shipwreck.”

“I don’t mind. I’m curious to know myself what happened with the Hampshire . Heck, it’s the least I can do since we helped open this can of worms.”

“Thank you, Summer. That would be marvelous.”

“No problem,” she replied with a smile. “After all, who doesn’t love a mystery?”

20

The shop marked “SOLOMON BRANDY — ANTIQUITIES” was situated on a quiet side street in Jerusalem’s Old City, not far from the Church of the Holy Sepulchre. Like the seventy-four other licensed dealers in the country, Brandy was officially sanctioned by the State of Israel to sell and trade in antiquities, providing that the artifacts at hand were not stolen goods.

The legal stipulation was a minor impediment to most dealers, who simply reused legitimate tracking identification numbers to sell nebulous items that came in the back door. Israel’s antiquities laws strangely enough created a huge demand in Holy Land relics, and forgeries, by allowing the legal trade of artifacts, a practice banned by most other nations. Antiquities were often actually smuggled into Israel from neighboring countries, where they could be legitimized and sold to other dealers and collectors around the world.

Sophie Elkin stepped into Brandy’s well-lit shop, cringing at the sound of a loud buzzer that activated with the opening door. The small interior was empty of people but crammed with artifacts that overflowed from glass cases fronting all four walls. She moved to a center island case filled with small clay pots tagged with the label “Jericho.” Sophie’s trained eye could tell that they were all forgeries, which would soon be treasured heirlooms for unknowing tourists making their once-in-a-lifetime pilgrimage to the Holy Land.

A stumpy man with pancake eyes emerged from the back room, wearing a dusty apron over rumpled clothes. He set a small clay figurine down on the counter, then looked up at Sophie with unease.

“Miss Elkin, what a surprise,” he said in a flat tone that indicated her appearance was not quite welcomed.

“Hello, Sol,” Sophie replied. “No tourists in yet?”

“It’s still early. They see the sights in the morning, then shop in the afternoon.”

“We need to talk.”

“My license is current. I’ve filed my reporting in a timely manner,” he protested.

Sophie shook her head. “What can you tell me about the theft and shootings at Caesarea?”

Brandy visibly relaxed, then shook his head.

“A sad tragedy. One of your men was killed?”

“Thomas Raban.”

“Yes, I remember him. Very loud and vociferous. He threatened to wrap a shovel around my neck once, as I recall,” he said with a smirk.

Sophie had caught Brandy in a sting operation two years earlier, accepting a large quantity of artifacts stolen from Masada. She’d dropped the charges when he agreed to secretly cooperate with the prosecution of the actual artifact thieves. But the antiquities agent used the old case to occasionally press him for information on other field investigations. Brandy would usually evade most of her inquiries, but in all her dealings with him he had never outright lied to her.

“I want the man who killed him,” Sophie said.

Brandy shrugged his shoulders. “I’m afraid I can’t help you.”

“You hear things, Solomon. Was it the Mules?”

Brandy gazed nervously toward the window, looking for any lingering strangers. “They are a dangerous organization, the Mules. Terrorists operating within our own borders. You don’t want to get too close to them, Miss Elkin.”

“Were they responsible?”

Brandy looked her in the eye. “There are suspicions,” he said in a low voice. “But I cannot say with certainty any more than you can.”

“I know of no others who steal artifacts at the point of a gun and are not afraid to pull the trigger.”

“Nor do I,” Brandy admitted. “At least not in our country.”

“Tell me, Solomon, who would have hired such a team?”

“Certainly not a dealer,” he spat indignantly. “I don’t have to tell you how things work in the black market. The preponderance of illegal excavating is done by dirt-poor Arabs who are paid a pittance for their discoveries. The artifacts are then passed through a series of middlemen — sometimes dealers, sometimes not — until finding a home with a public or private collector. But I can tell you that no dealer in Israel is going to jeopardize his livelihood by purchasing artifacts with blood on them. There’s just too much risk.”

Though Sophie had few doubts that half the artifacts in Brandy’s store were acquired from illegal excavations, she knew that he was right. The quality of the best dealers’ inventories was based on secret, shadowy deal making that entailed trust by both parties. There was too much potential exposure to trade with the wrong elements. Killing for artifacts just seemed far beyond the realm for the dealers that Sophie knew.

“I believe that no smart dealer would knowingly involve himself with such butchers,” she said. “Have you heard of any attempts to sell Roman papyrus scrolls from the fourth century?”

“So, that is what they stole from Caesarea,” he replied with a comprehending nod. “No, I am not aware of any effort to pawn such articles.”

“If the goods are not on the market, then it must have been a job for a private collector.”

“That’s how I would see it,” Brandy agreed.

Sophie stepped to the counter and picked up the small clay figurine. It was in the crude shape of an ox with a gilded yoke. She studied the shape and design closely.

“First Temple period?” she asked.

“You have a keen eye,” he replied.

“Who’s it for?”

Brandy stammered a bit. “A banker in Haifa. He specializes in early Israelite earthenware. He has a small but quite impressive collection, actually.”

“Any papyrus scrolls in his possession?”

“No, not his area of interest. He’s more of a hobbyist than a dire fanatic. The few collectors I know that are into papyrus are focused on particular texts or content. None are what you’d call a high roller.”

“Then tell me, Sol, who would be passionate about these scrolls and also have the means to go to this extreme?”

Brandy gazed at the ceiling in thought.

“Who’s to say? I know wealthy collectors in Europe and the U.S. who are willing to go to great lengths to acquire a specific artifact. But there are certainly dozens of other collectors in the same league that I’ve never even heard of.”

“Knowledge of the Caesarea scrolls was but a day old,” Sophie said. “It doesn’t seem likely to me that a Western collector could have responded so quickly. No, Solomon, I think that this was instigated by a regional source. Any local names fit the profile?”

Brandy shrugged and shook his head. Sophie expected little else. She knew that the high-dollar collectors were the gravy train for dealers like Brandy. He probably had no clue who was behind the Caesarea attack, but he certainly wasn’t going to raise suspicions about any of his major clients.

“If you hear anything, anything at all, you let me know,” she said. She started to leave, then turned and faced him with an admonishing glare.

“When I find these murderers — and I will — I won’t treat kindly any accomplices, whether it’s by act or knowledge,” she stated.

“You have my word, Miss Elkin,” Brandy replied impassively.

The buzzer sounded as the front door was opened, and a lean man with a stiff upright posture walked in. He had a square handsome face, sandy combed-back hair, and roving blue eyes that glistened in recognition of Sophie. Dressed in worn khakis and a Panama hat, he cut a dashing figure laced with just a hint of snake oil.

“Well, if it isn’t the lovely Sophie Elkin,” he said with an upper-crust British accent. “Is the Antiquities Authority here to expand its biblical artifact collection beyond those acquired by confiscation?”

“Hello, Ridley,” she replied coolly. “And, no, the Antiquities Authority is not in the artifact-collection business. We prefer that they remain where they are, in proper cultural context.”

She glided over to the case of Jericho pots. “I’m just here to admire Mr. Brandy’s latest batch of forgeries. Something you should know a thing or two about.”

It was a stinging rebuke to Ridley Bannister. A classically trained archaeologist from Oxford, he had become a high-profile authority on biblical history in print and on television. Though many of his fellow archaeologists viewed him as a showman rather than an academic, no one denied that he had a remarkable understanding of the region’s history. On top of that, he seemed perpetually blessed with good luck. His peers marveled at his uncanny ability to produce exciting discoveries from even the most obscure digs, locating royal graves, important stone carvings, and dazzling jewelry from overlooked sites. Equally savvy at promotion, he exploited book and film deals on his discoveries to attain a comfortable wealth.

His luck had run thin, however, when an underling brought him a small stone slab with an Aramaic inscription that dated to 1000 B.C. Bannister authenticated the marker as a possible cornerstone from Solomon’s Temple, never suspecting that the carved stone was a forgery designed to earn the digger a fat bonus. Bannister took the fall, however, in a crushing embarrassment that his professional colleagues happily fostered. His reputation tainted, he quickly fell out of the limelight and soon found himself working limited excavations and even hosting guided tourist trips through the Holy Land.

“Sophie, you know as well as I that Solomon here is the most reputable antiquities dealer in all of Israel,” he said, redirecting the conversation.

Sophie rolled her eyes. “Be that as it may, it’s probably not a wise move for a reputable archaeologist to be seen hanging around a dealer’s shop,” she said, then stepped toward the door.

“Ditto, Miss Elkin. It was lovely seeing you again. Let’s do have a drink together sometime.”

Sophie gave him an icy smile, then turned and walked out of the shop. Bannister watched her through the window as she made her way down the street.

“A beautiful lass,” he muttered. “I’ve always wanted to cultivate that relationship.”

“That one?” Brandy said, shaking his head. “She’d sooner throw you behind bars.”

“She might be worth the trip,” Bannister agreed with a laugh. “What was she doing here?”

“Investigating the theft and shooting at Caesarea.”

“An ugly incident, indeed.” He looked at Brandy closely. “You didn’t have anything to do with that, did you?”

“Of course not,” he replied, angry that Bannister would even insinuate his involvement.

“Do you know what was stolen?”

“Elkin mentioned some papyrus scrolls, fourth-century Roman.”

The description seized Bannister’s attention, but he fought to maintain a disinterested demeanor.

“Any idea of their content?”

Brandy shook his head. “No. I can’t imagine they’d contain anything astounding from that time period.”

“You’re probably right. I wonder who financed the theft?”

“Now you are starting to sound like Miss Elkin,” Brandy said. “I really haven’t heard anything about it. Maybe you should ask the Fat Man?”

“Ah yes. The very reason for my visit. You received the amulets from my associate Josh?”

“Yes, with a message that I was to hold them until we talked.” Brandy stepped to the back room, then returned with a small box. He opened it up and laid out two green stone pendants, each featuring a carved ram motif.

“A nice matched pair of amulets from the Canaanite period,” Brandy said. “Did these come from Tel Arad?”

“Yes. A former student of mine is leading a dig there for an American university.”

“That boy could get himself into trouble for looting an antiquities dig.”

“He’s quite aware of that, but it’s an exceptional case. The boy is actually straight as an arrow. He inadvertently trenched into a grave site and came away with some sterling artifacts. They actually dug up four identical amulets. One went to the university and one was donated to the Israel Museum. Josh sent me the other two as gifts for helping him in his career over the years.”

Brandy raised his brow while asking, “You want me to sell them?”

Bannister smiled. “No, my friend. While I realize they would garner a pretty penny, I don’t really need the cash. Take one for yourself and do with it what you wish.”

Brandy’s eyes lit up. “That is a very generous gift.”

“You’ve been a valuable friend over the years, and I may need your help in the future. Take it with my blessings.”

“Shalom, my friend,” Brandy replied, shaking Bannister’s hand. “May I ask what you are going to do with the other amulet?”

Bannister scooped it up and eyeballed it for a second, then slipped it into his pocket as he headed toward the door.

“I’m taking it to the Fat Man,” he said.

“Wise idea,” Brandy replied. “He’ll pay you top dollar for it.”

Bannister waved good-bye and stepped into the street smiling to himself. He was banking that the Fat Man would pay him for the amulet all right, but in something much more valuable than cash.

21

Julie Goodyear strolled past a monstrous pair of long-silenced fifteen-inch naval guns pointed toward the Thames, then walked up the steps to the entrance of the Imperial War Museum. The venerated national institution in the London borough of Southwark was housed in a nineteenth-century brick edifice originally constructed as a hospital for the mentally ill. Known for its extensive collection of photographs, art, and military artifacts from World Wars I and II, the museum also contained a large archive of war documents and private letters.

Julie checked in at the information desk in the main atrium, where she was escorted up two floors in a phone-booth-sized elevator, then climbed an additional flight of stairs until reaching her destination. The museum’s reading room was an impressive circular library constructed in the building’s high central dome.

A bookish woman in a brown dress smiled in recognition as she approached the help desk.

“Good morning, Miss Goodyear. Back for another visit with Lord Kitchener?” she asked.

“Hello again, Beatrice. Yes, I’m afraid the field marshal’s enduring mysteries have drawn me back once more. I phoned a few days ago with a request for some specific materials.”

“Let me see if they have been pulled,” Beatrice replied, retreating into the private archives depository. She returned a minute later with a thick stack of files under her arm.

“I have an Admiralty White Paper inquiry on the sinking of the HMS Hampshire and First Earl Kitchener’s official war correspondence in the year 1916,” the librarian said as she had Julie sign out the documents. “Your request appears to be complete.”

“Thanks, Beatrice. I should just be a short while.”

Julie took the documents to a quiet corner table and began reading the Admiralty report on the Hampshire . There was little information to be had. She had seen earlier accusations against the Royal Navy by residents of the Orkneys, who claimed the Navy dithered in sending help to the stricken ship after its loss had been reported. The official report clearly covered up any wrongdoings by the Navy and brushed aside rumors that the ship sank by means other than a mine.

Kitchener’s correspondence proved only slightly more illuminating. She had read his war correspondence before and had found it mostly mundane. Kitchener held the post of Secretary of State for War in 1916, and most of his official writings reflected his preoccupation with manpower and recruiting needs of the British Army. A typical letter complained to the Prime Minister about pulling men from the Army to work in munition factories on the home front.

Julie skimmed rapidly through the pages until nearing June fifth, the date of Kitchener’s death on the Hampshire . The discovery that the Hampshire had sunk from an internal explosion compelled her to consider the possibility that someone may have actually wanted him dead. The notion led her to an odd letter that she had seen months before. Thumbing through the bottom of the file, her fingers suddenly froze on the document.

Unlike the aged yellowing military correspondence, this letter was still bright white, typed on heavy cotton paper. At the top of the page was embossed “Lambeth Palace.” Slowly, Julie read the letter.

Julie recognized the author as the Archbishop of Canterbury. In the margins, she noticed a handwritten notation that said “Never!” It was written in a script that she recognized as Kitchener’s.

The letter struck her as perplexing on several levels. Kitchener, she knew, had been a churchgoing religious man. Her research had never revealed any conflicts with the Church of England, let alone the head of the Church himself, the Archbishop of Canterbury. Then there was the reference to the document or Manifest. What could that possibly be?

Though the letter seemed to have no possible bearing on the Hampshire , it was intriguing enough to stir her interest. She made a photocopy of the letter, then worked her way through the rest of the folder. Near the bottom, she found several documents related to Kitchener’s trip to Russia, including a formal invitation from the Russian Consulate and an itinerary while in Petrograd. She copied these as well, then returned the folder to Beatrice.

“Find what you were looking for?” the librarian asked.

“No, just an odd kernel here and there.”

“I’ve found that the key to discovering historical treasures is to just keep on kicking over the stones. Eventually, you’ll get there.”

“Thank you for your assistance, Beatrice.”

As she left the museum and made her way to her car, Julie reread the letter several times, finally staring at the Archbishop’s signature.

“Beatrice is right,” she finally muttered to herself. “I need to kick over some more stones.”

She didn’t have far to go. Barely a half mile down the road sat historic Lambeth Palace. A collection of ancient brick buildings towering over the banks of the Thames River, it served as the historical London residence of the Archbishop of Canterbury. Of particular interest to Julie was the presence on the grounds of the Lambeth Palace Library.

Julie knew that the palace was not typically open to the public, so she parked on a nearby street and walked to the main gate. Passing a security checkpoint, she was allowed to proceed to the Great Hall, a Gothic-style red brick building accented with white trim. Contained inside the historic structure was one of the oldest libraries in Britain, and the principal repository for the Church of England’s archives, dating back to the ninth century.

She stepped to the entrance door and rang a bell, then was escorted by a teenage boy to a small but modern reading room. Approaching the reference desk, she filled out two document request cards and handed them to a girl with short red hair.

“The papers of Archbishop Randall Davidson, for the period of January through July 1916,” the girl read with interest, “and any files regarding First Earl Horatio Herbert Kitchener.”

“I realize the latter request may be a bit unlikely, but I wish to at least attempt an inquiry,” Julie said.

“We can perform a computerized search of our archives database,” the girl replied without enthusiasm. “And what is the nature of your request?”

“Research for a biography of Lord Kitchener,” Julie replied.

“May I please see your reader ticket?”

Julie fished through her purse and handed over a library card, having utilized the Lambeth archives on several occasions. The girl copied her name and contact information, then peered at a clock on the wall.

“I’m afraid we’ll be unable to retrieve these documents before closing time. The data should be available for your review when the library reopens on Monday.”

Julie looked at the girl with disappointment, knowing that the library would still be open for another hour.

“Very well. I will return on Monday. Thank you.”

The red-haired girl clutched the document request cards tightly in her hand until Julie left the building. Then she waved the teenage boy to the counter.

“Douglas, can you please watch the desk for a minute?” she asked in an urgent tone. “I need to place a rather important phone call.”

22

Oscar Gutzman was his real name, but everyone called him the Fat Man. The origin of the moniker was evident at first sight. Carrying well over three hundred pounds on a five-foot frame, he appeared nearly as wide as he was tall. With a clean-shaven head and unusually large ears, he resembled an escapee from a traveling carnival. Yet his appearance belied the fact that Gutzman was one of the richest men in Israel.

He grew up a ragtag urchin in the streets of Jerusalem, digging up coins from the hillside tombs with orphaned Arab boys or bumming free meals from Christian soup kitchens. His exposure to Jerusalem’s diverse religions and culture, along with a hustler’s ability to survive the streets, served him well as an adult businessman. Building a tiny construction firm into the largest hotel developer in the Middle East, he became a self-made man of huge riches who floated freely with the power brokers of the entire region. His personal drive for wealth and success was surpassed, however, by his passion for antiquities.

It was the death of his younger sister at an early age, in a traffic accident outside a synagogue, that had altered his life. Like others who suffer a tragic personal loss, he began a private search for God. Only his quest migrated from the spiritual to the tangible as he sought to prove the truth of the Bible through physical evidence. A small collection of biblical-era antiquities had grown exponentially with his accumulated wealth, turning an early hobby into a lifelong passion. His artifacts, numbering in the hundreds of thousands, were now stored in warehouses spread over three countries. In his late sixties, Gutzman now devoted his full time and resources to his personal quest.

Ridley Bannister entered an upscale boutique hotel situated on a prime parcel of Tel Aviv beachfront. The lobby was decorated in a minimalist contemporary style, with a number of uncomfortable-looking black leather chairs sitting starkly on a bright white-tiled floor. Bannister considered the design well executed, though he normally detested the look. A matronly hotel clerk greeted him warmly as he stepped to the front desk.

“I have an appointment with Mr. Gutzman. My name is Bannister,” he said.

After a confirming phone call, he was escorted by a burly security guard to a private elevator and whisked to the top floor. Stepping off the elevator, the door to the penthouse was immediately thrown open by the Fat Man, a large cigar dangling from his lips.

“Ridley, come in, my boy, come in,” Gutzman greeted in a wheezy voice.

“You’re looking well, Oscar,” Bannister replied, shaking hands before entering the apartment.

Bannister still found himself marveling at Gutzman’s apartment, which resembled a museum more than a residence. Shelves and display cases were crammed everywhere, stuffed with pottery, carvings, and other relics, all thousands of years old. Gutzman led him down a hallway lined with ancient Roman mosaics, taken from a public bath in Carthage. They passed under a stone arch from the ruins of Jericho and entered an expansive living room that overlooked the sands of Tel Aviv’s Gordon Beach and the sparkling Mediterranean beyond.

Taking a seat in an overstuffed leather chair, Bannister was surprised to find the residence empty but for a lone servant. On his prior visits, he had always found a throng of antiquities dealers milling about, hoping to hawk their latest prized artifact to the rich collector.

“The heat… I find it more oppressive all the time,” Gutzman said, gasping from the walk to the front door. He then sank into an adjacent chair.

“Marta, some cold drinks, please,” he shouted to his servant.

Bannister removed the pendant from his pocket and placed it in Gutzman’s hand.

“A gift to you, Oscar. It’s from Tel Arad.”

Gutzman studied the pendant, a broad smile slowly forming across his face.

“This is quite nice, Ridley, thank you. I have a similar specimen from Nahal Besor. Early Canaanite, I would say.”

“You are correct, as usual. Is this new?” Bannister asked, pointing to a small glass plate on the coffee table that had a molded rim.

“Yes,” Gutzman said, his eyes perking up. “I just acquired it. Excavated from Beth She’an. Second-century molded glassware, probably manufactured in Alexandria. Look at the polishing on it.”

Bannister picked up the plate and studied it closely.

“It’s in beautiful condition.”

The servant Marta appeared, delivering two glasses of lemonade, before disappearing into the kitchen.

“So, Ridley, what is the latest buzz in the world of legal archaeological discovery?” Gutzman asked with a chuckle.

“There appear to be relatively few new projects slated to take the field next year. The Israel Museum will be sponsoring a dig on the shores of Galilee in search of an early settlement, while Tel Aviv University has approval for new exploration work at Megiddo. Most of the academic efforts appear to be directed at the continuation of existing field projects. There are, of course, the usual assortment of foreign theologically sponsored digs, but, as we know, they seldom amount to much.”

“True, but at least they show more imagination than the academic institutes,” Gutzman said with derision.

“I’ve been looking at two sites that I think you will be interested in. One is at Beit Jala. If Bathsheba’s tomb exists, I think it would be there, in the town of her birth, which was then called Giloh. I’ve already formulated a site summary and excavation plan.”

Gutzman nodded for him to continue.

“The second site is near Gibeon. There’s an outside chance of proving King Manasseh’s palace is located there. This one needs more research but has great potential, I believe. I can obtain the necessary excavation paperwork as before under the auspices of the Anglican Church, if you are agreeable to sponsorship.”

“Ridley, you have always delivered exciting finds, and I have found much joy in collaborating with your field digs. But I’m afraid my days of field sponsorship have come to an end.”

“You have always been most generous, Oscar,” Bannister replied, suppressing his anger at losing the support of a longtime benefactor.

Gutzman gazed out the window with a distant look in his eye.

“I have spent most of my personal fortune collecting artifacts that support the narratives of the Bible,” he said. “I own mud bricks allegedly from the Tower of Babel. I have stone footings that may have supported Solomon’s Temple. I have a million and one objects from the biblical era. Yet there is an element of doubt about each and every one of my pieces.”

He suddenly fell into a wheezing fit, coughing and gasping for air, until he settled himself with a drink of lemonade.

“Oscar, do you need help?”

The Fat Man shook his head. “My emphysema has been getting the better of me lately,” he gasped. “The doctors are not hopeful.”

“Nonsense. You’re as strong as David.”

Gutzman smiled then slowly rose to his feet. The act seemed to give him renewed strength, and he stepped briskly over to a cabinet, then returned carrying a small plate of glass.

“Take a look at this,” he said, handing it to the archaeologist.

Bannister took the glass, observing that it was actually two sealed plates compressing a document in the middle. Holding it up to the light, he could see the protected document was a rectangular piece of papyrus with clear horizontal writing.

“A fine example of Coptic script,” he noted.

“Do you know what it says?”

“I can make out a few words, but am a bit lost without my reference materials,” he acknowledged.

“It’s a harbormaster’s report from the Port of Caesarea. It details the capture of a pirate vessel by a Roman galley. The pirates had in their possession armaments from a Roman centurion, one belonging to the Scholae Palatinae .”

“Caesarea,” Bannister said with a raised brow. “I understand that some papyrus artifacts were taken as part of the recent theft there. Along with the occurrence of at least one murder.”

“Yes, most unfortunate. The document clearly dates to the early fourth century,” Gutzman said, brushing off the inference.

“Interesting,” Bannister replied, suddenly feeling uneasy with his host. “And the significance?”

“I believe it offers potentially confirming evidence of the Manifest, as well as an important clue to the cargo’s disposition.”

The Manifest. So that’s what it was all about, Bannister thought. The old goat was staring down the Grim Reaper and was making a desperate play for divine evidence before his time ran out.

Bannister chuckled to himself. He had pocketed a lot of money from both Gutzman and the Church of England trying to hunt down the legend of the Manifest. Perhaps there was still more to be gained.

“Oscar, you know I’ve searched extensively both here and in England and have come up empty.”

“There must be another path.”

“We both came to the conclusion that it probably no longer exists, if it ever did in the first place.”

“That was before this,” Gutzman said, tapping the glass plate. “I’ve been at this game a long time. I can smell the link here. It is real and I know it. I’ve decided to devote myself and my resources to this and nothing else.”

“It is a compelling clue,” Bannister admitted.

“This will be,” the Fat Man said in a tired voice, “the culmination of my life’s quest. I hope you can help me reach it, Ridley.”

“You can count on me.”

Marta appeared again, this time reminding Gutzman of a pending doctor appointment. Bannister said good-bye and let himself out of the apartment. Leaving the hotel, he contemplated the papyrus scroll and whether Gutzman’s assumptions could possibly be correct. The old collector did know his stuff, he had to admit. Of more concern to Bannister was formulating a means to profit from the Fat Man’s new pursuit. Deep in thought, Bannister didn’t notice a young man in a blue jumpsuit waiting beside his car.

“Mr. Bannister?” the youth inquired.

“Yes.”

“Courier delivery, sir,” he replied, handing Bannister a large, thin envelope.

Bannister slid into his car and locked the doors before opening the letter. Shaking out the contents, he just sat and shook his head when a first-class airline ticket to London plopped into his lap.

23

“Summer, over here!”

Stepping off the train from Great Yarmouth with a travel bag over her shoulder, Summer had to scan the crowded platform a moment before spotting Julie standing to one side, waving her hand in the air.

“Thanks for meeting me,” she said, greeting the researcher with a hug. “I’m not sure I’d find my way out of here alone,” she added, marveling at the massive covered rail yard of the Liverpool Street Station in northeast London.

“It’s actually pretty simple,” Julie replied with a grin. “You just follow all the other rats out of the maze.”

She led Summer past several station platforms and through the bustling terminal concourse to a nearby parking lot. There they climbed into a green Ford compact that resembled an overgrown insect.

“How was the voyage down to Yarmouth?” Julie asked as she navigated the car into the London traffic.

“Miserable. We caught a northerly storm front after leaving Scapa Flow and faced gale force winds during our entire run down the North Sea. I’m still feeling a little wobbly.”

“I guess I should be thankful I was able to fly back from Scotland.”

“So what’s the latest on the mystery of the Hampshire ’s sinking?” Summer asked. “Have you established any connection with Lord Kitchener?”

“Just a very few loose threads, quite tenuous at best, I’m afraid. I checked the Admiralty’s official inquiry into the sinking of the Hampshire , but it was a banal White Paper that simply blamed destruction on a German mine. I also examined the claim that the IRA may have planted a bomb on the ship, but it seems to be without merit.”

“Any chance that the Germans could have planted a bomb?”

“There’s absolutely no indication from known German records, so that seems unlikely as well. It was their belief that a mine from U-75 caused the sinking. Unfortunately, the U-boat’s captain, Kurt Beitzen, didn’t survive the war, so we have no official German account of the event.”

“So that’s two brick walls. Where are those loose threads that you were talking about?” Summer asked.

“Well, I carefully reviewed some of my documents on Kitchener and rechecked his military war records. Two unusual documents cropped up. In the late spring of 1916, he made a special request to the Army for two armed bodyguards for an unspecified reason. In that age, bodyguards were something of a rarity, reserved for perhaps only the King. The other item was a strange letter I found in his military files.”

Stopping at a red light, she reached into a folder on the backseat and handed Summer a copy of the letter from Archbishop Davidson.

“Like I said, they are two flimsy items that probably mean nothing.”

Summer quickly scanned the letter, wrinkling her brow at its contents.

“This Manifest he refers to… Is it some sort of Church document?”

“I really haven’t a clue,” Julie replied. “That’s why our first stop is the Church of England’s archives at Lambeth Palace. I’ve ordered up the Archbishop’s personal records in hopes we might find something more substantial.”

They crossed the River Thames over the London Bridge and drove into Lambeth, where Julie parked the green Ford near the palace. Summer absorbed the beauty of the ancient building that fronted the water, with Buckingham Palace visible across the river. They made their way to the Grand Hall, where they were escorted to the library’s reading room. Summer noticed a thin, handsome man smile at them from a copy machine as they entered.

The archivist had a thick stack of folders waiting when Julie approached the desk.

“Here are the Archbishop’s records. I’m afraid we had nothing on file related to Lord Kitchener,” the young woman declared.

“Quite all right,” Julie replied. “Thank you for searching.”

The two women moved to a table and split the files and then began poring through the documents.

“The Archbishop was a rather prolific writer,” Summer noted, impressed with the volume.

“Apparently so. This is his correspondence for just the first half of 1916.”

As she attacked the file, Summer noticed the man at the copy machine gather some books and take a seat at the table directly behind her. Her nose detected a dose of cologne, musky but pleasing, which wafted from the man’s direction. Taking a quick glance over her shoulder, she noticed he wore an antique-looking gold ring on his right hand.

She flipped through the letters quickly, finding them mostly dry pronouncements on budget and policy directed at the subordinate Bishops around Britain, along with their in-kind replies. After an hour, the women had both weeded through half of their piles.

“Here’s a letter from Kitchener,” Julie suddenly announced.

Summer peered anxiously across the table. “What does it say?”

“It appears to be a response to the Archbishop’s letter, as it is dated just a few days later. It’s short, so I’ll read it to you:

“Whatever could this Manifest be?” Summer wondered.

“I don’t know, but Kitchener clearly held a copy of it and felt it was important.”

“Obviously the Church did, too.”

Summer heard the man behind her clear his throat, then turn and lean over their table.

“Pardon me for overhearing, but did you say Kitchener?” he asked with a disarming smile.

“Yes,” Summer replied. “My friend Julie is writing a biography of the field marshal.”

“My name is Baker,” Ridley Bannister lied, obtaining introductions in return. “Might I suggest that a better source of Lord Kitchener historical documents may be found at the Imperial War Museum?”

“Kind of you to say, Mr. Baker,” Julie replied, “but I’ve already exhaustively searched their materials.”

“Which brings you here?” he asked. “I wouldn’t expect a military hero’s influence to stretch very far into the Church of England.”

“Just tracing some correspondence he had with the Archbishop of Canterbury,” she replied.

“Then this would indeed be the place,” Bannister said, smiling broadly.

“What is the nature of your research?” Summer asked him.

“Just a bit of hobby research. I’m investigating a few old abbey sites that were destroyed during Henry VIII’s purge of the monasteries.” He held up a dusty book entitled Abbey Plans of Olde England , then turned again toward Julie.

“Have you uncovered any new secrets about Kitchener?”

“That honor belongs to Summer. She helped prove that the ship he was sunk on may have had a planted explosive aboard.”

“The Hampshire ?” he said. “I thought it was proven that she had struck a German mine.”

“The blast hole indicates that the explosion originated inside the ship,” Summer replied.

“Perhaps the old rumor of the IRA planting a bomb aboard may have been true,” he said.

“You know the story behind that?” Julie asked.

“Yes,” Bannister replied. “The Hampshire was sent to Belfast for a refit in early 1916. Some believe a bomb was inserted into the ship there and detonated months later.”

“You seem to know a lot about the Hampshire ,” Summer commented.

“I’m just an obsessive World War One history buff,” Bannister replied. “So, where is your research taking you from here?”

“We’ll be going to Kent for another pass through Kitchener’s personal papers housed at Broome Park,” Julie said.

“Have you seen his last diary?”

“Why, no,” Julie said, surprised at the question. “It has always been presumed to have been lost.”

Bannister looked down at his watch. “Oh my, look at the time. I’m afraid I must run. It was a delight to meet you ladies,” he said, rising from the table and offering a faint bow. “May your quest for historical knowledge meet with profound fulfillment.”

He quickly returned his book to the librarian, then waved good-bye as he left the reading room.

“Quite a handsome fellow,” Julie gushed with a grin.

“Yes,” Summer agreed. “He was certainly knowledgeable about Kitchener and the Hampshire .”

“That’s true. I wouldn’t think too many people would be aware that Kitchener’s last diary went missing.”

“Wouldn’t it have gone down with him on the ship?”

“Nobody knows. He traditionally captured his writings in small bound books that covered the period of a single year. His writings from 1916 were never found, so it’s always been presumed that he carried it with him on the Hampshire .”

“What do you make of Mr. Baker’s claim that the IRA may have bombed the Hampshire ?”

“It’s one of many outlandish assertions that arose after the sinking that I’ve found has no historical justification. It’s difficult to believe that the Hampshire would have been carrying a bomb aboard for over six months. The IRA, or Irish Volunteers as they were known at the time, certainly wouldn’t have known that far in advance that Kitchener would set foot on the ship. They didn’t actually become a very militant group until the Easter Rising in April of 1916, well after the Hampshire had left Belfast. More telling is the fact that they never actually claimed responsibility for the sinking.”

“Then I guess we keep digging,” Summer said, opening up a new folder of the Archbishop’s papers.

They worked for another hour before the stacks grew thin. Nearing the bottom of her last folder, Summer suddenly sat upright when she read a short letter from a Bishop in Portsmouth. She read it a second time before passing it over to Julie.

“Take a look at this,” she said.

“‘The parcel has been delivered and the messenger sent away,’” Julie said, reading the letter aloud. “‘The item of interest shall cease to be a concern within 72 hours.’ Signed, Bishop Lowery, Portsmouth Diocese.”

Julie set the letter down and gave Summer a blank look. “I’m afraid I don’t see the relevancy,” she said.

“Look at the date.”

Julie gazed at the top of the letter. “June 2, 1916. Three days before the Hampshire sank,” she said in a surprised voice.

“It would seem,” Summer said quietly, “that the plot has thickened.”

24

After exiting the library, Ridley Bannister made his way across the Lambeth Palace grounds to a small brick building adjacent to the main living quarters. Entering through an unmarked door, he stepped into a cramped office, where a handful of men in security uniforms stared at video surveillance monitors or worked at desk computers. Ignoring the quizzical look from a man seated near the door, Bannister stepped toward a private office in the rear and walked through its open door.

A falcon-eyed man with greasy hair was seated at a desk watching a live video feed on his computer. Bannister could see the figures of Julie and Summer seated at a table in the reading room. The man looked up, shooting Bannister a disappointed look.

“Bannister, there you are. You were supposed to check in with me before the ladies arrived. Now you’ve blown your cover.”

Bannister slid into a wooden chair facing the desk. “Sorry, old boy, they forgot my wake-up call at the Savoy this morning. I do want to thank you for the airline tickets, though. Glad you remembered first class this time.”

The Archbishop of Canterbury’s chief of security ground his teeth in contempt.

“You did purge the files before they were turned over to them?” he asked, motioning toward his computer screen.

“I’ve been through those files before, Judkins,” Bannister said, picking a piece of lint off his jacket. “There’s nothing incriminating in those files.”

Judkins’s face turned red. “You had orders to review and clean those files.”

“Orders? Orders, you say? Have I unknowingly been conscripted into the Archbishop’s private army?”

There had been an immediate dislike between the two men the instant they had met, and the feelings only festered over time. But Judkins was Bannister’s appointed contact, and there was little either man could do about it. The archaeologist pushed the line with Judkins as far as he dared without jeopardizing his contractual arrangements with the Church.

“You are an employee of the Archbishop and you will obey his requests accordingly,” the security chief responded, his eyes aglow.

“I am nothing of the sort,” Bannister retorted. “I am a simple mercenary for historical truth. While it may be true that the Archbishop has enlisted my services from time to time, I am under no obligation to ‘follow orders’ or even bow or curtsy in the esteemed Archbishop’s general direction.”

Judkins withheld responding, staring silently at Bannister while he waited for his blood pressure to decrease. When his face finally lost its red bluster, he spoke in a direct tone.

“While it certainly wouldn’t be my choice, the Archbishop has elected to retain your services to inform and advise him of historical discoveries, particularly in the Middle East, that may have a bearing on existing Church doctrine. This alleged Manifest, and its prior association with the Church, has been deemed extremely sensitive. We, I mean the Archbishop, needs to know why this Cambridge researcher is inquiring into the records of Archbishop Davidson and at what risk to the Church.”

Bannister smiled thinly at Judkins’s forced deference.

“Julie Goodyear is a historian from Cambridge who has written several highly regarded biographies on leading figures of the nineteenth century. She is currently writing a bio on Lord Kitchener. Miss Goodyear and the American woman, Summer Pitt, have apparently discovered that Kitchener’s ship, the Hampshire , was destroyed by an internal explosion. They seem to think there may be some remote connection to the late Archbishop Davidson.”

Judkins physically paled at the news.

“My dear Judkins, is there something wrong?”

“No,” the security chief replied with a violent shake of his head. “What about this Manifest?”

“The Archbishop knows that I made a diligent search for the document several years ago. At a considerable cost, I might add,” he said with a wink. “I am relatively certain that it vanished along with Kitchener on the Hampshire .”

“Yes, that is the Archbishop’s understanding. However, there may be some related historical events that could prove, shall we say, troublesome to the Church and embarrassing to the Archbishop. I want you on those two women now.”

“You want me?” Bannister replied, raising a brow.

“The Archbishop wants you,” Judkins replied angrily. “Track them closely and extinguish things if you have to before they become a problem.”

“I’m an archaeologist, not an assassin.”

“You know what to do. Just handle it. You’ve got my number.”

“Yes. And you’ve got my number?” Bannister asked, rising to his feet. “The number of my Bermuda bank account, that is?”

“Yes,” Judkins grumbled. “Now, get out.”

The security chief could only shake his head as Bannister bowed to him gracefully, then marched out of his office like he owned it.

25

The bright morning Mediterranean sun had already begun baking the Aegean Explorer ’s deck when Rudi Gunn stepped into the sunlight with the day’s first mug of coffee. He was startled to see an unfamiliar stretch of Turkish coastline just a mile or two off the ship’s side railing. He heard the whir of an outboard motor in the distance and squinted until he spotted the ship’s Zodiac bounding over the waves toward shore.

His groggy mind suddenly focused on the research project at hand, and he scurried to the stern of the ship. Making his way past a white submersible, he was disappointed to find the autonomous underwater vehicle lying securely in a padded rack. A large torpedo-shaped device, the robotic AUV contained a variety of sensors used to sample the water as it ran free of the ship. When he had staggered to bed six hours earlier, the Explorer was tracking the AUV as it surveyed a large grid ten miles from shore.

Gulping a large swallow of coffee, he turned and made his way forward, then climbed two flights of stairs to the bridge. There he found Pitt studying a coastal chart with the ship’s captain, Bruce Kenfield.

“Good morning, Rudi,” Pitt greeted. “You’re up early.”

“I could feel the engines throttle down from my bunk,” Gunn replied. “How come we pulled off-line?”

“Kemal received word that his wife was in a traffic accident. It’s apparently not serious, but we put him ashore so that he could go check on her.”

Kemal was a marine biologist with the Turkish Environment Ministry who had been assigned to the NUMA vessel to monitor and assist with the water-sampling project.

“That’s unfortunate,” Gunn said. “After the Zodiac returns, how long will it take us to return to the grid and resume operations?”

Pitt smiled and shook his head. “We technically can’t resume the survey until Kemal or a replacement is on board the ship. Our invite from the Turkish government specified that a representative from the Environment Ministry must be aboard at all times while we are conducting survey work in Turkish waters. At this point, it looks like we might be down for three or four days.”

“We are already behind schedule. First our sensor flooded and now this. We may have to extend the project in order to complete the areas we agreed to survey.”

“So be it.”

Gunn noticed that Pitt seemed to share none of the frustration that he was feeling. It was uncharacteristic for a man that he knew hated to leave things unfinished.

“Since you returned from Istanbul, we’ve only had two full days of surveying on the new grid,” Gunn said. “Now we go idle again, and you’re not even upset. What gives?”

“It’s simple, Rudi,” Pitt replied. “Halting work on the algae bloom project means resuming work on an Ottoman shipwreck excavation,” he said with a wink.

Less than four hours after the Zodiac was hoisted back aboard, the Aegean Queen reached Chios, dropping anchor a hundred yards from the site of the Ottoman shipwreck. Little time had been spent examining the site after Pitt and Giordino’s initial dive, barely allowing the ship’s underwater archaeologist, Rodney Zeibig, the chance to stake an aluminum grid over the exposed portions of the wreck.

Zeibig hastily trained a handful of scuba-qualified scientists in the art of underwater survey and documentation, then coordinated a careful examination of the wreck. Pitt, Giordino, and even Gunn took a hand in the dive rotation, photographing, measuring, and excavating test pits at various locations around the site. A small amount of artifacts, mostly ceramics and a few iron fittings, were retrieved as skeletal fragments of the wreck were exposed.

Pitt stood near the stern rail of the Aegean Explorer eyeing a growing pattern of whitecaps that dotted the sea under a stiffening westerly breeze. An empty Zodiac bounced wildly on the waves, moored to a nearby buoy that was fixed to the wreck site. A pair of divers suddenly poked to the surface, then bellied their way into the inflatable boat. One of the men released the mooring line while the other started the outboard engine, then they quickly raced to the side of the research ship. Pitt lowered a cable over the side and helped hoist the Zodiac onto the deck with the two men still seated in it.

Rudi Gunn and Rod Zeibig hopped out and began stripping off their wet suits.

“It’s turned a bit bouncy out there,” remarked Zeibig, a buoyant man with bright blue eyes and salt-and-pepper hair.

“I’ve passed the word that we’re halting dive operations until the winds settle down,” Pitt said. “The weather forecast indicates that things should be calm by morning.”

“A good idea,” the archaeologist replied, “although I think Rudi will be on pins and needles until he gets back to the wreck.”

“Find something of interest?”

Gunn nodded with an excited look in his eyes. “I was digging in grid C-1 and touched a large carved stone. I only uncovered a small corner of it before our bottom time ran out. I think it may possibly be some sort of monolith or stele.”

“That could add a clue to the ship’s identity,” Pitt said.

“I just hope we don’t have to share in her discovery,” Zeibig said, nodding toward the starboard rail.

Pounding over the waves just over two miles away was a high-performance motor yacht headed directly for the Aegean Explorer . It was Italian built, with wraparound smoked-glass windows and a large open stern deck. A red Turkish flag with white crescent and star flew from a mast, along with a smaller red flag that featured a single gold crescent. Though it was far smaller than a Monte Carlo show yacht, Pitt still could see that it was an expensive luxury boat. The three men watched as the yacht closed to within a half mile before slowing to a halt, where it bobbed on the unsettled waters.

“I wouldn’t be too concerned about your wreck, Rod,” Gunn said. “They don’t exactly look like they’re here to perform excavation work.”

“Probably somebody just nosing about to see what a research ship is doing parked out here,” Pitt said.

“Or perhaps we’re blocking the view of someone’s villa on shore,” Gunn muttered.

Pitt assumed that no one besides Ruppé knew of the location of the wreck site. Perhaps he had already notified the Turkish Ministry of Culture, he considered. But then he remembered that Ruppé’s office had been burglarized and his chart to the site stolen with the artifacts. His concern was diverted when he heard his name shouted from the forward part of the ship. He turned to see Giordino hanging his torso out of a work bay door beneath the bridge.

“Some info from Istanbul just came in for you over the wire,” Giordino shouted.

“Speak of the devil,” Pitt muttered. “Be right there,” he yelled back, then turned to the other two men.

“I bet that is Dr. Ruppé’s analysis of our earlier artifacts from the wreck.”

“I’d like to see his results,” Zeibig said.

The two divers quickly changed clothes, then met up with Pitt and Giordino in the small bay, which housed several computers linked to a satellite communications system. Giordino handed Pitt a multipage printout, then sat down at one of the computers.

“Dr. Ruppé also e-mailed a couple of photographs with the report,” he said, tapping at a keyboard to open an electronic file. A close-up image of a gold coin filled the computer screen.

Pitt quickly scanned the report then passed it to Zeibig.

“Are we still looking at an Ottoman wreck?” Gunn asked.

“Almost certainly,” Pitt replied. “Dr. Ruppé found a representative coin from a mint in Syria that he believes is identical to one of the coins in Al’s lockbox. It dates to around 1570. Unfortunately, Ruppé says he had to base the comparison on memory, since the coins were stolen from his office.”

“I’d have to agree with him,” Giordino said. “It looks like the same coin to me.”

“The mint marks were known to have been used between 1560 and 1580,” Zeibig said, reading from the report.

“So we know the wreck is no older than 1560,” Gunn said. “A shame the whole box of coins was taken, as that might have zeroed things in a bit more.”

“The other dating clue was the ceramic box that held the crown,” Pitt said. “As Loren and I discovered at the Blue Mosque, the particular design indicates the tiles came from the kilns of Iznik.”

Giordino clicked to the next few photographs, which showed a number of known tile samples from Iznik.

“Unfortunately, the ceramic box was also taken from Ruppé’s office, so again we’re working from memory.”

“His report indicates that the tiles incorporate patterns and colors that were popular with Iznik ceramics in the late sixteenth century,” Zeibig noted.

“At least we have some consistency,” Giordino noted.

“I can also attest that from what I saw of the wreck’s framing, it corresponds with known sixteenth-century vessel construction in the Mediterranean,” Zeibig added, looking up from the report.

“That’s three for three,” Gunn said.

“Which brings us to King Al’s crown,” Pitt replied with raised inflection.

Giordino pulled up a new photograph, which showed a detailed image of the gold crown. The seabed encrustations had all been cleaned from it, leaving a sparkling headpiece that looked as if it had just left the goldsmith.

“Thank goodness my baby was kept safe in Dr. Ruppé’s vault,” Giordino said.

“Dr. Ruppé calls this one of the most significant finds in Turkish waters, as well as one of the most mysterious,” Pitt said. “Despite considerable research, he was unable to utilize the crown’s shape and size as a clue in identifying its provenance. However, after a thorough cleaning, he clarified the faint engraving on the inside of the band.”

Giordino brought up an enlarged photo of the crown while Zeibig thumbed to the description in the report.

“The engraving is in Latin,” Zeibig reported with a quizzical look. “Ruppé translated the inscription as follows: ‘To Artrius, in gratitude for capturing the relic pirates. — Constantine.’”

“Ruppé found records of a Roman Senator named Artrius. It so happens that he lived during the rule of Constantine,” Pitt said.

“Constantine the Great?” Gunn blurted. “The Roman Emperor? Why, he lived a thousand years earlier.”

The room fell silent as everyone stared at the photographic image. Nobody had expected such a disconnect with the shipwreck’s other artifacts, particularly by something as remarkable as the gold crown. And yet there was no clue as to why it was aboard. Pitt inched away from the monitor and stood up, finally breaking the silence.

“I hate to say it,” he said with a grin, “but I guess this means that King Al has been transferred to the Roman Legion.”

26

Broome Park was a characteristic old english manor. Purchased by Kitchener in 1911, it featured a towering Jacobean-style brick house built during the rule of Charles I, surrounded by 476 acres of lush, parklike grounds. During his short occupancy, Kitchener labored extensively to upgrade the estate’s gardens, while commissioning an elaborate fountain or two. But like top hat and tails or horse and carriage, Broome Park’s original grace and charm was now mostly reserved for an earlier age.

Sixty miles southeast of London, Julie turned off at Dover and followed the short road to the estate. Summer was surprised to see a foursome playing golf on a stretch of grass just beyond a sign welcoming them to Broome Park.

“It’s an all-too-familiar tale around Britain,” Julie explained. “Historic manors are passed down from generation to generation until one day the heir wakes up and realizes he can’t afford the taxes and maintenance. First the surrounding acreage is sold off, then more desperate measures are eventually taken. Some are converted to bed-and-breakfasts, others leased to corporations for conferencing or used as outdoor concert venues.”

“Or even converted into golf courses,” Summer said.

“Precisely. Broome Park has probably suffered the worst of all fates. Most of the manor has been sold off as a time-share and overnight lodging, while the surrounding grounds have been converted into a golf course. I’m sure Horatio Herbert is looking down in disgrace.”

“Is the estate still in the hands of Kitchener’s heirs?”

“Kitchener was a lifelong bachelor, but he bequeathed the estate to his nephew Toby. Toby’s son Aldrich now runs the place, though he’s getting on in years.”

Julie parked the car in a wide lot, and they walked to the main entrance, passing an ill-kept rose garden along the way. Summer was more impressed when they entered the main foyer, which show-cased a large cut-glass chandelier and a towering oil painting of the old man himself, his stern gray eyes seemingly imposing their will even from the flat canvas.

A wiry white-haired man was seated at a desk reading a book, but he looked up and smiled when he noted Julie coming in.

“Hello, Miss Goodyear,” he said, springing up from the desk. “I received your message that you would be coming by this morning.”

“You’re looking well, Aldrich. Keeping the manor full?”

“Business is quite nice, thank you. Had a couple of short-term visitors check in already today.”

“This is my friend Summer Pitt, who’s helping me with my research.”

“Nice to meet you, Miss Pitt,” he said, extending a hand. “You probably want to get right to work, so why don’t you follow me on back?”

He led them through a side door into a private wing that encompassed his own living quarters. They walked through a large sitting area filled with artifacts from North Africa and the Middle East, all acquired by Kitchener during his Army years stationed in the region. Aldrich then opened another door and ushered them into a wood-paneled study. Summer noticed that one entire wall was lined with tall mahogany filing cabinets.

“I would have thought you’d have all of Uncle Herbert’s files memorized by now,” Aldrich said to Julie with a smile.

“I’ve certainly spent enough time with them,” Julie agreed. “We just need to review some of his personal correspondence in the months preceding his death.”

“Those will be in the last cabinet on the right.” He turned and walked toward the doorway. “I’ll be at the front desk, should you require any assistance.”

“Thank you, Aldrich.”

The two women quickly dove into the file cabinet. Summer was glad to see the correspondence was of a more personal and interesting nature than the records at the Imperial War Museum. She slowly read through dozens of letters from Kitchener’s relatives, along with what seemed an endless trail of correspondence from building contractors, who were being cajoled and pushed by Kitchener to complete refurbishments on Broome Park.

“Look how cute this is,” she said, holding up a card of a hand-drawn butterfly sent from Kitchener’s three-year-old niece.

“The gruff old general was quite close with his sister and brothers and their children,” Julie said.

“Looking at an individual’s personal correspondence is a great way to get to know him, isn’t it?” Summer said.

“It really is. A shame that the handwritten letter has become a lost art form in the age of e-mail.”

They searched for nearly two hours before Julie sat up in her chair.

“My word, it didn’t go down on the Hampshire ,” she blurted.

“What are you talking about?”

“His diary,” Julie replied with wide eyes. “Here, take a look at this.”

It was a letter from an Army sergeant named Wingate, dated a few days before the Hampshire was sunk. Summer read with interest how the sergeant expressed his regret at being unable to accompany Kitchener on his pending voyage and wished the field marshal well on his important trip. It was a brief postscript at the bottom of the page that made her stiffen.

“‘P.S. Received your diary. Will keep it safe till your return,’” she read aloud.

“How could I have missed it?” Julie lamented.

“It’s an otherwise innocuous letter, written in very messy handwriting,” Summer said. “I would have skimmed past it, too. But it’s a wonderful discovery. How exciting, his last diary may indeed still exist.”

“But it’s not here or in the official records. What was that soldier’s name again?”

“Sergeant Norman Wingate.”

“I know that name but can’t place it,” Julie replied, racking her brain.

A high-pitched squeak echoed from the other room, slowly growing louder in intensity. They looked to the doorway to see Aldrich entering the study pushing a tea cart with a bad wheel.

“Pardon the interruption, but I thought you might enjoy a tea break,” he said, pouring cups for each of them.

“That’s very kind of you, Mr. Kitchener,” Summer said, taking one of the hot cups.

“Aldrich, do you happen to recall an acquaintance of Lord Kitchener by the name of Norman Wingate?” Julie asked.

Aldrich rubbed his brow as his eyes darted toward the ceiling in thought.

“Wasn’t he one of Uncle Herbert’s bodyguards?” he asked.

“That’s it,” Julie said, suddenly remembering. “Wingate and Stearns were his two armed guards approved by the Prime Minister.”

“Yes,” Aldrich said. “The other fellow… Stearns, you say his name was? He went down on the Hampshire with Uncle Herbert. But Wingate didn’t. He was sick, I believe, and didn’t make the trip. I recall my father often lunching with him many years later. The chap apparently suffered a bit of guilt for surviving the incident.”

“Wingate wrote that he had the field marshal’s last diary in his possession. Do you know if he gave it to your father?”

“No, that would have been here with the rest of his papers, I’m certain. Wingate probably kept it as a memento of the old man.”

A faint buzzer sounded from the opposite end of the house. “Well, someone is at the front desk. Enjoy the tea,” he said, then shuffled out of the study.

Summer reread the letter then examined the return address.

“Wingate wrote this from Dover,” she said. “Isn’t that just down the road?”

“Yes, less than ten miles,” Julie replied.

“Maybe Norman has some relatives in the city that might know something.”

“Might be a long shot, but I suppose it’s worth a try.”

With the aid of Aldrich’s computer and a Kent Regional Phone Directory, the women assembled a list of all the Wingates living in the area. They then took turns phoning each name, hoping to locate a descendant of Norman Wingate.

The phone queries, however, produced no leads. After an hour, Summer hung up and crossed out the last name on the list with a shake of her head.

“Over twenty listings and not even a hint,” she said with disappointment.

“The closest I had was a fellow who thought Norman might have been a great-uncle, but he had nothing else to offer,” Julie replied. She looked down at her watch.

“I suppose we should go check into our hotel. We can finish the files in the morning.”

“We’re not staying at Broome Park?”

“I booked us in a hotel in Canterbury, near the cathedral. I thought you’d want to see it. Besides,” she said, her voice dropping to a whisper, “the food here isn’t very good.”

Summer laughed, then stood and stretched her arms. “I won’t tell Aldrich. I’m wondering if we might be able to make one stop along the way first.”

“Where would that be?” Julie asked with a quizzical look.

Summer picked up the letter from Wingate and read the return address. “Fourteen Dorchester Lane, Dover,” she said with a wry smile.

The motorcyclist slipped on a black helmet with matching visor, then peeked around the back end of a gardener’s truck. He patiently waited as Julie and Summer stepped out the front door of Broome Park. Careful not to let himself be seen, he watched as they climbed into their car across the parking lot and then drove down the road to the exit. Starting his black Kawasaki motorcycle, he eased toward the lane, keeping a wide buffer between himself and the departing car. Watching Julie turn toward Dover, he let a few cars pass, then followed suit, keeping the little green car just ahead in his sights.

27

Modern Dover is a bustling port city best known for its ferry to Calais and its world-famous white chalk cliffs up the easterly coastline. Julie drove into the historic city center before pulling over and asking for directions. They found Dorchester Lane a few blocks from the waterfront, a quiet residential street lined with old brick row houses constructed in the 1880s. Parking the car under a towering birch tree, the women walked up the cleanly swept steps of number fourteen and rang the bell. After a long pause, the door was pulled open by a disheveled woman in her twenties who held a sleeping baby in her arms.

“Oh, I’m terribly sorry to bother you,” Julie whispered. “I hope we didn’t wake the baby.”

The woman shook her head and smiled. “This one could sleep through a U2 concert.”

Julie quietly introduced the two of them. “We’re seeking information on a man who lived at this address quite some time ago. His name was Norman Wingate.”

“That was my grandfather,” the woman replied, perking up. “I’m Ericka Norris. Wingate was my mother’s maiden name.”

Julie looked at Summer and smiled in disbelief.

“Please, won’t you come in?” Norris offered.

The young woman led them into a modest yet warmly decorated family room, easing herself into a rocking chair with the sleeping baby.

“You have a lovely home,” Julie said.

“My mum grew up in this house. I think she said grandfather bought it just before World War One. She lived here most of her life, as she and Dad purchased the home from him.”

“Is she still alive?”

“Yes, she’s a spry ninety-four. We had to move her into the old folks’ home a few months back so she could receive proper nursing care. She insisted that we move in here when the baby was on the way. More room for us, at least.”

“Your mum might still be able to help us out,” Julie said. “We’re looking for some old records from the war that your grandfather might have had in his possession.”

Norris thought for a moment. “Mum did end up with all of my grandparents’ belongings,” she said. “I know she got rid of most of it over the years. But there are some old books and photographs in the nursery that you are welcome to have a look at.”

She cautiously led them up a flight of stairs and into a pale blue room with a wooden crib on one wall. She gently laid the baby in the crib, eliciting a slight whimper from him before he drifted back to sleep.

“Over here are my grandfather’s things,” she whispered, stepping to a high wooden shelf. Old clothbound books filled the shelves, fronted by black-and-white photographs of men in uniform. Julie picked up one photograph showing a young soldier standing next to Kitchener.

“Is this your grandfather?”

“Yes, with Lord Kitchener. He headed up the entire Army during the war, did you know?”

Julie smiled. “Yes. He’s actually the reason we are here.”

“Grandfather often spoke about how he would have died along with Kitchener on his ship that sank during a voyage to Russia. But his father was gravely ill, and Kitchener had excused him from the trip.”

“Ericka, we found a letter from your grandfather indicating that Kitchener had sent him his personal diary for safekeeping,” Julie said. “We’re hoping to locate that diary.”

“If grandfather kept it, it would be here. Please, have a look.”

Julie had read Kitchener’s earlier diaries, which had been kept in small hardbound books. Scanning the shelves, she froze when she spotted a similarly bound book on the top shelf.

“Summer… can you reach that small blue book up high?” she asked nervously.

Stretching to her toes, Summer reached up and pulled the book down and handed it to Julie. The historian’s heart began to beat faster when she noticed there was no title printed on the spine or front cover. Slowly opening the cover, she turned to a lined title page. In neat handwritten script was written: Journal of H H K Jan. 1, 1916

“That’s it,” Summer blurted, staring at the page.

Julie turned the page and began reading the first entries, which described efforts by the author to boost compensation for new military recruits. She soon flipped to the last written entry, located halfway through the book, which was dated June 1, 1916. She then closed the book and looked hopefully at Norris.

“This lost diary has long been sought by historians of Kitchener,” she said quietly.

“If it means that much to you, then go ahead and take it,” Norris replied, waving her hand at the book as if it were of no consequence. “No one around here is likely to be reading it anytime soon,” she added, smiling toward her sleeping baby.

“I will donate it to the Kitchener collection at Broome Park, if you should ever change your mind about that.”

“I’m sure Grandfather would be thrilled to know that there are still people around with an interest in Kitchener and ‘the Great War,’ as he used to call it.”

Julie and Summer thanked the young mother for the diary, then tiptoed down the stairs and out of the house.

“Your detour to Dover certainly produced an unexpected bit of good luck,” Julie said with a smile as they stepped to her car.

“Persistence leads to luck every time,” Summer replied.

Excited with their discovery, Julie was oblivious to the black motorcycle that followed them off Dorchester Lane and onto the road to Canterbury, holding a steady pace several cars behind. As Julie drove, Summer skimmed through the diary, reading passages of interest out loud.

“Listen to this,” she said. “‘March third. Received an unexpected letter from the Archbishop of Canterbury requesting a private viewing of the Manifest. The cat has finally escaped the bag, though how, I do not know. The late Dr. Worthington had assured me his secrecy in life, but perhaps he has failed me in death. No matter. I declined the Archbishop’s invitation while risking his ire, in hopes that the matter can be deferred until the time when we are once again at peace.’”

“Dr. Worthington, you say?” Julie asked. “He was a well-known Cambridge archaeologist around the turn of the last century. He carried out several high-profile excavations in Palestine, if my memory serves.”

“That would seem an odd connection,” Summer replied, skimming more pages. “Kitchener was right about upsetting the Archbishop, though. Two weeks later, he has this to say: ‘Called upon this morning by Bishop Lowery of Portsmouth, on behalf of Archbishop Davidson. He eloquently expressed a strong desire for me to donate the Manifest to the Church of England for the good of all mankind. He failed to elaborate, however, on the Church’s intended use of the document. From the earliest moments, my kindred hopes were for a benevolent quest for the truth. It is now regrettably apparent that my Church is reacting in fear, with suppression and concealment their primary aim. In their hands, the Manifest might disappear for all posterity. This I cannot allow, and I informed Bishop Lowery as much, to his extreme disappointment. Though now is not the time, I believe that at the conclusion of this great conflict, a public release of the Manifest will offer a spark of hope for all mankind.’”

“He certainly makes this Manifest sound profound,” Julie said. “And now Bishop Lowery has made an appearance. His cryptic letter to Davidson in June suddenly becomes more interesting.”

“Kitchener doesn’t provide much detail, but his anguish with the Church keeps growing,” Summer said. “In April, he writes, ‘Plans for the summer offensive in France are nearly complete. The constant harassment from the Archbishop’s minions is becoming overwhelming. P.M. has approved my request for a security detail. Thankfully, I didn’t have to specify why.’”

“So our friends Wingate and Stearns finally appear on the scene,” Julie noted.

Summer thumbed faster through the pages as they approached the outskirts of Canterbury.

“In his April and May passages, he is bogged down with war planning and an occasional weekend away with relatives at Broome Park. Wait, though, listen to this. ‘May fifteenth. Received another threatening call from Bishop Lowery. With his nefarious manner, I believe the country would be better served if he headed the Directorate of Military Intelligence rather than the Portsmouth Diocese.’ A day later, he writes, ‘Caught in a streetside confrontation by an anonymous C of E member who demanded the Manifest. Corporal Stearns disposed of the renegade without further incident. I’m beginning to regret ever discovering the blasted thing back in ’seventy-seven… or letting Dr. Worthington decipher it last year. Who would have imagined that an old slip of papyrus sold by a beggar during our survey of Palestine would have such consequence?’”

Summer turned to the next page. “Does that date mean anything to you?”

Julie contemplated her earlier writings on Kitchener. “That was well before his famous heroics in Khartoum. In 1877, I believe he was stationed in the Middle East. That’s about the time that he took over an Army survey party in northern Palestine, as part of the Palestine Exploration Fund established by Queen Victoria.”

“He worked as a surveyor?”

“Yes, and he took over the field survey team when its commander fell ill. They did quite top-notch work, despite being threatened on several occasions by local Arab tribesmen. Much of the Palestine survey data was in fact still being utilized as recently as the nineteen sixties. But as for Kitchener, he was traveling throughout the Middle East at that point, so there’s no telling where he specifically may have acquired it. Unfortunately, he didn’t begin keeping a diary until many years later.”

“It must be very old if it is a papyrus document.” Summer neared the end of the diary and halted at a late May entry.

“Julie, this is it,” she gasped. “He writes, ‘Another dire warning received from the Archbishop. I daresay they seem to be stopping at nothing in obtaining their desired wants. I have little doubt they haven’t already slipped into Broome Park for a look around. My response will hopefully put them at bay. I told them that I am taking the Manifest to Russia and placing it on loan with the Orthodox Church in Petrograd for safekeeping until the war’s end. Imagine their chagrin if they knew I actually safeguarded it with Sally, under the watchful eyes of Emily, till my return.’”

“So he didn’t take it to Russia,” Julie said, her voice crackling with excitement.

“Apparently not. Listen to this. On June first, he writes, ‘My last entry for now. Prying eyes seem to be everywhere. I feel an uneasy dread about the trip at hand, but it is vital that the Russians stay with us and not negotiate a unilateral armistice with Germany. Will pass this diary to Corporal Wingate for safekeeping. H.H.K.’”

“I’ve read other accounts that he was uneasy when he departed and seemed to be dreading the trip,” said Julie. “He must have had a premonition.”

“Probably so or he wouldn’t have left the diary behind. But the bigger question is, who was Sally?”

“She must have been someone trustworthy, but I don’t believe I’ve ever run across anyone named Sally in my research on Kitchener.”

“Not an old secretary, or perhaps the wife of a fellow officer?” Summer asked.

Julie shook her head.

“How about a pet name for one of his aides?”

“No, I should think there would be references in his correspondence somewhere, but I don’t recall seeing it.”

“It doesn’t seem right that he would trust a casual acquaintance with the document. How about the other name, Emily?”

Julie thought for a moment as she waited to enter a traffic roundabout that led to downtown Canterbury.

“I can recall two Emilys, actually. Kitchener’s maternal grand-mother was named Emily, though she was long dead by 1916. Then there was his oldest brother, who had a granddaughter named Emily. I’ll have to check my genealogy records when we get to the hotel to see when she was born. Her father, Kitchener’s nephew, was named Hal. He used to visit Broome Park rather regularly.”

“So the younger Emily would actually be a cousin to Aldrich?” Summer asked.

“Yes, that would be correct. Perhaps we can talk to Aldrich about her in the morning.”

Julie had reached the city center and drove Summer slowly past Canterbury’s famed historic cathedral. A few blocks away, she turned into the Chaucer Hotel, one of the city’s modest old inns. After checking into neighboring rooms, the women met for dinner in the hotel restaurant. Summer devoured a large plate of fish and chips, not realizing how hungry the day’s excursion had made her. Julie nearly matched her appetite, pushing away a plate cleaned of pasta.

“If you’d like to walk the meal off, we can take a stroll over to the cathedral,” Julie offered.

“I appreciate the tour-guide offer,” Summer replied, “but, to be honest, I’d like to spend some more time analyzing Kitchener’s diary.”

Julie beamed at the reply. “I was hoping you’d say that. I’ve been anxious to study the writings since we checked in.”

“There’s a quiet lounge off the lobby. How about we order some tea and take another pass through the diary there? I’ll take notes while you read this time,” she added with a smile.

“That would be lovely,” Julie agreed. “I’ll go get the diary and a notebook from my room and meet you there.”

She climbed the stairs to the second floor and entered her room, then hesitated when she noticed her work papers strewn across the bed. The door suddenly slammed shut behind her as the lights were flicked off. A shadow approached as she started to scream, but a gloved hand quickly covered her mouth before her voice could resonate. Another arm slipped around her waist and pulled her tight against the assailant, who seemed to be wearing padded clothing. Then a deep voice grunted in her ear.

“Don’t make a sound or you’ll never live to see the dawn.”

28

Summer waited in the lounge twenty minutes before phoning Julie’s room. Receiving no answer, she waited another five minutes, then went upstairs and knocked on her door. Her concern heightened when she noticed a “Do Not Disturb” sign dangling from the doorknob. She saw a night maid was working her way down the corridor turning down beds and convinced her to check Julie’s room. Opening the door and turning on the light, the maid gasped in shock.

Julie was seated on the floor with her arms behind her back and tied to the bed frame with a sheet. Another sheet was wrapped around her ankles, while a pillowcase covered her head. A desperate wiggling of her arms and legs revealed that she was very much alive.

Summer burst past the maid and ripped the pillowcase off Julie’s head. Julie’s wide eyes looked at Summer in relief as the American untied a knotted stocking that was wrapped around Julie’s head in a gag.

“Are you hurt?” Summer asked, moving on to untie the sheet binding Julie’s arms.

“No… I’m okay,” she stuttered, fighting back tears of fear and relief rolled into one. “Just a little scared.”

She quickly regained her composure while finding a steady voice.

“He was actually quite gentle. I don’t think he meant to harm me.”

“It was just one man?”

Julie nodded.

“Did you see what he looked like?”

“No, I’m afraid not. I think he was hiding in the bathroom, and I walked right past. He turned the lights off, then threw that pillowcase over my head. I don’t have a clue what he looked like. I just remember that his clothes seemed lumpy or padded.”

The hotel manager soon arrived, followed by a pair of Canterbury police officers. They carefully searched the room, then took a detailed report from Julie, Summer, and the maid. The historian had left her purse in the room, but it wasn’t taken by the thief. Julie looked at Summer with dread when she realized that the only item missing from the room was Kitchener’s diary.

“Typical hotel burglary attempt,” Summer heard one of the officers tell the hotel manager out in the corridor. “She obviously surprised him in the room, and he decided to tie her up before fleeing. I don’t have to tell you that there’s a slim chance of catching the bugger.”

“Yes, unfortunately I’ve seen it before,” the manager replied. “Thank you, Detective.”

The hotel manager returned to the room and apologized profusely to Julie, promising to have increased security on the floor all night. After he left, Summer offered to let Julie sleep in her room.

“Yes, if you don’t mind, I think I’d be much more comfortable,” she said. “Let me grab my toothbrush.”

Julie walked into the bathroom, then suddenly called to Summer.

“What is it, Julie?” she said, rushing in.

Julie stood with a grim look on her face, pointing to a small vanity mirror next to the sink. The room thief had left her a warning, written in her own pink lipstick, on the mirror. Pointed and succinct, it said simply, “Let K be.”

29

Julie awoke the next morning after a fitful night’s sleep. Her sense of fear and anxiety had gradually evolved into a feeling of indignant violation. Rising early, she found herself burning with anger.

“Who could have known that we discovered the diary?” she said, pacing the floor of the hotel room. “We had only just found it ourselves.”

Summer was in the bathroom, fixing her hair. “Perhaps he didn’t actually know about the diary,” she replied. “He might have just been trying to find out what you knew and got lucky.”

“I suppose it’s possible. But why the warning? What is it about Kitchener’s death nearly a century after the fact that someone would still be afraid of?”

Summer sprayed on a touch of perfume, then joined Julie in the bedroom. “I’d say one thing is certain. It has to be someone who knows more than we do about either the Manifest or the sinking of the Hampshire .”

“Or both,” Julie concurred. She caught a whiff of Summer’s perfume. “That’s a lovely fragrance,” she said.

“Thank you. It was a gift from a friend of mine in British Columbia.”

“The cologne,” Julie suddenly blurted. “I nearly forgot. The intruder who tied me up last night had the scent of men’s cologne. I’m sure it was the same fragrance as worn by that fellow we met at Lambeth Library.”

“You mean Mr. Baker? Do you think it was him?”

“I’m not sure about anything at the moment, but I think it could have been him. Don’t you remember? He asked us about the diary. I thought it was a bit odd, at the time.”

“You’re right. We’ll check with the library when we get back to London,” Summer said. “I’m sure there’s a good chance the librarian will be able to identify him.”

Julie was slightly relieved, but the revelation only fueled her inquisitiveness.

“In the meantime, I say we get on over to Broome Park and see what Aldrich knows about his cousin Emily.”

They ate a quick breakfast at the hotel, then hopped in the car and drove to Broome Park. Two miles outside of Canterbury, the car sailed through a deep dip in the road.

“Something doesn’t feel right,” Julie said, detecting a sharp vibration through the steering column.

The car struck another small rut in the road, and the passengers felt a sudden jerk followed by a wail of screeching metal. Summer looked out the window in shock to see the right front wheel bounding ahead of the car and onto the shoulder of the road. The car immediately veered sharply to the right into the oncoming lane. Julie yanked the steering wheel hard left to compensate, but there was no reaction.

The wheel-less right hub ground into the asphalt amid a spray of sparks as the car careened counterclockwise. The vehicle’s three remaining tires smoked and squealed as the car spun around and then slid off the road backward. Bounding over the shoulder, the car skidded across a patch of grass before slamming into a low embankment. As the dust cleared, Julie shut off the idling motor, then turned to Summer.

“You okay?” she asked breathless.

“Yes,” Summer replied, taking a deep breath herself. “Quite a jolt. I’d say we were a bit lucky.”

She saw that Julie looked pale and still had her hands clenched tightly to the steering wheel.

“It was him,” she said quietly.

“Well, if it was, he’ll have to do a lot better than that to take us down,” Summer replied defiantly, trying to lift Julie’s spirits. “Let’s see if we can get back on the road.”

As she opened her door, a black motorcycle came blazing up the road. The rider slowed slightly, giving the damaged car a long gaze. Then he applied a heavy throttle and roared on down the road.

“Don’t bother helping us,” Summer spat as the black shape disappeared around the bend.

She hiked over to the road and found the stray wheel lying on the shoulder. Standing it upright, she rolled it back to the car. Julie had climbed out but was sitting on a large rock, her hands still shaking. Summer opened the trunk and retrieved the jack, then worked it under the front bumper. The ground was hard and mostly level, which enabled her to raise the hub off the ground. Despite some deep scoring on the hub, she was able to mount the wheel, fastening it down with a trio of lug nuts cannibalized from the other wheels. She made sure the lugs were tightened all the way around, then stowed the jack back in the trunk.

“Summer, you handled that with ease,” Julie complimented. She had regained her demeanor and finally stopped shaking. “I thought we would have to ring the auto club.”

“My father has been teaching me how to work on antique cars,” she said with a proud grin. “He always says that any girl ought to be able to change a tire.”

Julie surveyed a slight crease to the rear bumper, then handed the car keys to Summer.

“Do you mind driving the rest of the way? My nerves are shot.”

“Not at all,” Summer replied. “As long as you don’t mind some slow going through any potholes.”

Taking the keys, she hopped into the right-hand seat and started the car, then eased back onto the road. They felt no more ill effects from the car, and soon pulled into the parking lot at Broome Park. The two women entered the manor, finding Aldrich laying out croissants and tea in the garden atrium. Julie made no mention of their auto accident as she pulled him aside for a moment.

“Aldrich, I wonder if I could ask you about Emily Kitchener?”

The old man’s eyes lit up immediately. “Why, Emily was a lovely lady. I was just telling a guest about her last night. She used to love walking the gardens here in the evening to hear the nightingales sing. Hard to believe she’s been gone ten years now.”

“She used to live here at the estate?” Summer asked.

“Oh yes. My father took her in when her husband was killed in a railway accident. That must have been around 1970. She lived in what’s now the Windsor Suite, on the top floor.”

“Do you by chance recall her having any friends or associates named Sally?” Julie asked.

“No, I don’t recall anyone named Sally,” he replied with a shake of his head.

“Did she ever mention being given any documents or papers from Lord Kitchener?” Summer queried.

“She never made any mention to me of such. Of course, she would have been quite young when the Earl died. You are welcome to take a look at her things, if you like. I have a few boxes of her possessions down in the basement.”

Summer gave Julie a hopeful gaze.

“If it wouldn’t be an imposition,” Julie said to Aldrich.

“Not at all. I can take you down right now.”

Aldrich led them to his private quarters and through a locked door to a corner stairway. Down the steps, they reached a dimly lit basement, which was little more than a broad corridor that extended beneath a fraction of the whole residence. Aged wooden crates and dust-covered furniture were stacked high along both walls.

“Much of this old furniture was the Earl’s,” Aldrich explained as he led them down the corridor. “I really must arrange for another auction one of these days.”

At the end of the corridor, they reached a heavy door sealed with a dead bolt.

“This was originally a surplus pantry,” he said, reaching for the bolt before realizing it had already been pulled aside. “They sealed it up tight to keep out the rats.”

He flicked on an exterior light switch, then grabbed a pull handle and yanked the heavy door aside, revealing a ten-foot-long compartment lined with shelves on either side and a wooden cabinet at the far end. The shelves were jam-packed with cardboard boxes, mostly filled with documents and estate records.

“Emily’s things should be right down here,” he said, stepping to the rear and pointing at a waist-high shelf where three boxes were marked “E.J. Kitchener.”

“Emily Jane Kitchener,” Aldrich said. “Might be easiest for you to simply look through the boxes in here. Will you need an escort back upstairs?”

“Thank you, Aldrich, but that won’t be necessary,” Julie replied. “We’ll lock things up and find our way out.”

“I hope you both can join us for dinner tonight. We’re having a fish fry in the garden.” The old caretaker then turned and shuffled out of the pantry.

Summer smiled as she watched him leave. “He is the cutest little fellow,” she said.

“An old-fashioned gentleman,” Julie agreed, pulling two of the boxes to the front of the shelf. “Here you go, one for you and one for me.”

Summer stepped over and flipped open the top of the box, which she noted was not sealed shut. The contents were a disheveled mess, as if someone had hastily thrown the items in the box or it had subsequently been rifled through. She smiled to herself as she pulled out a baby blanket and laid it on an empty shelf. Next to that she laid some children’s dresses, a large doll, and several porcelain figurines. At the bottom of the box, she found some costume jewelry and a book of nursery rhymes.

“Box number one is filled with childhood memories,” she said, carefully repacking the items. “Nothing of relevance, I’m afraid.”

“I’m not faring much better,” Julie replied, setting a pair of sequined boots on the shelf. “Mostly shoes, sweaters, and a few evening gowns here.” From the bottom, she pulled out a flat tray of dinnerware. “And some tarnished silverware,” she added.

The women replaced the two boxes, then jointly opened the third box.

“This looks more promising,” Julie said, retrieving a thin packet of letters.

As she began scanning the letters, Summer inventoried the rest of the box. Most of the contents were prized books of Emily’s, along with a few framed photos of herself and her husband. At the bottom of the box, Summer found a large envelope that was stuffed with old photographs.

“No luck here,” Julie said, finishing the last letter and inserting it back into its envelope. “These are all old letters from her husband. No mention of our mystery girl. I guess the secret of Sally just isn’t meant to be revealed.”

“It was an admitted long shot,” Summer replied, pulling the photographs out of the envelope and spreading them across the shelf for Julie to see. They were all sepia-tinted images from nearly a century before. Julie held up one photo of a young woman in a riding outfit, holding the reins of a horse.

“She was a pretty young woman,” Summer remarked, noting a delicate face set with penetrating eyes similar to her famous uncle.

“Here’s one with Kitchener,” Julie said, pointing to an earlier photo in a garden setting. Kitchener stood in his uniform next to a couple with their young daughter, clutching a large doll, between them. Summer recognized the toddler as a younger version of Emily from the horse picture.

“She looks about four years old there,” Summer said, picking up the photo and flipping it over to see if a date was written on the back. She nearly choked when she read the inscription.

She shoved the photo in Julie’s face. Julie read the inscription, then flipped it over and studied the image with a wrinkled brow.

“But that’s Emily with her parents. Her mother’s name was Margaret, I believe.”

Summer looked at her and smiled. “Sally is the doll.”

By the time the lightbulb clicked on in Julie’s head, Summer was already tearing through the first box of Emily Kitchener’s possessions. In an instant, she pulled out a porcelain-faced blond doll that was dressed in a checkerboard apron. Holding the doll up in the air, Summer compared it to the one in the photograph.

It was the same doll.

“He said the Manifest was safeguarded with Sally,” Julie muttered. “And Sally is a doll?”

The two women studied the doll, whose clothes and extremities were well worn from the attentive play of a young girl nearly a century earlier. With tentative fingers, Summer turned the doll over and pulled off its checkerboard apron and matching calico dress. A heavy seam was visible along the doll’s back, which kept the stuffing inside. Only the stitching was crude and uneven, not matching the workmanship of the rest of the doll.

“This doesn’t look like the work of an expert seamstress,” Summer noted.

Julie rummaged through one of the other boxes until producing a tarnished silver dinner knife.

“You care to perform the surgery?” she asked nervously, handing Summer the knife.

Summer laid the doll facedown on the shelf and began sawing at the topmost stitch. The dull-edged knife was a poor match for the tough catgut thread, but she eventually cut through the first few stitches. Setting the knife aside, she pulled apart the remaining seam, opening up the back side of the doll. Inside was a compressed mass of cotton wadding.

“Sorry, Sally,” she said, carefully pulling out the wadding as if the doll were an animate object. Julie peered anxiously over Summer’s shoulder, but slumped when she saw that the doll’s torso was filled with nothing but cotton. She closed her eyes and shook her head as Summer pulled out a large ball of it.

“Silly idea,” she muttered.

But Summer wasn’t through. Peering inside the cavity, she felt around with her fingertips.

“Wait, I think there may be something in here.”

Julie’s eyes popped open as she watched Summer reach into the doll’s left leg and grab hold of an object. Summer worked it back and forth until pulling out a linen-wrapped tube several inches long. Julie leaned closer as Summer set the object on the shelf and gently unwrapped the linen. Inside was a thick piece of parchment rolled into a scroll. Summer held the top edge down, then carefully unrolled it across the shelf as both women held their breath.

The parchment proved to be blank. But they soon saw it was protecting a smaller scroll rolled inside. It was a bamboo-colored papyrus leaf with a single column of script running down its center.

“This… this must be the Manifest,” Julie uttered quietly, her eyes locked on the ancient document.

“It appears to be written in some sort of ancient script,” Summer noted.

Julie stared at the lettering, finding it familiar. “It appears similar to Greek,” she said, “but it’s nothing that I’ve seen before.”

“That would most likely be Coptic Greek,” thundered a male voice behind them.

The women jumped at the unexpected assertion. Spinning their heads toward the door, they were shocked to find Ridley Bannister standing in the entry. He was dressed in a thickly padded black leather jacket and pants favored by dirt-track motorcycle racers. But neither woman noticed his unusual attire. Their attention was focused instead on the snub-nosed revolver he held in his hand, aimed squarely at their chests.

30

You are the one that attacked me in my hotel room,” Julie blurted, finally recognizing the leather outfit.

“Attack is rather a harsh description,” Bannister replied casually. “I prefer to think that we were just sharing research information.”

“Stealing, you mean,” Summer said.

Bannister shot her a hurt look. “Not at all,” he said. “Strictly borrowing. You’ll find that the diary has found a new home with the rest of Kitchener’s private papers upstairs.”

“Oh, a penitent thief,” Summer replied sarcastically.

Bannister ignored the cut.

“I must say, I am quite impressed with your sleuthing abilities,” he said, eyeing Julie. “The leather diary was a marvelous discovery, though the Earl’s comments were less than startling. But then identifying Sally on top of that. Quite an encore.”

“We weren’t quite as sloppy as you,” Summer remarked.

“Yes, well, I had limited time to peruse Emily Kitchener’s possessions. Be that as it may, a job well done. I searched ten years ago myself without such success.” He raised the pistol and motioned with it.

“Would you ladies be so kind as to move to the rear of this compartment? I’ll be needing to leave with the Manifest.”

“To borrow?” Julie asked.

“Not this time, I’m afraid,” Bannister replied with a sharklike smile.

Julie peered at the scroll before slowly stepping away.

“Tell us first. What is the significance of the Manifest?” she asked.

“Until it has been authenticated, no one can say for sure,” Bannister said, creeping over to retrieve the parchment with the papyrus inside. “It’s just an old document that some seem to think could rattle the theological powers that be.” He picked up the scroll with his free hand and gently placed it in an inside pocket of his jacket.

“Was Kitchener deliberately killed because of it?” Julie asked.

“I would assume so. But that’s one you’ll have to take up with the Church of England. It’s been nice chatting with you ladies,” he said, backpedaling toward the door, “but I’m afraid I have a plane to catch.”

He stepped out of the pantry and began closing the door behind him.

“Please don’t leave us in here,” Julie begged.

“Not to worry,” Bannister replied. “I’ll be sure and phone Aldrich in a day or so and let him know there’s a pair of lovely lasses locked in his basement. Good-bye.”

The door slammed shut with a whoosh followed by the sound of the dead bolt sliding home. Then Bannister flicked off the pantry’s lights, plunging it into blackness. He quietly crept upstairs to Aldrich’s quarters, stopping to replace the unloaded Webley pistol in a glass cabinet of Kitchener’s military artifacts, where he had borrowed it minutes before. Waiting until the lobby cleared, he slipped out of the manor unseen and quickly hopped upon his rented motorcycle.

Three hours later, he called the Lambeth Palace head of security from a phone at Heathrow Airport.

“Judkins, it’s Bannister.”

“Bannister,” the security man replied with an acid tongue. “I’ve been waiting for you to report. You’ve tracked this Goodyear woman?”

“Yes. She and the American have been down at Broome Park digging up Kitchener documents. Still there, as a matter of fact.”

“Are they going to prove problematic?”

“Well, they are a bit suspicious and have certainly been barking up the right tree.”

“But do they have anything damaging to us?” the security man asked impatiently.

“Oh, no,” Bannister replied, patting his chest pocket with a wide grin. “They have nothing. Nothing at all.”

31

The sealed pantry was as black as a cave. Summer placed a hand on the shelf for balance as she waited a moment for her eyes to adjust to the sudden darkness. But without a source of light, there was nothing to see. She remembered her cell phone and pulled it out of her pocket, the device emitting a dull blue glow.

“No phone signal down here, I’m afraid, but at least we’ve got a night-light,” she said.

Using the cell phone as a flashlight, she stepped to the door, pushing it first with her shoulder, then applying a few firm kicks with the heel of her foot. The thick door didn’t budge at all, and she knew that even a sumo wrestler wouldn’t have been able to snap off the heavy dead bolt. She eased back over to Julie, flashing the phone toward her to find a scared look on her face.

“I don’t like this one bit,” Julie said in a shaky voice. “I think I want to scream.”

“You know, Julie, that’s a good idea. Why don’t we?”

Summer tilted her head toward the ceiling and let out a loud scream. Julie immediately joined in, yelling repeatedly for help.

Muffled by the thick pantry door, the screams registered only faintly upstairs. The few guests who detected the faraway cries assumed it was somebody with an iPod cranked too high. The sound didn’t register at all in Aldrich’s aged ears.

The women took a short break, then tried yelling again. As more minutes ticked by without a response, they resigned themselves to the fact that they couldn’t be heard. The screaming had served as a release, though, helping to expel the anxiety of their imprisonment. Julie, in particular, seemed to regain the composure that she had been close to losing.

“I guess we might as well get comfortable if we’re going to be in here awhile,” she said, pulling a large box onto the floor and using it as a chair. “Do you think he’ll actually call Aldrich?” she asked somberly.

“I suspect so,” Summer replied. “He didn’t act like a trained killer, nor seem psychotic to me.” Deep down, she wasn’t so certain.

“Personally, I’d rather not wait for Aldrich,” she added. “Maybe there’s something in one of these boxes that can help us get out of here.”

Under the dim glow of her cell phone, she began cracking open some of the other boxes. But it became readily apparent that there was nothing but papers, clothes, and a few odd personal belongings packed away in the former pantry. Soon growing discouraged, she pulled a box down alongside Julie and took a seat.

“It would seem we have little more than a nice wardrobe to help us escape.”

“Well, at least we have something to wear in case we get cold,” Julie said. “Now, if only we had something to eat.”

“I’m afraid the pantry is bare in regards to food,” Summer replied. Then she thought for a moment, contemplating her own words. “Aldrich said that this was built as a secondary pantry, didn’t he?” she asked.

“Yes,” Julie confirmed. “And thank goodness for the rat-proofing.”

“Julie, do you know where the main kitchen is located in the manor?”

The researcher thought for a moment. “I’ve never set foot in it, but it’s located off the main dining hall, along the west side of the residence.”

Summer visualized the orientation of the estate. “We’re on the west side, aren’t we?”

“Yes.”

“So the kitchen would be located roughly above us?”

“Yes, that would be right. What are you driving at?”

Summer rose to her feet and circled the room, studying the walls behind the storage boxes with her cell-phone light. She slowly made her way to the rear of the pantry, examining a bank of four wooden cabinet doors now visible behind a stack of boxes. She passed the phone to Julie to hold for her.

“If you were Kitchener’s chef and you needed a sack of flour from the pantry, would you go lugging it through the house?” she asked, moving the stack of boxes aside. Then she reached up to the top two cabinet doors and tried to open them. But they were sealed shut.

“They’re faux doors,” Julie said, holding up the light while Summer dug her nails under the doors’ edges to no avail. “Try the bottom doors.”

Julie shoved a box on the floor aside so that Summer could try the lower doors. Tugging at the edges, she was surprised when both doors flew open effortlessly. Behind them appeared to be an empty black compartment.

“Move the light in,” Summer requested.

Julie shoved the cell phone past the doors, illuminating a large tray at the base of the compartment that was affixed to a rear rack. A pulley wheel was visible to one side with a tight loop of rope around it that then ascended past the upper cabinet. Julie turned the cell light upward, revealing a long vertical shaft.

“It’s a dumbwaiter,” Julie said. “Why, of course. How did you know?”

Summer shrugged her shoulders. “A lifelong aversion to doing things the hard way, I suppose.”

She surveyed the shelf for a moment. “It’s a little tight, but I think it will suffice as an elevator. I’m afraid I’m going to have to borrow that light back.”

“You can’t go up that thing,” Julie said. “You’ll break your neck.”

“No worries. I think I can just fit.”

Summer took the cell phone and corkscrewed her long legs into the opening, then wormed the rest of her body in until she sat cross-legged on the tray. A pair of frayed ropes dangled beside the pulley used to hoist the tray, but she dared not test her weight on them. Placing the phone in her lap, she instead surveyed a thin link of bicycle chain that spooled around the actual pulley. She then leaned her head back into the pantry.

“Wish me luck. Hopefully I’ll meet you at the front door in five minutes,” she told Julie.

“Do be careful.”

Summer grabbed the chain with both hands and pulled down hard. The tray immediately rose off its base, and Summer rose up into the chute. Julie quickly grabbed a boxful of clothes and emptied it on the base as a cushion, should Summer lose her grip and fall.

But the athletic young oceanographer didn’t fall. Summer was able to pull herself up ten feet before her hands and arm muscles began to weaken. She then found she could tilt the tray forward and wedge her feet against one side of the chute while pressing her back against the opposite side. Supporting her weight in this manner, she could temporarily free her hands from the biting edge of the pulley chain. Resting a few minutes, she then pulled herself up several more feet before pausing again.

She spotted the upper pulley just a few feet above her head and made one more effort to rise to the top. With her hands and arms aching, she muscled herself even with the pulley, scrunching her head beneath the top of the chute. The back side of a cabinet door appeared in front of her, and she quickly pushed on it with her feet. But the door didn’t budge.

She could feel her arms weakening as she pushed with her feet again, this time detecting a hairline movement to the door. She was positioned too high and close to the pulley to wedge herself against the chute for relief and she could feel her hold on the chain waning. Realizing she was seconds from losing her grip, she pushed herself backward as far as she could, then rocketed forward, jamming her feet against the door with all her might.

She heard a horrendous crash as the cabinet door burst open, sending a wave of bright light into the cavernous chute. Summer was momentarily blinded by the sudden change in light as she slid through the door, letting go of the chain as her momentum carried her across a smoothly polished surface.

Her vision clearing, she found herself lying on a large teak buffet. It sat in a small but brightly lit lounge that had been constructed from an original section of the manor’s kitchen. Summer was startled to see a half dozen elderly couples seated around the room having tea. They all silently stared at her as if she was an alien from Ursa Minor.

Slowly sliding off the buffet and onto her feet, she surveyed the source of the loud crash. Scattered about the floor were spoons, teacups, and saucers from a large formal tea set that had been sent flying when she kicked open the door.

Summer ruefully brushed herself off, hiding her grease-stained hands as she smiled at the collected gawkers.

“I do hate to miss teatime,” she said apologetically, then quickly scurried from the room.

She ran into Aldrich in the hall as he rushed toward the commotion and redirected him to help Julie. Together, they dashed down the stairs and unlocked the pantry door. A relieved Julie smiled at the sight of Summer.

“I heard a terrible crash. Is everything all right?” she asked.

“Yes,” Summer grinned, “but I might owe Aldrich a new tea set.”

“Poppycock!” the old man grunted. “Now, tell me again who locked you in here.”

Julie described Bannister and his motorcycle attire.

“Sounds like that fellow Baker,” Aldrich said. “Checked out this morning.”

“What do you know of him?” Summer asked.

“Not much, I’m afraid. Said he was a writer living in London who was down for a golf holiday. But I vaguely remember him visiting before, must be four or five years ago. I recall letting him into the archives. He’s quite knowledgeable about the Earl. In fact, he was the one who also inquired about Emily.”

Julie and Summer looked at each other knowingly, then Summer stepped back into the pantry.

“Would you like me to call the police?” Aldrich asked.

Julie thought for a moment. “No, I don’t suppose that will be necessary. He has what he came looking for, so I don’t think he’ll be bothering us again. Besides, I’m sure he gave you a phony name and address in London.”

“He’s going to get more than a piece of my mind if he shows up here again,” Aldrich huffed. “You poor dears. Please, come upstairs and have some tea.”

“Thank you, Aldrich. We’ll be right along.”

As Aldrich strutted off, Julie sat down on a Queen Anne bench beside some covered furniture and breathed heavily. Summer exited the pantry a second later, noting a paleness in Julie’s face.

“You all right?” Summer asked.

“Yes. Didn’t want to admit it, but I am a bit claustrophobic. I don’t care to experience that feeling again anytime soon.”

Summer turned and closed the heavy door behind her.

“No need for either of us to set foot in there again,” she said. “Where’s Aldrich?”

“He went upstairs to make us some tea.”

“I hope he can find some cups.”

Julie shook her head with a disappointed grimace.

“I can’t believe it. We had the clue to Kitchener’s death right in our hands and it was plucked away by that thief before we had the chance to figure out what it all meant.”

“Don’t look so depressed. All is not lost,” Summer replied consolingly.

“But we have so little left to go on. We’ll probably never find out the true meaning of the Manifest.”

“To quote Aldrich, poppycock,” Summer replied. “We’ve still got Sally,” she added, holding up the doll.

“What good is that?”

“Well, our friend may have stolen the left leg, but we’ve still got the right.”

She held the flayed doll toward Julie, yanking away a small piece of cotton stuffing. Peering inside, the historian could make out the tip of yet another scroll of paper, this one in the right leg.

She said nothing, her eyes ablaze, as Summer gently worked the object free from the doll’s interior. As Summer laid it on the bench and carefully unrolled it, they could both see that it was not a sheet of parchment or papyrus like the other scroll. Instead, it was simply a typewritten letter, with the heading “University of Cambridge Archaeology Department” emblazoned across the top.

32

“Divers are still down,” Gunn announced.

Standing on the bridge of the Aegean Explorer , he peered through a pair of binoculars at an empty Zodiac tied to a drop line that ran down to the Ottoman shipwreck. Every few seconds, he spotted a dual set of air bubbles breaking the surface a few feet from the buoyed line. Gunn swung the glasses past the Zodiac, refocusing the lenses on the large blue Italian yacht that was stationed close by. He noted curiously that its bow was facing him, which put the yacht perpendicular to the current. A partial glimpse of the rear deck showed some men scurrying about in activity, but Gunn’s view was quickly obscured by the vessel’s superstructure.

“Our nosy friend is still perusing the neighborhood,” he said.

“The Sultana ?” Pitt said, having earlier deciphered the Italian yacht’s name.

“Yes. Looks like she’s crept a little closer to the wreck site.”

Pitt looked up from the chart table, where he was examining some documents.

“He must be rather hard up for entertainment.”

“I can’t figure out what he’s up to,” Gunn said, setting down the binoculars. “He’s got his side thrusters on, positioning himself crossways to the current.”

“Why don’t you call him on the radio and ask him?”

“The captain tried a number of friendly calls last night. Couldn’t even get a response.”

Gunn stepped over and took a seat at the table opposite Pitt. Lying on the table were two tiny ceramic canisters that had been recovered from the wreck site. Pitt was comparing the items with an archaeological assessment of a merchant ship excavated by famed underwater archaeologist George Bass.

“Any luck dating these?” Gunn asked, picking up one of the canisters and eyeing it closely.

“They’re very similar to some pottery found on a merchant ship that sank near Yassi Ada in the fourth century,” Pitt said, showing Gunn a photograph from the report.

“So Al’s Roman crown isn’t a phony?”

“No, it would appear legitimate. We’ve got an Ottoman-era wreck that for some reason is carrying Roman artifacts.”

“A nice find any way you slice it,” Gunn said. “I wonder where the items originated?”

“Dr. Zeibig is assessing some grain samples that were embedded in one of the potsherds, which may indicate the vessel’s point of origin. Of course, if you’d have let us uncover the rest of your monolith, we might already have an answer.”

“Oh no you don’t,” Gunn protested. “That’s my find, and Rod said I could recover it with him on our next dive. You just keep Al away from it. Which reminds me,” he said, looking at his watch. “Iverson and Tang should be back up anytime now.”

“Then I better go rouse Al,” Pitt said, rising from the table. “We’re scheduled for the next dive.”

“I think I saw him napping next to his new toy,” Gunn said.

“Yes, he’s been anxious to test-dive the Bullet .”

As Pitt made his way across the bridge, Gunn gave one last warning.

“Now, remember. You two keep your hands off my monolith,” he cried, waving a finger at Pitt as he departed.

Pitt retrieved a dive bag from his cabin, then stepped to the rear deck of the ship. In the shadow of a white, aerodynamically shaped submersible, he found Giordino napping on a rolled-up wet suit. Pitt’s approaching presence was enough to wake Giordino, and he cocked open a lazy eyelid.

“Time for another trip to my soggy royal yacht?” he asked.

“Yes, King Al. We’ve been assigned to examine grid C-2, which appears to be a ballast mound.”

“Ballast? How am I to add to my jewelry collection from the ballast mound?” Sitting up, he began slipping into his wet suit while Pitt unzipped his dive bag and followed suit. A few minutes later, Gunn came rushing up with a concerned look on his face.

“Dirk, the divers were due up ten minutes ago, but they’ve yet to surface.”

“They might be taking a cautious decompression stop,” Giordino suggested.

Pitt gazed toward the empty Zodiac moored a short distance away. Iverson and Tang, the two men in the water, were both environmental scientists who Pitt knew to be experienced divers.

“We’ll take the chase boat and have a look,” Pitt said. “Give us a hand, Rudi.”

Gunn helped lower a small rigid inflatable that was barely big enough to hold both men and their dive gear. Pitt quickly strapped on his tank, mask, and fins as Giordino started the outboard motor and drove them at full throttle toward the Zodiac. There was no sign of the two divers when they pulled alongside the larger inflatable boat.

The chase boat was still slowing when Pitt rolled over the side and into the water. He quickly swam over to the drop line, then descended alongside the rope. He expected to find the two men hanging on to the line ten or twenty feet beneath the surface in decompression, but they were nowhere to be seen. Pitt cleared his ears as he approached the fifty-foot mark, then kicked harder, pushing to reach the bottom. In the depths below, he could faintly make out the yellow aluminum excavation grid pegged into the sandy bottom. He flicked on an underwater flashlight as he approached the base of the drop line, where the visibility dimmed to a greenish murk.

He briefly searched the perimeter around the anchored line, then swam over the grid, following the length of the shipwreck. He hesitated as he crossed over the fourth grid box, noting that there was a large indentation in the sand where Gunn’s beloved stone monolith had previously rested. Scanning ahead, he spotted a blue object near the ballast pile. Thrusting his fins sharply, he quickly kicked over to the prone figure of one of the divers.

The body was wedged beneath the aluminum grid, with a number of ballast stones rolled onto the chest. A glance into the wide unblinking eyes behind the mask told Pitt that the NUMA scientist named Iverson was quite dead. Pitt searched the man’s equipment and noticed he seemed to be missing his regulator. A few yards away, Pitt spotted it on the seabed, a clean cut in the line indicating that it had been severed.

Pitt noticed a light above him and was thankful to make out the stout figure of Giordino descending upon him. Approaching within a few feet, Giordino motioned toward the body of Iverson. Pitt responded by shaking his head, then held up the severed regulator, showing where it had been cut. Giordino nodded, then pointed toward the stern of the wreck, and Pitt joined him in swimming aft.

They found the body of Tang drifting above the seafloor with a finned foot caught in the grid holding him anchored. He had drowned like Iverson, though he appeared to have flailed more wildly in his last moments of life. His mask, weight belt, and one fin had been torn away, and his severed regulator was visible in the nearby sand. Pitt drew his flashlight to the dead man’s face, revealing a large purple welt on the right cheekbone. The scientist had probably seen what happened to Iverson and tried to defend himself, Pitt thought. Only the assailants had been too powerful or too many. Pitt turned the light to the deep around them, but the waters were empty. The attackers had already returned to the Italian yacht.

Grabbing hold of Tang’s buoyancy compensator, he gave the corpse a tug upward as Giordino motioned that he would retrieve Iverson’s body. Pitt ascended slowly with his dead companion, kicking toward the drop line as he rose. Nearing the surface, he detected the low rumble of engines come to life. As the sound increased in intensity, he rightly figured that it was the yacht, throttling up, as it proceeded to flee the scene.

While Pitt’s hunch was correct, he never envisaged the yacht’s path. Rising to the surface, he realized too late that the engines’ roar had grown significantly louder and that a surface shadow was rapidly approaching. He broke the water alongside the Zodiac and chase boat, looking up to see the imposing hull of the yacht screaming toward him at high speed just twenty feet away. The large blue hull slapped against the surface while a fountain of white water sprayed from its churning propellers off the stern.

In an instant, the yacht burst upon the two small boats, instantly crushing the Zodiac with its battering hull and dicing propellers while batting the small chase boat across the waves like an insect. The demolished Zodiac quickly sank to the bottom as the yacht broke toward the horizon, surging like a bolt of lightning.

In the yacht’s wake, the drop-line buoy slowly found its way back to the surface after being pummeled to the depths. Cut free from its line, it bobbed gently amid a foaming boil of sea that was colored crimson with human blood.

33

Giordino saw the shadow of the yacht pass overhead and surfaced a few yards from the buoy, the body of Iverson still in tow. He manually inflated the dead man’s buoyancy compensator as he watched the mangled remains of the Zodiac sink nearby. In the distance, he spotted the partially deflated chase boat drifting rapidly away with the aid of a light breeze. He quickly scanned the waters around him but saw no sign of Pitt. It was then that he noticed a dark spot in the water near the drifting buoy.

Fearing the worst, he let go of Iverson and swam toward the buoy, intending to submerge and search for Pitt underwater. Reaching the buoy, he felt his stomach drop when he realized the darkened water nearby was created by human blood that pooled bright red. The center of the pool was suddenly disrupted by the rising presence of a wet suit-clad body. The body floated facedown, its head and extremities submerged, concealing its identity. The torso clearly displayed the source of the blood in the water. Sliced and mangled like it had been run over with a lawnmower, the body’s back side was a gruesome mix of shredded flesh and neoprene, mutilated by the yacht’s churning propellers.

Giordino fought back his revulsion and swam hurriedly to the body. Dreading what he would find, he gently grabbed the torso and eased the head out of the water.

It wasn’t Pitt.

He nearly jumped out of his wet suit when he immediately felt a firm tap on his shoulder. Spinning around, he came face-to-face with Pitt, who had surfaced right behind him. Giordino noticed a faint streak of white paint on Pitt’s hood and shoulder.

Spitting out his regulator, Giordino asked, “You okay?”

“Yes, I’m fine,” Pitt replied, though Giordino could see a tint of anger in his friend’s eyes.

“You and Tang were in the way of that freight train?” Giordino asked.

Pitt nodded. “Tang saved my life.”

When he’d surfaced in the path of the speeding yacht, Pitt had just seconds to react. He quickly tucked an arm through Tang’s buoyancy compensator and pulled the dead man to his chest, then leaned back and attempted to submerge. By then, the yacht was already upon them, slapping down hard onto Tang, and Pitt beneath him. Together, they were pummeled beneath the hull until they passed the wildly spinning propellers. Pitt had just been able to keep Tang above him, and the dead man’s body bore the brunt of the slicing blades.

Pitt felt revulsion and anger at having to use the scientist’s body as a human shield, but he knew that he would have otherwise been cut to ribbons.

“They killed him twice today,” Giordino said somberly.

“They…” Pitt muttered, gazing toward the receding profile of the yacht racing toward the horizon. His mind was already churning over the question of who would commit murder over an old shipwreck, and why?

“We better get him out of here before every shark in the Mediterranean shows up for lunch,” Giordino said, grabbing hold of Tang’s arm.

The Aegean Explorer had already weighed anchor and was creeping up to the men in the water. A group of deckhands lowered a crane and quickly hoisted the dead men aboard, then helped pull up Giordino and Pitt. The ship’s captain and doctor scurried to the scene, followed closely by Gunn. The NUMA Deputy Director had a dazed look about him as he held an ice pack to his head.

“They both died in the water,” Pitt said as the doctor kneeled down and quickly examined each man. “Drowned.”

“Both accidental?” the captain asked.

“No,” Pitt said as he stripped off his wet suit. He pointed to a severed air hose extending from Iverson’s dive tank.

“Somebody cut their air lines.”

“The same people that tried to iron us with the bottom of their rich Italian hull,” Giordino added.

“I knew they were lying when they came aboard,” Captain Kenfield said, shaking his head. “But I certainly didn’t suspect they would resort to murder.”

Pitt noticed a lump on Gunn’s head that he was rubbing with the ice pack.

“What happened to you?”

Gunn grimaced as he lowered the pack.

“While you were down, the yacht sent over a small launch filled with armed thugs. Claimed they were with the Turkish Ministry of Culture.”

“Policing the high seas in a luxury yacht?” Giordino asked skeptically.

“I asked for their identification, but was shown the stock of a rifle instead,” Gunn said, repositioning the ice pack to the knot on his head.

“They told us in no uncertain terms that we had no authority to be working on a shipwreck of the Ottoman Empire,” the captain said.

“Interesting, that they knew what the wreck was,” Giordino noted.

“What else did they want?” Pitt asked.

“They demanded all of the artifacts that we had removed from the wreck,” Kenfield said. “I told them to get off my ship, but that didn’t go over too well. They marched Rudi and me onto the bridge wing and threatened to kill us. The crew had no choice but to acquiesce.”

“Did they take everything?” Giordino asked.

Gunn nodded. “They cleared out the lab, then beat it back to their yacht just before you guys surfaced.”

“But not before ordering us off the site and threatening us to stay off the radio,” Kenfield added.

“I hate to tell you they didn’t just take all our artifacts, Rudi,” Pitt said. “They also dug up your monolith from the wreck site.”

“That’s the least of our losses,” he said grimly. “They’ve got Zeibig.”

The captain nodded. “They asked who was in charge of the wreck excavation. Dr. Zeibig happened to be in the lab, and they forced him to go with them.”

“After what they did to Iverson and Tang, we know they won’t hesitate to kill him, too,” Giordino said quietly.

“Have you tried contacting anyone yet?” Pitt asked the captain.

“I just got off the satellite phone with the Turkish Ministry of Culture. They confirmed that they possess no yachts and have no policing resources assigned to this region. I also contacted the Turkish Coast Guard. Unfortunately, they don’t have any vessels in the immediate area, either. They have directed us to their base at Izmir to file a report.”

“In the meantime, the bad guys are able to disappear completely with Zeibig,” Pitt said.

“I’m afraid there isn’t much else we can do,” the captain said. “That yacht is at least twice as fast as the Aegean Explorer . There’s no way we could try pursuing them with any hopes of catching up. And once in port, we can alert our own government authorities as well.”

Giordino loudly cleared his throat as he stepped forward. “I know something that could keep pace with that yacht.”

He turned toward Pitt and gave him a confident wink.

“You sure she’s ready?” Pitt asked.

“She’s as ready,” Giordino said, “as a hungry alligator in a duck pond.”

Previously prepared for launch, it took only a few minutes to check that all systems were operational before Giordino’s new submersible was lowered over the side. Seated at side-by-side controls, Giordino performed a quick safety check while Pitt radioed the bridge of the Aegean Explorer .

“Explorer , please give me a current fix on our target,” he asked.

“Radar shows she’s holding on a steady course of zero-one-two degrees,” replied the voice of Rudi Gunn. “She’s now approximately ten miles north of us.”

“Roger, Explorer . Please follow at speed while we go try to catch the fox. Bullet out.”

Pitt was wary of the notion of playing chase in a submersible. Normally reliant on battery power for propulsion, research submersibles were historically slow, plodding vehicles designed for limited range. But the Bullet had broken the rules of submersible development.

Named for the vessel’s speed rather than shape, the Bullet was based on a design by Marion Hyper-Subs. The NUMA prototype mated a steel submersible cabin to a high-performance powerboat hull. As a submersible, the Bullet was capable of diving to depths of a thousand feet. On the surface, separate propulsion motors in a pressurized engine compartment along with a 525-gallon fuel tank allowed the Bullet to travel long distances at high speed. The design permitted the sub to reach remote dive sites without the need for an accompanying support vessel.

“Ready to engage surface drive,” Giordino announced, then reached over and pressed the starter buttons for a pair of turbocharged diesel engines.

A deep rumble echoed behind them as the twin 500-horsepower motors churned to life. Giordino visually checked several gauges on the instrument panel, then turned to Pitt.

“We’re ready to roll.”

“Let’s see what she can do,” Pitt replied, easing back the throttle controls.

They were immediately pushed back into their seats as the powerful diesels shoved the submersible ahead. In just a few seconds, the vessel was riding high on its sleek white hull, racing across the waves. Pitt felt the sub pitch and roll through the choppy seas, but as he gained a feel for its stability he gently added more throttle. With the control cabin perched near the forward edge of the vessel, he felt like they were flying over the water.

“Thirty-four knots,” he said, eyeing a navigation screen readout. “Not too shabby.”

Giordino nodded with a wide smile. “I figure she can do well over forty on a flat sea.”

They blasted north across the Aegean Sea, bounding for nearly twenty minutes before they spotted a speck on the horizon. They pursued the yacht for another hour, drawing slowly closer as they passed north of the Dardanelles, weaving around a pair of large oil tankers sailing from the Black Sea. The large Turkish island of Gökçeada soon loomed before them, and the yacht altered course to the east of the island.

Pitt followed on a zigzag course so as not to appear to be directly following the yacht, then eased back on the throttles when they approached within a few miles. The yacht slowly turned away from Gökçeada and angled toward the Turkish mainland, hugging close to the coastline as it gradually reduced speed. Pitt turned and followed on a delayed parallel tack, holding well out to sea while staying within visible range of the luxury boat. Skimming low in the water, from a distance the Bullet appeared to be just a small pleasure craft out for an afternoon cruise.

The yacht traveled several more miles up the Turkish west coast, then suddenly slowed and veered into a semiprotected cove. As they sped past offshore, Pitt and Giordino could make out a few buildings and a dock with a small freighter moored alongside. Pitt held their course until they were a mile or two north of the cove and well out of sight, before dropping his own throttle to an idle.

“Seems like we’ve got two choices,” Giordino said. “We can put ashore somewhere and make for the cove on foot. Or we can wait until dark and take the Bullet into the cove through the basement.”

Pitt eyed the craggy coastline a half mile away.

“I’m not sure there are a whole lot of good spots to run aground around here,” he said. “Plus, if Zeibig or anyone else should get injured, hiking back out could be problematic.”

“Agreed. Then into the cove it is.”

Pitt glanced at his orange-faced Doxa dive watch. “Dusk will be here in about an hour. We can start heading in then.”

The hour passed quickly. Pitt radioed the Aegean Explorer with their position and instructed Rudi to bring the research vessel to a holding spot ten miles south of the cove. Giordino used the time to retrieve a digital marine chart of the coastal area and program a submerged route into the center of the cove. Once underwater, an autopilot system would drive the submersible to the specified location using computer-enhanced dead reckoning.

As darkness approached, Pitt guided the Bullet to within a half mile of the cove entrance, then shut off the surface diesels. Giordino sealed and pressurized the engine compartment, then opened a pair of hull gates that allowed water to be pumped into the ballast chambers. The bow chamber flooded first, and the submarine was soon diving beneath the surface.

Pitt deployed a set of dive fins, then engaged the electric thrusters for propulsion. He fought the urge to turn on the vessel’s exterior floodlights as the watery world beyond the acrylic bubble faded to black. He eased the sub forward at low speed until Giordino told him to release the controls.

“The autopilot will do the driving from here,” he said.

“You sure that thing won’t impale us on a submerged rock or obstruction?” Pitt asked.

“We’re equipped with high-frequency sonar that reads out a hundred meters in front of us. The autopilot will make course corrections for minor obstacles or give us a warning if something substantial is blocking our course.”

“Kind of takes the fun out of flying blind,” Pitt remarked.

While Pitt had no aversion to computers, he was old-school when it came to piloting. He could never be completely comfortable letting a computer operate the controls. There was a nuanced feel to the pilot’s controls, both in the air and underwater, which even the best computers could not sense. Or so he told himself. With his hands free, he carefully noted their progress, standing ready to take the controls at a moment’s notice.

The Bullet submerged to a depth of thirty feet, then automatically engaged its electronic thrusters. The submersible moved slowly along its programmed path, compensating for a light current as it eased into the entrance of the cove. Giordino noted that the sonar screen remained clear as they crept to the cove’s center. A light flashed on the monitor, and the electric motors ceased whirring as they reached their designated end point.

“That concludes the automated portion of the program,” Giordino announced.

Pitt’s hands were already on the controls.

“Let’s go see if we can find a parking space,” he replied.

Purging the ballast chambers in tiny increments, they slowly ascended until just the top few inches of the cabin’s acrylic bubble broke the surface. Overhead, they could see that the sky was in its last vestiges of twilight while the water around them appeared black. Giordino shut off all interior lights and unnecessary display panels, then goosed the ballast tanks a final time to elevate them a few more inches.

Rising out of their seats, the two men gazed at the shoreline. They could see that the circular cove was populated on the northern shoreline by only three buildings. The structures fronted a wooden pier that stretched perpendicular to shore. The blue Italian yacht was clearly visible, docked to the right side of the pier behind a small workboat. On the opposite side of the pier was a large rusty freighter. A wheeled crane on the pier was busy loading cargo onto the freighter under the blaze of some fixed overhead lights.

“You think Rod is still aboard the yacht?” Giordino asked.

“I think we should assume so, for starters. What do you say we double-park alongside her and take a look? They shouldn’t be expecting us.”

“I say surprise is a good thing. Let’s move.”

Pitt took a course bearing, then submerged the Bullet and crept toward the dockyard. Giordino activated the sonar system, helping guide them to within a few yards of the yacht. Easing gently to the surface again, they arose in its shadow just off its port beam. Pitt started to pull alongside the yacht when he noticed a commotion on the stern deck.

A trio of armed men came bursting from the interior and turned toward the dock. A second later, a fourth man came into view, being pushed across the deck by the others.

“It’s Zeibig,” Pitt remarked, catching a brief glimpse of the scientist’s face.

From their low position in the water, they could just barely see Zeibig, who had his hands tied behind his back. Two of the gunmen roughly hoisted him up onto the dock, then prodded him toward shore. Pitt noticed one of the gunmen return to the boat and take up a casual position on the stern.

“Scratch one yacht,” Pitt said quietly. “I think it’s time to go invisible.”

Giordino had already opened the ballast chambers, and the Bullet quickly vanished into the inky depths. They reconnoitered the cove once more, then crept in and surfaced just behind the stern of the freighter, tucking in right against its transom. It was an optimally concealed spot, obscured from shore by the freighter while mostly hidden from the pier by an adjacent stack of fuel drums. Giordino quietly climbed out and attached a mooring line to the pier, Pitt shutting down the power systems and joining him.

“Won’t be a pretty scene if that big boy fires up his engines,” Giordino said, eyeing the submersible floating just above the freighter’s propellers.

“At least we’ve got his license plate number,” Pitt replied, looking up at the ship’s stern. In broad white letters was painted the ship’s name, Osmanli Yildiz , which meant “Ottoman Star.”

The two men crept along the pier until they reached the shadow of a large generator sitting across from the freighter’s forward hold. Ahead of them was a handful of dockworkers occupied with loading large wooden crates into the freighter with the high crane. The blue yacht, with its armed gunman still pacing the deck, was moored just a few feet in front of it. Giordino gazed ruefully up at the bright overhead lights that illuminated the path ahead.

“I’m not so sure it’s going to be easy to pass Go and collect our two hundred dollars from here,” he said.

Pitt nodded, peering around the generator to survey the dockyard. He could see a small two-story stone building onshore flanked by a pair of prefabricated warehouses. The interior of the right-hand warehouse was brightly illuminated, highlighting a pair of forklifts that hauled crates out of an open bay door for the crane to transfer. In contrast, the left-hand warehouse appeared dark, with no visible activity around it.

Pitt turned his attention to the stone building in the center. A bright porch light illuminated its front façade, clearly revealing a gunman standing guard outside the front door.

“The stone building in the middle,” he whispered to Giordino. “That’s where Zeibig has to be.”

He peered again, spotting the headlights of a car that was approaching from the surrounding hillside. The vehicle bounded down a steep gravel road, then turned onto the dock and pulled up in front of the stone building. Pitt was surprised to recognize the car as a late-model Jaguar sedan. A well-dressed man and woman climbed out of the car and entered the building.

“I think we need to make our play pretty quickly,” Pitt whispered.

“Any thoughts on how to get off this pier?” Giordino asked, sitting perched on the side of a ladder tilted against the generator.

Pitt looked around, then gazed at Giordino for a moment, a small grin spreading across his face.

“Al,” he said, “I think you’re sitting on it.”

34

Nobody paid any attention to the two men dressed in faded turquoise jumpsuits walking down the pier with their heads hanging down and carrying an aluminum ladder. They were obviously a pair of crewmen from the freighter returning the borrowed equipment to shore. Only they were members of the crew that nobody had ever seen before.

The men working on the dock were busy securing a crate marked “Textiles” to the crane and paid no heed as Pitt and Giordino passed by. Pitt had noticed the guard on the yacht glance at them momentarily before turning away.

“Which way do we go, boss?” Giordino asked as he stepped off the pier, holding the front end of the ladder.

The illuminated warehouse was nearly in front of them, its open bay door, just a few yards to their right.

“I say we avoid the crowds and go left,” Pitt replied. “Let’s shoot for the other warehouse.”

They turned and walked along the waterfront, passing the narrow stone building. Pitt guessed it had originally been built as a fisherman’s house but now served as an administrative office for the dock facility. Unlike the gunman on the yacht, the man guarding the front door eyed them suspiciously as they passed by the courtyard in front of the house. Giordino attempted to trivialize their presence by casually whistling “Yankee Doodle Dandy” as they passed, figuring the Turkish gunman would be unfamiliar with the tune.

They soon reached the second warehouse, a darkened building with its large waterfront drop-down door sealed shut. Giordino tried the handle on a small entry door alongside and found it unlocked. Without hesitating, he led Pitt inside, where they deposited the ladder against a work desk illuminated by a flickering overhead light. The rest of the building’s interior was empty, save for some dusty crates in the corner and a large sealed container near the rear loading dock.

“That was easy enough,” Pitt said, “but I don’t think waltzing in the front door of the building next door looks as promising.”

“No, that guard watched us like a hawk. Maybe there’s a back door?”

Pitt nodded. “Let’s go see.”

Picking up a wooden mallet he noticed lying on the desk, he walked across the warehouse with Giordino. Adjacent to the loading dock was a small entry door, which they slipped through. They quietly made their way to the back side of the stone building only to find it had no rear or side doors. Pitt approached one of the lower-level windows and tried to peek in, but the blinds had been tightly drawn. He stepped away and studied the second-floor windows, then tiptoed back to the warehouse to confer with Giordino.

“Looks like we’re back to the front door,” Giordino said.

“Actually, I was thinking of trying an upstairs entry,” Pitt replied.

“Upstairs?”

Pitt motioned toward the ladder. “Might as well put that thing to use. The windows were dark upstairs, but they didn’t appear to have the blinds drawn. If you can create a distraction, I could climb up and enter through one of the windows. We can try to surprise them from above.”

“Like I said, surprise is a good thing. I’ll go get the ladder while you work on that distraction.”

As Giordino padded across the warehouse, Pitt stuck his head out the back door and searched for a means to create a diversion. An option appeared in the form of a flatbed truck parked behind the opposite warehouse. He ducked back inside as Giordino approached with the ladder, but then he suddenly looked past him curiously.

“What’s up?” Giordino asked.

“Look at this,” Pitt said, stepping closer to the steel shipping container sitting nearby.

It was painted in a desert-khaki-camouflage scheme, but it was some black-stenciled lettering that had caught Pitt’s attention. Several points around the container were marked, in English, “Danger — High Explosives.” Beneath the warning was stenciled “Department of the U.S. Army.”

“What the heck would a container of Army explosives be doing here?” Giordino asked.

“Search me. But I’d be willing to bet the Army doesn’t know about it.”

Pitt walked to the front of the container and slid across the dead bolt, then swung open the heavy steel door. Inside were dozens of small wooden crates with similar warnings stenciled on their sides, each tightly secured to metal shelves. Near the doorway, one of the crates had been pried open. Inside were several small plastic containers the size of bricks.

Pitt pulled one of the containers out and peeled off the plastic lid. Inside was a small rectangular block of a compressed clear powdery substance.

“Plastic explosives?” Giordino asked.

“It doesn’t look like C-4, but it must be something similar to it. There’s enough here to blow this warehouse to the moon and back.”

“You think that stuff might be helpful in creating a distraction?” Giordino asked, raising an eyebrow in a sly arch.

“I know so,” Pitt replied, resealing the container and handing it carefully to his partner. “There’s a truck parked in back of the other warehouse. See if you can make it go boom.”

“And you?”

Pitt held up the hammer. “I’ll be knocking on the door upstairs.”

35

Zeibig had not feared for his life. He was certainly distressed at being abducted at gunpoint, handcuffed, and locked in a cabin on a luxury yacht. Reaching the cove, he had his doubts as he was roughly herded ashore and into the old stone building, where he was directed to sit in an open conference room. His captors, all tall, pale-skinned men with hardened dark eyes, were certainly menacing enough. Yet they had not yet proven to be abusive. His feelings changed when a car pulled up in front and an austere Turkish couple emerged and entered the building.

Zeibig noted the guards suddenly assume a stiff, deferential posture as the visitors stepped inside. The archaeologist could hear them discussing the freighter and its cargo with a dock foreman for several minutes, surprised that the woman seemed to be making most of the demands. Finishing their shipping business, the couple strolled into the conference room, where the man glared at Zeibig with angry contempt.

“So, you are the one responsible for stealing the artifacts of Suleiman the Magnificent,” Ozden Celik hissed, a vein throbbing out from his temple.

Dressed in an expensive suit, he looked to Zeibig to be a successful businessman. But the red-eyed anger in the man bordered on psychotic.

“We were simply conducting a preliminary site investigation under the auspices of the Istanbul Archaeology Museum,” Zeibig replied. “We are required to turn over all recovered artifacts to the state, which we were intending to do when we returned to Istanbul in two weeks.”

“And who gave the Archaeology Museum ownership of the wreck?” Celik asked with a furl of his lips.

“That you’ll have to take up with the Turkish Cultural Minister,” Zeibig replied.

Celik ignored the comment as he moved to the conference table with Maria at his side. Spread across the mahogany surface were several dozen artifacts that the NUMA divers had retrieved from the wreck site. Zeibig watched them peruse the items, then he suddenly became wide-eyed himself at the sight of Gunn’s monolith lying at the far end of the table. Curiosity caused him to crane his neck, but it was too far away to make out the inscription.

“To what age have you dated this shipwreck?” Maria asked. She was dressed in dark slacks and a plum-colored sweater but unstylish walking shoes.

“Some coins given to the museum indicate that the wreck sank in approximately 1570,” Zeibig said.

“Is it an Ottoman vessel?”

“The materials and construction techniques are consistent with coastal merchant vessels of the eastern Mediterranean in that era. That’s as much as we know at the moment.”

Celik carefully reviewed the collection of artifacts, admiring fragments of four-hundred-year-old ceramic plates and bowls. With the experienced eye of a collector, he knew that the wreck had been accurately dated, confirmed by the coins now in his possession. Then he approached the monolith.

“What is this?” he asked Zeibig, pointing to the stone.

Zeibig shook his head. “It was removed from the wreck site by your men.”

Celik carefully studied the flat-sided stone, noticing a Latin inscription on its surface.

“Roman garbage,” he muttered, then examined the remaining artifacts before stepping back over to Zeibig.

“You will never again plunder that which belongs to the Ottoman Empire,” he said, his dark eyes staring madly into Zeibig’s pupils. His hand slipped into his coat pocket and retrieved a thin leather cord. He twirled it in front of Zeibig’s face for a moment, then slowly pulled it taut. Celik moved as if stepping away from Zeibig, then turned and whipped the strap over the archaeologist’s head as he whirled behind him. The cord immediately constricted around Zeibig’s neck, and he was jerked to his feet by a firm upward yank.

Zeibig twisted and tried to drive his elbows into Celik, but a guard stepped forward and grabbed his cuffed wrists, pulling his arms forward as the cord tightened around his neck. Zeibig could feel the cord bite into his thorax, and he struggled for air while the blood pounded in his ears. He heard a loud pop and wondered if the sound was his eardrum bursting.

Celik heard the sound as well but ignored it, his eyes ablaze with bloodlust. Then a second blast erupted nearby, shaking the entire building with the accompanying force of a thundering boom. Celik nearly lost his balance as the floor vibrated and window glass shattered upstairs. He instinctively released his grip on the leather garrote.

“Go see what that was,” he barked at Maria.

She nodded and quickly followed the foreman out the front door to investigate. Celik immediately tightened his grip on the leather strap as the guard remained stationary, holding firm to Zeibig’s wrists.

Zeibig had managed to suck in a few breaths of air during the interlude and renewed his efforts to break free. But Celik jabbed a shoulder into his back, turning as he pulled on the leather strap and nearly pulling the archaeologist off his feet.

Turning red and feeling his head pounding as he gasped for air, Zeibig gazed into the eyes of the guard, who smiled back at him sadistically. But then a puzzled look crossed the guard’s face. Zeibig heard a muffled thump, then felt the leather strap suddenly slip free from his neck.

The guard let go of Zeibig’s wrists and quickly fumbled inside his jacket. In the fuzzy, oxygen-deprived recesses of Zeibig’s brain, he knew the man was reaching for a gun. With a sudden impulse that felt like it was happening in slow motion, Zeibig leaned forward and grabbed the guard’s sleeve. The guard hastily tried to shake the hand free before finally shoving the archaeologist away with his free arm. As he gripped his handgun in a shoulder holster, an object whizzed by and struck him in the face. He staggered a bit until a second blow hit home and he crumpled unconscious to the floor.

Zeibig turned with blurry vision to see a man standing beside him, holding a wooden mallet in his hand, a grim look of satisfaction on his face. Coughing and sputtering for air, Zeibig smiled as his senses revived and he could see that it was Pitt.

“You, my friend,” he said, wheezing out the words in pain, “have arrived like a breath of fresh air.”

36

Nearly the entire dock crew had flocked to the rear of the warehouse to watch the smoldering remains of the truck light up the night sky. Giordino’s handiwork could not have produced a better diversion. And it was all so simple.

Sneaking to the side of the truck, he’d quietly opened the cab door and peeked inside. The interior reeked of cigarette smoke, with dozens of butts littering the floor amid smashed cans of soda pop. A notebook, some tools, and the bony remains of roasted chicken wrapped in brown paper sat on the bench seat. But it was a thin, ragged sweatshirt stuffed under the seat that caught Giordino’s eye.

Giordino grabbed the shirt and easily ripped off a sleeve, then searched the dashboard until he found the cigarette lighter and pushed the knob in. He then made his way to the rear of the truck and unscrewed the gas cap. He carefully dangled the sleeve in the tank until it was partially saturated with gasoline, then pulled it up and laid the dry end over the side of the gas tank. He left the fuel-soaked end just inside the filler tube and rested the cap on top of it to seal in the vapors. When he heard a popping sound, he scurried to the cab and retrieved the cigarette lighter, then hurriedly ignited the dry end of the sleeve before the lighter turned cold.

He barely had time to run to the rear of the stone building before the small flame crept up the sleeve to the fuel-soaked section of the cloth. The flames quickly ran to the filler, igniting the vapors in an explosion that blew apart the fuel tank.

But it was the charge of plastic explosives, positioned on top of the fuel tank, which did the real damage a second later. Even Giordino was surprised by the massive blast that blew the truck entirely off the ground and incinerated its back end.

Pitt had done his best to coordinate his break-in with the sound of the blast. Perched on the ladder outside one of the darkened second-story windows, he shattered the glass with his mallet as the building itself shook before him. He quickly climbed in, finding himself in the guest bedroom of the comfortably appointed living quarters. He was sneaking down the stairs when he heard Zeibig’s struggling gasps and sprang with his mallet to lay down Celik and the guard.

Regaining his strength, Zeibig stood and looked down at the unconscious Celik, who had a large bump on the side of his head.

“Is he dead?”

“No, just napping,” Pitt replied, noticing the prone figure beginning to stir. “I suggest we get out of here before they wake up.”

Pitt grabbed Zeibig by the arm and started to lead him toward the front door, but the archaeologist suddenly stopped in his tracks.

“Wait… the stele,” he said, stepping over to Gunn’s stone slab.

Pitt gazed at the excavated stone, which stood nearly four feet high.

“Too big to take as a souvenir, Rod,” he said, urging their departure.

“Let me study the inscription for just a moment,” Zeibig pleaded.

Rubbing the surface with his fingers, he quickly read the Latin several times, pressing himself to memorize the words. Satisfied that he had it down, he looked at Pitt with a weak smile.

“Okay, got it.”

Pitt led the way to the front entrance and flung open the door only to be met by an attractive woman with dark hair on her way in. Pitt knew he had seen her face before, but the evening clothes she wore obscured the context. Maria, however, recognized Pitt immediately.

“Where did you come from?” she demanded.

The harsh voice immediately came back to Pitt as the one that had threatened him in the Yerebatan Sarnici cistern in Istanbul. He was startled by her sudden appearance here but then realized it all made sense. The Topkapi thieves had ransacked Ruppé’s office, which had led them to the wreck site.

“I’m from the Topkapi vice squad,” Pitt said in a wry tone.

“Then you will die together with your friend,” she snapped in reply.

Looking past them, she caught a glimpse of her brother and the guard lying on the floor of the conference room. A twinge of fear and anger crossed her brow, and she quickly backpedaled across the porch and turned toward the warehouse to yell for help. But her words were never heard.

A burly arm appeared from the shadows and wrapped around her waist, joined by a hand that gripped tightly over her mouth. The fiery woman kicked and flailed, but she was like a child’s doll in the powerful grip of Al Giordino.

He carried her back up to the doorway and into the foyer, as he nodded pleasantly at Zeibig.

“Where would you like this one?” he asked, turning to Pitt.

“In a fetid Turkish prison cell,” Pitt replied. “But I guess we’ll have to make do with a closet for the moment.”

Pitt located a small broom closet off the stairwell and opened the door, and Giordino deposited Maria inside. Zeibig brought over a desk chair, which Pitt wedged beneath the handle after Giordino slammed the door shut. A deluge of muffled voices and angry kicks immediately ensued from within.

“That one’s a devil,” Giordino remarked.

“More than you know,” Pitt replied. “Let’s not give her a second chance at us.”

The three men scurried out of the building and onto the darkened waterfront. The burning truck still had everyone’s attention, though a few dockworkers returned to loading the freighter. The armed guards were nervously securing the area around the blast as the trio quickly made their way onto the pier. Pitt found a discarded gunnysack and draped it over Zeibig’s hands to disguise the fact that he was still wearing handcuffs.

They moved by the extended crane, stepping as quickly as they dared without drawing attention. Keeping close to the freighter, they turned a shoulder toward the yacht and the idling workboat as they moved past, Pitt and Giordino shielding Zeibig as best they could. They relaxed slightly as they distanced themselves from the brightly illuminated section of the pier and saw no workers ahead of them. The shoreline remained quiet, and Pitt figured they were home free as they approached the stern of the freighter.

“Next stop, the Aegean Explorer ,” Giordino muttered quietly.

But the hopeful feelings vanished as they reached the end of the pier. Stepping to the edge, Pitt and Giordino looked down at the water, then scanned the area around them in disbelief.

The Bullet was nowhere to be seen.

37

Celik came to slowly, with a pounding ache in his head and a loud thumping in his ears. Rising unsteadily first to his knees and then to his feet, he shook off the fog and realized the thumping originated well beyond his ear canal. Detecting his sister’s muffled voice, he stepped to the closet and kicked away the chair. Maria practically flew out, her face glowing red with anger.

Taking one look at the dazed appearance of her brother, she quickly calmed down.

“Ozden, are you all right?”

He rubbed the bump on his head with a slight wince.

“Yes,” he replied coarsely. “Tell me what happened.”

“It was that American from the research vessel again. He and another man set off an explosion in one of the trucks, then came in here and freed the archaeologist. They must have followed the yacht here.”

“Where are my Janissaries?” he asked, weaving slightly back and forth.

Maria pointed to the prone guard lying beneath the conference table.

“He must have been attacked with you. The others are investigating the explosion.”

She took Celik’s arm and led him to a leather chair, then poured him a glass of water.

“You had better rest. I will alert the others. They cannot have gotten far.”

“Bring me their heads,” he spat with effort, then leaned back in the chair and closed his eyes.

Maria stepped onto the porch as two of the guards approached.

“The fire has been extinguished,” reported one of the men.

“Intruders have attacked us and taken the captive. Search the dock and waterfront immediately,” she ordered, “then launch the yacht and scour the cove. They must have a boat with them.”

As the men ran off, Maria stared into the blackened cove, sensing that the intruders were still close at hand. A thin smile crossed her lips, her anger dissipating as she contemplated her revenge.

38

At that particular moment, the men from NUMA had neither boat nor submersible.

Giordino peered into the water, trying to determine if the Bullet had sunk at her mooring. Then he stepped over to examine a black iron bollard he had used to tie the craft up. There was no sign of the mooring line.

“I’m sure I tied her securely,” he said.

“Then someone sank her or moved her,” Pitt replied. He peered down the dock a moment in quiet thought.

“That small workboat. Wasn’t she ahead of the yacht when we went ashore?”

“Yes, you’re right. She’s idling in back of the yacht now. We couldn’t see much of her on the way back because of the generator. Perhaps she towed the Bullet somewhere.”

A female voice was suddenly detected yelling loudly on the shore, followed by the shouts of several men. Pitt peeked around the stern of the freighter and saw several gunmen running toward the pier.

“Looks like the party is over,” he said, glancing toward the water. “I think it’s time we think about getting wet.”

Zeibig held up his cuffed wrists.

“It’s not that I’m afraid of the water, mind you,” he said with a crooked grin. “But I don’t particularly relish the idea of drowning per se .”

Giordino put a hand on his shoulder.

“Right this way, my friend, for some dry patio seating.”

Giordino led Zeibig to the wall of empty fuel drums stacked along the edge of the pier. He quickly rolled several drums aside, hoisting them like beer cans, until creating a small recessed space.

“Pier-side seating for one,” he said, waving a hand toward it.

Zeibig took a seat on the pier, scrunching his legs together.

“Can I order a Manhattan while I’m waiting?” he asked.

“Just as soon as the entertainment ends,” Giordino replied, wedging a drum against the archaeologist. “Don’t you go anywhere until we get back,” he added, then stacked several more drums around Zeibig until he was fully concealed.

“Not to worry,” Zeibig’s muffled voice echoed in reply.

Giordino quickly rearranged a few more drums, then turned to Pitt, who was gazing down the pier. At the far end, a pair of guards could be seen heading across the waterfront toward the pier.

“I think we better evaporate now,” Pitt said, stepping to the end of the pier, where a welded-steel ladder trailed down into the water.

“Right behind you,” Giordino whispered, and together the two men scrambled down the ladder, sliding quietly into the dark water.

They wasted no time working their way back toward shore, swimming between the pier’s support pilings while safely out of view from above. Pitt was already formulating an escape plan but faced a dilemma. Stealing a boat seemed their best hope, and they had a choice between the workboat and the yacht. The workboat would be easier to commandeer, but the faster yacht could easily run them down. He braced himself for the daunting task of capturing the yacht without weapons when Giordino tapped him on the shoulder. He stopped and turned to find his partner treading water alongside.

“The Bullet ,” Giordino whispered. Even in the darkness, Pitt could see the white teeth from his partner’s broad smile.

Gazing ahead through the pilings, Pitt looked at the workboat and the yacht just beyond. But sitting low in the water behind the workboat, he now noticed the crest of the submersible. They had walked right by it when they crossed the pier. Obscured by the generator, it had gone unseen when the men were trying to conceal Zeibig from any probing eyes aboard the yacht.

The two men quietly worked their way closer, observing that the submersible’s mooring line was attached to the stern of the workboat. It had indeed been the suspicious guard on the back of the yacht who had strolled down the pier after Pitt and Giordino walked by and discovered the strange vessel astern of the freighter. Enlisting the aid of the workboat’s captain, they had towed it alongside the yacht in order to get a better look at it under the bright dock lights.

Pitt and Giordino swam forward until they were even with the Bullet . They could see the armed gunman standing on the stern deck of the workboat and another man in its wheelhouse.

“I think our best bet is to keep the towline and pull her into the cove to submerge,” Pitt whispered. A sudden fray of shouting came from shore as the Janissaries began extending their search down the pier.

“You jump on the Bullet and prep her for diving,” Pitt said, not wishing to waste any more time. “I’ll see what I can do with the workboat.”

“You’ll need some help with that armed guard,” Giordino said with concern.

“Blow him a kiss when I get aboard.”

Then Pitt took a deep breath and disappeared under the water.

39

The guard couldn’t quite make out the commotion on shore, but he could see that some of his fellow Janissaries were headed down the pier. He had already tried radioing his discovery of the submersible to his commander, not knowing that the man was still lying unconscious in the stone building. He contemplated returning to the yacht but thought it better to safeguard the submersible from the stern of the workboat. He stood there, gazing toward shore, when he was startled by a voice calling from the water.

“Pardon me, boy, is that the Chattanooga Choo Choo?” wafted a gruff voice.

The guard immediately stepped to the stern rail and looked down at the submersible. A soggy Giordino stood on the Bullet ’s frame, one hand placed on the acrylic bubble for support while the other waved cheerily at the startled gunman. He quickly jerked his weapon up and started to shout at Giordino when he detected the sound of some squishy footsteps approaching from behind.

Too late, he turned to find Pitt barreling into him like he was a blocking dummy. Pitt kept his elbows high, striking the man on the side, just beneath the shoulder. With legs pinned against the rail, the guard had no way to balance himself from the blow. With a warbled grunt, he flipped over the side, splashing hard into the water.

“Company,” Giordino shouted to Pitt as he released the hatch and scurried inside the submersible.

Pitt turned to see two men walking down the dock, gazing at him with alarm. He ignored them, turning his attention to the boat’s small wheelhouse. A middle-aged man with a chubby face and sunbaked skin stumbled out at the sound of the splash, then froze at the sight of Pitt on the deck.

“Arouk?” he called, but the guard was just gurgling to the surface.

Pitt’s eyes were already scanning the stern deck. Clamped to the gunwale a few feet away was a six-foot-long gaff. He quickly lunged for it, gripped the base, and whipped the barbed iron hook toward the workboat’s captain.

“Over the side,” Pitt barked, waving the hook toward the water.

Seeing the determined look in Pitt’s eye, the captain saw no reason to hesitate. With his hands raised, he calmly stepped to the rail and threw his legs over the side, slipping heavily into the water. On the other side of the boat, the guard named Arouk had surfaced and begun shouting to his cohorts down the pier.

Pitt didn’t wait around to decipher the conversation. Dropping the gaff, he raced into the wheelhouse and yanked the workboat’s throttle to its stops. The boat lurched forward, then faltered as the trailing towline drew taut with the submersible. The boat gradually regained momentum and accelerated at what seemed like a snail’s pace to Pitt. He glanced at the pier in time to see the two guards step to the edge and train their weapons on him. His reflexes still quick, he dove to the floor an instant before the guns opened fire.

The wheelhouse exploded in a hail of splintered wood and shattered glass as a pair of extended bursts ripped through the structure. Shaking away a blanket of splinters and shards, Pitt crawled to the helm and reached up to the wheel, pulling it three-quarters of a turn to starboard.

With just a few yards to spare, the workboat was quickly closing on the yacht moored directly ahead. While Pitt could have turned hard into the cove, he knew doing so would leave Giordino and the Bullet exposed to sustained gunfire. In the confusion, he had no idea whether Giordino had even entered the submersible before the shooting began. He could only hope to deflect attention until they could reach a safer haven out in the cove.

Spotting a seat cushion on the pilot’s chair, he ripped it away and crawled to the blasted remnants of the port-side window. Tossing it into the air, he succeeded in drawing the gunmen’s attention again as they finished reloading their weapons. Another volley of gunfire shredded the exterior of the wheelhouse with vicious effect. Inside, Pitt clung to the deck with the seat cushion over his head as more splinters and shards sprayed about the cabin. The bullets kept flying until the gunmen emptied their clips for a second time.

When the firing ceased, Pitt raised his head to see that the workboat was pulling alongside the yacht. He crawled to the wheel and eased it to starboard, then held it steady. As the boat approached the bow of the yacht, he kneeled and cranked the wheel hard over.

The old boat was now chugging along at eight knots as its bow turned sharply away from the yacht and the pier. Pitt could hear more yelling, but his move had bought a few precious seconds of safety as the yacht obscured the aim of the gunmen. They would now have to either board the yacht or step down the pier to get a clear shot, by which time Pitt hoped to be out of accurate range.

He stood for a moment and peeked out the back of the wheelhouse, spotting the Bullet bounding merrily behind. A dull glow from some of the interior electronics told him that Giordino had made his way inside and was powering up the submersible. He looked beyond it to the yacht, where he noticed a bubble of diesel exhaust erupt from the stern waterline. Pitt had banked on escaping in the Bullet before the yacht could get under way, but his opponent was jumping the gun. To make matters worse, he spotted the two gunmen racing across the yacht’s stern deck with their guns at the ready.

Pitt ducked down and tweaked the wheel, angling the workboat toward the center of the cove while taking the Bullet out of the direct line of fire. The rattling of machine guns preceded a spray of bullets, most of which scattered harmlessly into the transom. Pitt willed the boat to go faster, but the old tub had peaked out with the submersible in tow.

When Pitt guessed they were a hundred yards from the pier, he suddenly cranked the wheel hard to port, then eased back on the throttle. He held the wheel well over until the boat had drifted completely around, and the yacht rose ahead off the bow. As the boat bobbed in the cove under idle, Pitt stepped to the stern and quickly untied the towline to the Bullet . Tossing it toward the submersible, he leaned over the rail and yelled at Giordino.

“Wait for me here,” he said, motioning with his hands for him to stay put.

Giordino nodded, then held a thumbs-up against the acrylic bubble where Pitt could see it. Pitt turned and ran back to the wheelhouse as more gunfire opened up from shore, now peppering the workboat’s bow. Reaching the wheelhouse, Pitt jammed open the throttle and adjusted the wheel until he was bearing for the end of the pier.

“Stay where you are, big girl,” he muttered aloud, eyeing the luxury boat.

Free of the submersible, the workboat squeezed out another few knots of speed. Pitt kept the bow aimed toward the deep end of the pier, not wanting to give away his hand just yet. To the gunmen on the yacht, it appeared as if the boat was stuck in a large counterclockwise circle. Pitt held the ruse until the boat was passing parallel to the yacht some fifty yards away, then he turned the wheel sharply once more.

Aligning the bow till it was aimed amidships of the yacht, he straightened the wheel, then wedged a life jacket into the bottom spokes to hold it steady. Ignoring a fresh spray of gunfire that raked the bow, he sprinted out of the wheelhouse and onto the stern deck, where he dove headfirst over the rail.

The yacht’s captain was the first to realize they were about to get rammed and he screamed for help to release the dock lines. A crewman appeared on deck and scrambled onto the pier, quickly releasing the bow and spring lines. One of the gunmen tucked away his rifle and crossed the deck to the stern line. Rather than hopping onto the pier to release a shortly secured line, he attempted to unravel the opposite end, which was knotted tightly around a bollard on the yacht’s stern.

The captain saw the bow and spring lines tossed free, then turned in horror to see the workboat bearing down less than twenty yards away. Panicking in self-preservation, he jumped to the helm and pressed down the twin throttles, hoping that the stern line was also clear.

But it wasn’t.

The yacht’s big diesel engines bellowed as the twin props dug into the water and thrust the vessel forward. But it surged only a few feet before the stern line grew taut, anchoring it to the pier. The guard tumbled backward with a scream, nearly losing several fingers as the line snapped tight.

The water churned and boiled off the stern as the yacht fought to break loose. Then suddenly the line slipped free, the crewman on the pier bravely unraveling the dock line and ducking for cover. The yacht burst forth like a rodeo bronco, churning ahead in a spray of foam. The captain glanced out the bridge window, then clutched the helm with white knuckles, realizing the attempted escape had failed.

The unmanned workboat plowed into the yacht, striking the starboard flank just ahead of the stern. The boat’s blunt, heavy bow easily shattered the fiberglass shell of the yacht, mashing its opposite side into the pier pilings. The sound of grinding metal filled the air as the starboard driveline was crushed, mangling a score of fuel and hydraulic lines and high-spinning gears. The combined momentum swung the yacht’s stern to the pier, where its spinning port propeller was knocked off by a piling. The yacht gamely lurched forward as a final gasp, breaking free of both the workboat and pier before its motors fell silent and it drifted aimlessly toward shore.

Pitt didn’t bother watching the collision but instead swam hard underwater, surfacing only momentarily for a quick gulp of air. He pushed himself until his lungs ached, and his stroke count indicated he was close to where he had cut the Bullet loose. Easing to the surface, he gazed toward the pier while regaining his breath. The success of the attack was clearly evident. He could see the yacht drifting helplessly toward shore while the workboat, its motor still throbbing at high revolutions, pounded repeatedly into the pier as its mangled bow sank lower and lower into the water. Numerous people raced along the pier, surveying the scene and yelling in confusion. Pitt couldn’t help but grin when his ears detected a female voice shouting amid the fray.

Secure for the moment, he turned and paddled into the cove, his eyes searching the surface of the water. He took a quick bearing from shore to convince himself he was in the right location, then slowly surveyed the waters around him. In every direction, all he could see was small, dark lapping waves, and he suddenly felt very alone.

For the second time that night, the Bullet had disappeared without him.

40

Rod Zeibig grimaced when he heard the first burst of automatic gunfire. Any hopes of a stealthy getaway seemed to vanish with the metallic clatter of spent shell casings spewing across the wooden pier. Of greater concern was the safety of Pitt and Giordino, who were clearly the target of the barrage.

Zeibig was surprised to hear the gunfire continue for several minutes unabated. Curiosity finally overcoming his fear, he leaned over the edge of the pier and peeked around the stack of fuel drums. Near the opposite end of the dock, he could just make out the superstructure of the yacht and a number of men yelling to shore. On the pier, he noticed a crewman furiously engaged with one of the mooring lines.

Zeibig ducked back into his hiding nook as more gunfire resumed. Seconds later, the gunfire ceased, and then a loud crash shook the pier, jiggling the fuel drums around him. More shouts erupted in the aftermath, but the gunfire remained silent. With a melancholy conjecture, the archaeologist quietly wondered if Pitt and Giordino had died in a last rebellious act.

Staring blankly into the cove while contemplating his own fate, he noticed a sudden disturbance in the water before him. A dull greenish glow appeared faintly in the depths, which gradually grew brighter. Zeibig looked on, unbelieving, as the transparent bubble of the Bullet quietly broke the surface directly in front of him. Seated at the controls was the burly figure of Al Giordino, an unlit cigar dangling from his lips.

The archaeologist didn’t wait for a formal invitation to board but hastily lowered himself down a mussel-covered piling and into the water before the submersible finished surfacing. Swimming to its stern, Zeibig climbed up on one of the exterior ballast tanks, then crept to the rear hatch. Giordino immediately opened the hatch and ushered Zeibig inside, quickly resealing it behind him.

“Boy, am I glad to see you,” Zeibig said, squeezing into the co-pilot’s seat while trying not to drip water on any of the electronics.

“I wasn’t relishing a swim home myself,” Giordino replied, rushing to blow the ballast tanks and submerge the vessel as quickly as possible. Craning his neck upward, he scanned the pier around the fuel drums for sight of any observers.

“No one has bothered to expend much time at this end of the pier,” Zeibig reported, watching the water rise up and over the top of the acrylic bubble. He then turned to Giordino with trepidation in his voice.

“I heard a big crash, and then the shooting stopped. Dirk?”

Giordino nodded. “He stole the workboat that had towed the Bullet to the other side of the pier. He cut me loose, then set off after the moored yacht.”

“I think he was successful,” Zeibig replied in a morose tone.

Eyeing a depth-gauge reading of thirty feet, Giordino halted the ballast pumps, then gently backed the submersible away from the pier. Reversing thrust, he angled into the cove, then gave Zeibig a reassuring smile.

“Knowing Dirk, I don’t think he rode the boat to the end of the line. As a matter of fact, I’d wager a month’s salary that he’s swimming laps in the middle of the cove this very moment.”

Zeibig’s eyes immediately perked up. “But how will we ever find him?”

Giordino affectionately patted the pilot console. “We’ll trust the penetrating peepers of the Bullet ,” he said.

With his own eyes glued to a navigation screen, Giordino guided the submersible along a meandering track he had recorded at the point where Pitt had cut him free from the workboat. The dead reckoning system wouldn’t return him to an exact position the way GPS would, but it would be very close.

Giordino followed the trail at a depth of thirty feet, gradually rising to just ten feet as he approached the original starting point. He then eased back on the propulsion controls until they hovered in a stationary position.

“Are we out of range of their gunmen?” Zeibig asked.

Giordino shook his head. “We were lucky not to take any fire earlier. They were all focused on stopping the boat. I don’t think I’d like to give them a second chance.”

He reached over and toggled on several switches beside an overhead monitor. “Let’s hope the boss hasn’t strayed too close to shore.”

A grainy blank image appeared on the monitor as it displayed the readings from the submersible’s sonar system. Giordino dialed up the system’s frequency, which produced a more detailed image while reducing the range of the scan. Both men studied the screen intently, seeing only a flat display of mottled shadows. Giordino then feathered a side thruster, gently rotating the submersible in a clockwise direction. There was little change in the image as the forward-looking sensor scanned the center of the cove. Then Giordino noticed a small smudge at the top of the screen.

“There’s something small about a hundred feet away,” he said.

“Is it Dirk?” Zeibig asked.

“If it’s not a porpoise, a kayak, or a million other potential items of floating debris,” he replied.

He adjusted the thrusters and guided the submersible toward the target, watching it grow in size as they moved closer. When the shadow began to run off the top of the sonar screen, Giordino knew they were almost directly beneath the target.

“Time to take a look,” he said, then gently purged the ballast tanks.

Pitt was floating on his back, conserving energy from his swim from the workboat and several minutes of treading water, when he felt a slight disruption in the water beneath him. He turned over to see the dim interior lights of the Bullet , rising fast just a few feet away. He swam closer, positioning himself directly above the acrylic bubble as it broke to the surface. Giordino was quick to cut the ascent, allowing only the top few inches of the Bullet to bob above the water.

Pitt lay prone on the bubble, spreading his arms wide for support. Beneath him, he could see Giordino looking up at him with a relieved smile, then motioning to inquire if he was okay. Pitt pressed his thumb and forefinger together and held it against the acrylic, then pointed toward the center of the cove. Giordino nodded in reply, then gestured for him to hang on.

Hugging the acrylic with his arms and legs, Pitt held tight as the submersible began moving forward. Giordino eased the thrusters ahead slowly until they were creeping along at just a few knots. Pitt felt like he was waterskiing on his belly. The small waves sloshed around his face, and he had to strain his neck skyward every few seconds to grab a breath of fresh air. When the dock lights receded to a safe distance, Pitt rapped his knuckles as hard as he could on the acrylic. The forward movement halted immediately, and a few seconds later the submersible rose fully to the surface amid a small surge of bubbles.

Pitt slid off the acrylic nose and onto the Bullet ’s frame, then stepped to the rear hatch. He hesitated a moment, turning a last gaze toward shore. In the distance, he could just make out the workboat alongside the pier, sinking heavily by its bow. Nearby, some men in a Zodiac were trying to run a line from the pier to the yacht before it drifted aground. With some measure of relief, Pitt could see that hunting for the submersible appeared low on the shore crew’s priorities. The hatch then popped open beside him, and Giordino welcomed him inside.

“Thanks for coming back to get me,” Pitt said with a sideways grin.

“King Al leaves no man behind,” Giordino puffed. “I trust you kept our shore hosts duly occupied?”

“Put a nasty scratch in their yacht, which should keep them out of commission for the moment,” he replied. “Nevertheless, since you have already retrieved the good Dr. Zeibig I see no point in loitering.”

He followed Giordino to the pilot seats, where they quickly submerged the vessel. Silently, they crept out of the cove at a safe depth, ascending again once they were a half mile offshore. Giordino reconfigured the Bullet for surface running, and to Zeibig’s astonishment they were soon charging across the black sea at better than thirty knots.

A quick radio call to the Aegean Explorer confirmed that she was standing off the southeast tip of Gökçeada. Thirty minutes later, the lights of the research vessel came into clear view upon the horizon. As they drew closer, Pitt and Giordino saw that a second, larger vessel was positioned on the opposite side of the Explorer . Giordino slowly eased back the Bullet ’s throttles as it approached, guiding it alongside the starboard flank of the NUMA ship and an overhanging crane. Pitt recognized the second vessel as a Turkish Coast Guard frigate, which held station a short distance off the Explorer ’s port beam.

“Looks like the cavalry has finally arrived,” Pitt said.

“I’ll gladly point the way to the guys in the black hats,” Zeibig replied.

A pair of divers appeared in a Zodiac and attached a lift cable to the Bullet , then the sleek submersible was hoisted aboard. Rudi Gunn stood on the stern deck and helped secure the sub before stepping to the rear hatch. His downturned face brightened when he saw Zeibig climb out ahead of Pitt and Giordino.

“Rod, are you all right?” he asked, helping the archaeologist step to the deck.

“Yes, thanks to Dirk and Al. I could use a bit of help in losing these, however,” he added, holding up his handcuffed wrists.

“The shipboard machine shop should be able to manage that,” Gunn replied.

“Al’s got the location of the yacht and its crew,” Pitt said. “A little base of operations up the coast. We can pass the coordinates to the Turkish Coast Guard or run up there with them in the Explorer .”

“I’m afraid that’s not in the cards,” Gunn replied, shaking his head. “We’ve been ordered to proceed to Çanakkale, a port town on the Dardanelles, as soon as we got you safely aboard.”

He motioned toward the Turkish frigate, which had inched closer when the submersible appeared. Pitt gazed over and noticed for the first time that a row of armed sailors lined the frigate’s rail, their weapons pointed at the NUMA research ship.

“What’s with the threatening posture?” he asked. “We’ve had two crewmen murdered and another kidnapped. Didn’t you radio the Coast Guard earlier?”

“I did,” Gunn replied testily. “But that’s not why they’re here. It seems somebody else called them first.”

“Then why the show of arms?”

“Because,” Gunn said, his eyes red with anger, “we are under arrest for looting a submerged cultural resource.”

41

Dusk had arrived in the Eastern Mediterranean, casting a pale rosy tint to the sky as the Ottoman Star broached the entrance to the Port of Beirut, just north of the Lebanese capital. The old frigate had made a swift voyage from the Aegean, reaching the port city in less than forty-eight hours. Circling past a modern new containership terminal, the freighter turned west through the port complex, steaming in slowly to dock at an older general-cargo quay.

Despite the late hour, many of the local dockworkers stopped and stared as the freighter was berthed, smiling at the odd spectacle on her deck. Carefully wedged beside the forward hatch and resting on a hastily constructed wooden cradle sat the damaged Italian yacht. A pair of workmen in coveralls was busy cutting and patching the large gash in its hull inflicted by the now sunken workboat.

Maria sat quietly on one side of the ship’s bridge, silently watching the captain deal with the small parade of port, customs, and trade representatives who filed aboard in search of paperwork and money. Only when the local textile distributor complained about his short shipment did she intervene.

“We were forced to accelerate our departure,” she said bluntly. “You’ll receive the difference with the next shipment.”

The browbeaten distributor nodded, then left quietly, not wishing to tangle with the fiery woman who owned the ship.

The dockyard cranes were quickly engaged, and soon metal containers filled with Turkish textiles and produce were being rapidly unloaded from the ship. Maria stuck to her perch on the bridge, watching the work with disinterested eyes. Only when she spotted a dilapidated Toyota truck pull up and park alongside the gangway did she sit upright and stiffen. She turned to one of the Janissary guards that her brother had sent to accompany her on the voyage.

“A man I am to meet has just pulled up on the dock. Please search him carefully, then escort him to my cabin,” she ordered.

The Janissary nodded, then stepped briskly off the bridge. He was mildly surprised to find the driver of the truck was an Arab attired in scruffy peasant clothes and wearing a ragged keffiyeh wrapped around his head. His dark eyes glared with intensity, however, deflecting attention from the long scar on the right side of his jaw, which he had acquired in a knife fight while a teen. The guard duly searched him, then showed him aboard, escorting him to Maria’s large and stylishly appointed cabin.

The Turkish woman sized him up quickly as she offered him a seat, then dismissed the Janissary from her cabin.

“Thank you for coming here to meet me, Zakkar. If that is indeed your name,” she added.

The Arab smiled thinly. “You may call me Zakkar. Or any other name, if it so pleases you.”

“Your talents have come highly recommended.”

“Perhaps that is why so few can afford me,” he replied, removing the dirty keffiyeh and tossing it onto an adjacent chair. Seeing that his hair was trimmed in a neat Western cut, Maria realized that the grubby outfit was simply a disguise. Given a shave and a suit, he could easily pass as a successful businessman, she thought, not knowing that he often did.

“You have the initial payment?” he asked.

Maria rose and retrieved a leather satchel from a cabinet drawer.

“Twenty-five percent of the total, as we agreed. Payment is in euros. The balance will be wired into a Lebanese bank account, according to your instructions.”

She stepped closer to Zakkar but clung to the satchel.

“The security of this operation must be unquestioned,” she said. “No one is to be involved who is less than completely trustworthy.”

“I would not be alive today if conditions were otherwise,” he replied coldly. He pointed at the satchel. “My men are willing to die for the right price.”

“That will not be necessary,” she said, handing him the satchel.

As he peered inside at its contents, Maria stepped to a bureau and retrieved several rolled-up charts.

“Are you familiar with Jerusalem?” she asked, laying the charts across a coffee table.

“I operate in Israel a good portion of the time. It is Jerusalem where I am to transport the explosives?”

“Yes. Twenty-five kilos of HMX.”

Zakkar raised his brow at the mention of the plastic explosives. “Impressive,” he murmured.

“I will require your assistance in placing the explosives,” she said. “There may be some excavation work required.”

“Of course. That is not a problem.”

She unrolled the first chart, an antiquated map labeled, in Turkish, “Underground Water Routes of Ancient Jerusalem.” Placing it aside, she displayed an enlarged satellite photograph of Jerusalem’s walled Old City. She traced a finger across the eastern face of the wall to the hillside beyond, which descended into the Kidron Valley. Her finger froze atop a large Muslim cemetery perched on the hill, its individual white gravestones visible in the photo.

“I will meet you here, at this cemetery, at exactly eleven p.m., two nights from now,” she said.

Zakkar studied the photo, noting the nearby cross streets, which were overlaid on the image. Once they were committed to memory, he looked up at Maria with a quizzical gaze.

“You will be meeting us there?” he asked.

“Yes. The ship will be sailing from here to Haifa.” She paused, then added firmly, “I will be leading the operation.”

The Arab nearly scoffed at the notion of a woman directing him on an assignment, but then he considered the handsome payoff he would receive for the indignity.

“I will be there with the explosives,” he promised.

She moved to her bunk and pulled out a pair of wooden foot-lockers stored underneath. The heavy lockers had metal handles affixed to each end and were stenciled with the words “Medical Supplies,” written in Hebrew.

“Here is the HMX. I will have my guards carry it to the dock.”

She stepped to the Arab mercenary and looked him hard in the eye.

“One last thing. I want no cowardice over our objective.”

Zakkar smiled. “As long as it is in Israel, I do not care what or whom you destroy.”

He turned and opened the door. “Till Jerusalem. May Allah be with you.”

“And also with you,” Maria muttered, but the Arab had already slid down the corridor, the Janissary following close behind.

After the explosives were transported to the Arab’s truck, Maria sat down and studied the photograph of Jerusalem once more. From the antiquated cemetery, she eyed the glistening target positioned just up the hill.

We’ll shake up the world this time, she thought to herself, before carefully returning the photograph and charts to a locked cabinet.

42

Rudi Gunn paced the bridge like a nervous cat. Though the bump on his head had long since receded, a purple bruise still blemished his temple. Every few steps, he would stop and scan the weathered dock of Çanakkale for signs of relief. Finding none, he would shake his head and resume pacing.

“This is crazy. We’re on our third day of impoundment. When are we going to be released?”

Pitt looked up from the chart table, where he was studying a map of the Turkish coast with Captain Kenfield.

“Our consulate in Istanbul has assured me that our release is imminent. The necessary paperwork is promised to be meandering through the local bureaucracy even as we speak.”

“The whole situation is outrageous,” Gunn complained. “We’re placed in lockdown while the killers of Tang and Iverson are allowed to slip free.”

Pitt couldn’t argue with him, but he did understand the dilemma. Long before the Aegean Explorer had contacted the Turkish Coast Guard, the marine authority had been alerted by two earlier radio calls. The first reported that the NUMA ship was illegally salvaging a historic Turkish shipwreck protected by the Cultural Ministry. The second call reported two divers killed during the salvage operation. The Turks refused to identify the source of the calls but rightfully acted on them in advance of the Aegean Explorer ’s request.

Once the NUMA ship was escorted to the port city of Çanakkale and impounded, the case was turned over to the local police, further compounding the confusion. Pitt immediately phoned Dr. Ruppé in Istanbul to document their approved presence on the wreck site, then he phoned his wife, Loren. She quickly badgered the State Department to push for their immediate release even after the police had searched the ship and, finding no artifacts, slowly realized there was no basis for arrest.

Rod Zeibig ducked his head through the doorway and broke the air of exasperation.

“You guys got a minute?”

“Sure,” Gunn replied. “We’re just busy here pulling our hair out of our heads one strand at a time.”

Zeibig stepped in with a folder in his hand and headed to the chart table.

“Maybe this will perk you up. I’ve got some information on your stone monolith.”

“Apparently, it’s not mine anymore,” Gunn mused.

“Did you manage to remember your Latin inscription?” Pitt asked, sliding over to allow room for Gunn and Zeibig to sit down.

“Yes. I actually wrote it down right when we got back to the ship but put it aside during all the commotion. I finally examined it this morning and performed a formal translation.”

“Tell me it’s the gravestone of Alexander the Great,” Gunn said wishfully.

“That would be wrong on two accounts, I’m afraid. The stone tablet is not a grave marker per se but a memorial. And there’s no mention of Alexander.”

He opened the folder, revealing a handwritten page of Latin that he had jotted down after viewing the monolith. The next page contained a typewritten translation, which he handed to Gunn. He read it silently at first, then aloud.

“Centurion Plautius,” Gunn repeated. “It’s a memorial to a Roman soldier?”

“Yes,” Zeibig replied, “which adds veracity to Al’s crown being of Roman origin, a gift from the Emperor Constantine.”

“A Scholae Palatinae loyal to Helena,” Pitt said. “The Scholae Palatinae were the elite security force of the later Roman emperors, as I recall, similar to the Praetorian Guard. The reference to Helena must be Helena Augustus.”

“That’s right,” Zeibig agreed. “The mother of Constantine I, who ruled in the early fourth century. Helena lived from 248 to 330 A.D., so the stone and the crown would presumably date to that era.”

“Any idea who this Traianus is?” Gunn asked.

“A corniculary is a military officer, typically a deputy position. I searched some Roman databases for a Traianus but came up empty.”

“I guess the big mystery still remains: Where did the crown and monolith originate and why were they in an Ottoman wreck?”

He gazed past Zeibig, perking up at the sight of two men in blue uniforms who were making their way down the quay toward the ship.

“Well, well, the local constables have returned,” he said. “I hope that’s our parole papers they are carrying with them.”

Captain Kenfield met the officers on the dock and escorted them aboard, where Pitt and Gunn joined them in the wardroom.

“I have your impoundment release here,” the elder officer stated in clear English. He was a round-faced man with drooping ears and a thick black mustache.

“Your government was very persuasive,” he added with a thin smile. “You are free to go.”

“Where does the investigation of my murdered crewmen stand?” Kenfield inquired.

“We have reopened the case as a potential homicide. At present, however, we have no suspects.”

“What about that yacht, the Sultana ?” Pitt asked.

“Yes, we saw the boat nearly cut Dirk to shreds,” Gunn pressed.

“We were able to trace that vessel to its owner, who informs us that you must be mistaken,” the officer replied. “The Sultana is on a charter cruise off Lebanon. We received e-mail photos this morning of the vessel moored in the Port of Beirut.”

“The Sultana was heavily damaged,” Pitt said. “There is no way she could have sailed to Lebanon.”

The officer’s assistant opened a briefcase and pulled out several printed photographs, which he handed to Pitt. The photos showed bow and port-side views of the blue yacht moored at a dusty facility. Pitt didn’t fail to notice that none of the photos showed the starboard flank, where he had rammed the yacht. The last photo showed a close-up of a Lebanese daily newspaper with the present date, the yacht appearing in the background. Gunn leaned over Pitt and studied the photos.

“That sure looks like the same boat,” he said reluctantly. He could only nod when Pitt showed him the photo of a life ring that clearly showed the yacht’s name. Pitt simply nodded, finding no evidence that the photos had been doctored.

“It doesn’t belie the fact that one of our scientists was also kidnapped and taken to the yacht’s facility up the coast,” Pitt said.

“Yes, our department contacted the local police chief at Kirte, who sent a man to investigate the dock facility you described.” He turned and nodded to his assistant, who retrieved a thick packet from his case and handed it to his supervisor.

“You may have a copy of the report that was filed in Kirte. I’ve taken the liberty of having it translated into English for you,” the officer said, handing it to Pitt while giving him an apologetic look. “The investigator reported that not only were the ships you described absent from the harbor, there were in fact no vessels at all at the facility.”

“They certainly covered their tracks quickly,” Gunn remarked.

“The facility records indicate a large freighter similar to the one you described was at the dock earlier in the day, taking on a shipment of textiles. However, the records indicate that the vessel left harbor at least eight hours before your alleged arrival at the facility.”

The officer looked at Pitt with a sympathetic gaze.

“I’m sorry there is little else we can do at the moment, pending additional evidence,” he added.

“I realize this has turned into a rather confusing incident,” Pitt said, suppressing his frustration. “I wonder, though, if you can tell me who owns the shipping facility near Kirte?”

“It is a privately held company called Anatolia Exports. Their contact information is in the report.” He looked at Pitt with a pensive gaze. “If there is any additional service I can provide, please let me know.”

“Thank you for your assistance,” Pitt replied tersely.

As the police officers left the boat, Gunn shook his head.

“Unbelievable. Two murders and a kidnapping, and nobody is at fault but us.”

“It’s a raw deal, all right,” Captain Kenfield said.

“Only because we’re playing against a stacked deck,” Pitt said. “Anatolia Exports apparently bought off the Kirte police. I think our resident constable recognized that.”

“I suppose the whole situation was a bit embarrassing for them, so perhaps they are just trying to save face,” Kenfield said.

“They should be more concerned with doing their job,” Gunn swore.

“I would have thought they’d be jumping through hoops after you told them that you spotted the woman from the Topkapi theft,” Kenfield said to Pitt.

Pitt shook his head. “I didn’t tell them anything about her.”

“Why not?” Gunn asked incredulously.

“I didn’t want to endanger the ship anymore while we’re in Turkish waters. We’ve seen firsthand what they’re capable of doing, whoever ‘they’ are. Plus, I had a sneaking suspicion it would go nowhere with the local police.”

“You’re probably right about that,” Kenfield said.

“But we just can’t let them walk away,” Gunn protested.

“No,” Pitt agreed with a determined shake of the head. “And we won’t.”

The lines had been cast and the Aegean Explorer was inching away from the dock when a dilapidated yellow taxi came roaring into view. The rusty vehicle skidded to a stop at the water’s edge, the rear door flew open, and a tall, slender woman jumped out.

Pitt was standing on the bridge when he spotted his daughter running along the dock.

“It’s Summer,” he shouted to the captain. “Hold the boat.”

Pitt ran down to the main deck, ducking when a large duffel bag came flying through the air and landed at his feet. A second later, a thin pair of hands appeared on the side rail, followed by a bushel of red hair. Summer then swung her body over the side, landing on her feet on the forward deck. Pitt approached, holding her bag, and gave her a clenching hug.

“You know we were coming back to get you,” he said with a laugh.

Realizing that the ship had reversed power and was returning to the dock, Summer gave her father a sheepish look.

“Sorry,” she said, still catching her breath. “When I phoned the ship from London, Rudi told me you’d probably be here for another day or two. But when the taxi neared the dock, I saw you pulling away and panicked. I really didn’t want to miss the boat.”

Pitt turned and waved up to the bridge, indicating it was safe to depart. Then he casually escorted Summer to her cabin.

“I wasn’t expecting to see you for another few days,” he said.

“I took an earlier flight from London and figured it would be easier to catch you here in Çanakkale coming from Istanbul.” Her face turned somber as she said, “I heard about your shipwreck… and what happened to Tang and Iverson.”

“We’ve had our share of trouble and excitement,” he replied as they entered her cabin and he placed her bag on the bunk. “Why don’t we go grab a coffee in the wardroom, and I’ll tell you all about it.”

“I’d like that, Dad. Then I can tell you all about what I’ve been up to in England.”

“Don’t tell me you’ve got a mystery of your own?” he asked, smiling.

Summer gave her father an earnest gaze, then replied, “One bigger than you could ever imagine.”