The Solomon Effect

32

The ship-or what was left of it-had been dragged a quarter of the way out of the water and up onto the beach. Someone had made the token gesture of casting booms around the worksite, but a spreading sheen of oil and debris fouled the water that lapped a nearby sandy beach. A haze hung over the site, the pungent smoke from old fires mingling with the fumes from a droning diesel engine.

The ship’s superstructure had already been removed. Now, men with blowtorches were cutting into the sides of the hull. Two huge 150-ton cranes loomed nearby. One stood idle, but as they watched, the second crane rattled into action, lifting a slice of the hull and swinging it toward the beach. The din was horrendous, the hiss of the blowtorches punctuated by the reverberations of a sledgehammer at work someplace out of sight within the bowels of the ship. Jax could see one man wearing an orange hard hat. The rest were bareheaded, many stripped to the waist, their work-hardened bodies browned by the sun and smudged with black grease and carbon and gleaming with sweat.

The office was in a battered construction trailer set on a weedy patch of high ground. Beyond it spread a vast open dump site where half a dozen barefoot kids were scrambling around, scavenging for anything they might be able to sell. Jax was turning toward the trailer when October touched his arm.

“I think that might be our Mr. Erkan, there,” she said, nodding to where a balding, middle-aged businessman in an exquisitely tailored Italian suit, white shirt, and tie was wading in the dirty surf beside the idle crane. A passel of shouting, gesturing workmen splashed around him. “Something must be wrong.”

Jax squinted against the gleam of sunlight reflecting off the oily water, his gaze on the silent crane. “Looks like one of the cables broke.”

Switching directions, they crossed the dirty shoreline past a bizarre assortment of refuse that ranged from sinks and copper piping to rusty metal bunks and old filing cabinets. White and brown clumps of what looked like asbestos were everywhere. As they approached, the man in the expensive suit swung to face them.

“Merhabe,” called October from the water’s edge.

Kemal Erkan was not in a good mood. Letting loose a stream of incomprehensible-to Jax-Turkish illustrated by energetically waving arms, he waded toward them, fine navy Italian wool dragging in the dirty salt water.

October answered him with a fluency that seemed to take the man by surprise. They jabbered back and forth, Erkan breaking off to shoot a glance at Jax, along with an obvious question. Who is this guy?

Jax caught his name in the reply.

Kemal Erkan said to him in heavily accented English, “You don’t speak Turkish?”

“No.”

“Then we will speak English.” He nodded toward the idle crane. “One of the cables broke, dropping a load of steel and nearly toppling the damned thing over. I’m afraid it might have put a strain on the tower. You have five minutes. Why did you wish to see me?”

Jax and October exchanged glances. Jax said, “I wanted to talk to you about a business arrangement you had with Jasha Baklanov.”

Kemal Erkan turned to walk with them along the dirty beach, away from the ship. “Which one? Jasha and I have been doing business for more than twenty years. He’s a good salvage operator.”

Jax wondered how the captain of a salvage ship all the way up in Kaliningrad got to be on such good terms with the owner of a Turkish shipbreakers yard, but all he said was, “Did you know he’s dead?”

The animation in the man’s swarthy, fleshy face slowly collapsed. “Dead? But…when did this happen?”

October said, “Saturday. Someone murdered the Yalena’s entire crew.”

Erkan stood very still. A gaunt, smoke-blackened man walked past, carrying a load of pipes on his shoulder. Erkan didn’t even turn his head.

Jax said, “When was the last time you talked to him?”

Erkan seemed to gather himself together. “Jasha?” He shrugged. “Last week. Maybe the week before. I don’t know. Why?”

“What can you tell us about the World War II U-boat he was salvaging?”

Erkan cast a glance at the U.S. Air Force officer waiting in the distance beside his car. “A German submarine? I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Jax narrowed his eyes against the sun and gazed out over the milky, oil-fouled water. “That’s the problem with modern technology, you know. It makes it so hard to keep things private. In the last two days, you’ve left three messages on Baklanov’s voice mail. And you sent him a fax.”

The Turk’s head jerked up and back as he let out a hissing noise that sounded like sssk. “You’ll have to excuse me,” he said, turning back toward the ship. “I have work to do.”

Jax fell into step beside him. “What was on that U-boat that was so valuable? It wasn’t just the steel Baklanov wanted, was it?”

The Turk swung to face him again. “Since I don’t know anything about this submarine, how could I know about its cargo?” He gestured toward the idle crane, the Rolex watch on his wrist shining in the hot sun. “I have a serious situation here that I must deal with. You’ll have to excuse me.” He nodded to Tobie. “Miss Guinness.”

Jax stopped at the water’s edge. He was wearing a four-hundred-dollar pair of Forzieri handmade Italian leather loafers. No way was he getting those suckers wet. “If you change your mind, I’ll be at Pasaport Quay,” he called after the Turk. “Just don’t wait too long.”

Erkan waded deeper.

Jax raised his voice over the reverberations of hammers striking steel and the throb of the diesel engine. “Think about this: whatever was on that U-boat cost your friend and his crew their lives. Baklanov was involved with some seriously scary people. And when you’re dealing with people like that, even a little bit of knowledge can be a dangerous thing.”

“Erkan obviously doesn’t know anything,” said Lowenstein, thrusting a piece of pita bread in his mouth and chewing heartily.

They were eating meze at an outdoor café near Pasaport Quay, looking out over the wide sweep of the Gulf of Izmir. The sun sparkled on an achingly blue sea, the salty breeze blowing off the water was fresh, and Captain Lowenstein was still trying to hit on October.

Jax raised his Perrier to his lips and drank deeply. “He knows.”

Lowenstein’s sandy eyebrows went up in two contemptuous arcs. “So why aren’t you doing something?”

“I am.”

“Really? What?”

“I’m waiting for Erkan to change his mind.”

“I can’t believe you.”

“Got a better idea?”

Lowenstein leaned back and grunted in disgust, just as a passing waiter in a white dinner jacket discreetly slipped Jax a note.

Turning his back on Jax, Lowenstein said to October, “So where exactly are you stationed?”

“The Algiers Support Facility, in New Orleans.”

“Really? That’s fascinating.”

Quietly amused, Jax glanced down at scribbled writing. MEET ME AT 3:00 AT THE AGORA. COME ALONE.

Lowenstein said, “What do you do there?”

Before October could come up with an answer, Jax said, “How about you, Captain? Surely you have more important things to do than babysit a couple of people from Washington. Maybe go help the Turks bomb the Kurds or something?”

Lowenstein shifted his frosty blue stare back to Jax. “Right now my job is making sure you don’t kill anyone on my turf.”

Jax glanced at his watch. It was already a quarter past two.

He was aware of October staring at him in that still way she had. He met her gaze. He’d have sworn no one saw that adroit delivery of Kamil Erkan’s message. But she must have, because she suddenly gave Lowenstein a wide smile and said, “Walk out on the quay with me, will you?”

The Captain’s face broke into a grin that fell as he threw an uncertain glance at Jax.

Jax leaned back in his seat and yawned. “Don’t look at me. I’ve got a great view of the bay from right here.”

Lowenstein hesitated, torn.

“We won’t be long,” she said, cupping her hand beneath the Captain’s elbow and drawing him up with her.

Jax would have sworn she was a woman without an ounce of subterfuge or feminine guile. But as he watched her walk away with the Captain, he realized that in that, he had erred.