Crescent Dawn Page 7

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

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

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

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

  “I shall not forget you!” she shrieked.

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

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

  “You all right?”

  “Yes,” she said. “Are they gone?”

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

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

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

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

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

  “Did you give her the bag?”

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

  “Where did you hide it?”

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

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

  6

  ANOTHER CUP OF TEA, SHEIKH?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “But you are not like them?”

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

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

  “Mufti Battal and I are outraged.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  Ozden Aktan Celik nodded in reply.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  Celik slowly cooled but still sought an explanation.

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

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

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

  “I don’t have any other information.”

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

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

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

  Maria nodded, a thin smile crossing her lips.

  7

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “Any apprehensions?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

  Sam quickly skimmed the article.

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

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

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