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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  8

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “Do you think I really have a chance?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “Nothing, my master. Nothing at all.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

  9

  THE U.S. DIRECTOR OF NATIONAL INTELLIGENCE SAT quietly through his weekly staff briefing on Eurasian and Middle Eastern affairs. A taciturn retired Army general named Braxton, he was the President’s chief intelligence funnel for the Defense Department, Homeland Security, the CIA, and a dozen other agencies responsible for protecting the nation’s security.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “The meaning being?”

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

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

  “You sure it was HMX?” he asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “What do the Turks think?” Braxton asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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