Sadik looked up then. Alexa was surprised by the trepidation in his eyes. Jackson straightened at her side.
‘You and I both know the history and legends about secret societies from the time of the Egyptian dynasties through the antiquities and beyond, so I won’t bore you with a lecture on the subject,’ Sadik continued solemnly. ‘As you’re well aware, there have been many conspiracy theories involving ancient secret orders thought to have influenced world events over the last century. Some of these cabals or secret societies, such as the Illuminati, have been accused of wanting to establish a New World Order, where the entire planet would come under the rule of a single, authoritarian government consisting of the members of a powerful elite.’ He stopped at this point, as if to gather his thoughts. ‘What has become evident from my observation of general events since I entered academia is that one such secret order has been coming to the fore in ways that the others have not been able to achieve.’
‘Surely the press would have been all over this if that were the case,’ said Jackson. ‘We all know they like nothing better than a good conspiracy theory.’
Sadik nodded briefly. ‘You’re right. And there have been articles in newspapers—not just in this country but in many others, including Europe and the States—over the last forty to fifty years. But, and this is an important “but”, they have never made the headlines. And it’s frankly astonishing how many of the journalists who authored those features have been discredited, faded into anonymity, been made redundant, or suffered “accidents” that have put a stop to their careers, if not their very lives.’
‘Are you suggesting those reporters were deliberately targeted?’ said Jackson.
Sadik shrugged. ‘There has never been any conclusive evidence to support ardent advocates of conspiracy theories. There have, however, been too many such…incidents…for it to be mere coincidence or fate.’
Alexa scrutinized the professor. ‘What are these “ways” in which this so-called secret order has been outdoing others before it?’ she asked.
‘There is no single definable event that I can point to,’ said Sadik, lowering his voice. ‘Instead, it’s the general undertone of the decisions and ideas being cast in the political, social, and religious arenas of this country and other powerful states in this region that arouses my suspicions—and the suspicions of others like me. This goes far beyond the “Deep State” in Turkey. Already we’re seeing governments intruding into our personal lives, above and beyond the rights of a legitimate democracy; and this they profess to do in the name of the greater good.’ His tone grew sharper and a flush darkened his skin. ‘There are laws and bills being passed that would see our freedoms and our right to voice our opinions severely restricted. More worrying still are the whisperings about covert police and armed forces being set up to control and subdue potential public uprisings in the future.’ He took a deep breath. The color in his cheeks subsided slightly. ‘Of course, these are, as you said, just rumors and speculations. But I believe there is a common strategy, a higher purpose shall we say, underpinning all these actions. It’s as if whoever is behind this is preparing for something. Something big.’
Alexa did not like the sound of that. ‘Something big?’ she repeated tersely.
‘Yes,’ said Sadik with a firm nod. ‘Something that will bring radical change to the world as we know it. Call it...an event, of sorts.’
She felt the skin on the back of her neck prickle at the professor’s words.
‘Radical change doesn’t happen without bloodshed and the loss of countless innocent lives,’ said Jackson quietly.
Sadik nodded. ‘Which is exactly why I’m so afraid,’ he said in a weary voice. ‘People who embark on what they feel is a righteous path to bring about a revolution are often the very ones who commit the most unforgivable of atrocities. We have to only look at our recent history to see that.’ A mirthless smile crossed his lips. ‘I’m old enough to remember the aftermath of the Second World War.’
Alexa felt her blood grow cold. If what Sadik proclaimed was true, then whatever was transpiring would have significant implications for the immortal societies.
Although the Crovirs and the Bastians could survive without humans, they would rather not have to do so. Immortals once ruled over whole human dominions and even enslaved the more fragile race into their service. Over the millennia of their common existence, a symbiotic relationship had evolved between the races, especially after the plague that wiped out more than half of the immortal population. Humans now provided many of the resources vital for the normal function of the immortal societies, while the immortals stayed in the shadows and tried to keep out of human affairs.
But immortals as a whole had invested too many centuries in molding the history and culture of the weaker species to relinquish their long-held influence without a fight. The clash, Alexa knew, would not be your average bar brawl.
It would be an all-out battle that would paint the land red, color the rivers crimson, and darken the skies with ash.
It had crossed her mind to wonder whether immortals had had anything to do with these secret societies over the centuries. It would not shock her if some had; there were many megalomaniacs among her kind.
It would, however, surprise her if either race had suddenly elected to achieve unilateral dominion over the humans. Though there had been numerous attempts by certain factions in the past to attain world supremacy—more often than not using humans as pawns in their strategies—the lessons of the ages had taught the immortals that down that path lay only bloodshed and misery.
The events that had rocked the immortal world in the last few months had only served to emphasize this belief. No one in full possession of their faculties wanted another war.
Sadik interrupted her dark thoughts.
‘Which brings us back to the Rose Croix,’ the professor continued. ‘Over the centuries, there have been other societies apart from the Rosicrucian orders that have used the symbol of a cross with a rose. Though nothing definitive is known about the members of this secret sect we’re alluding to, a number of people have professed to have seen the Rose Croix with alarming frequency in all spheres of life in Istanbul in the last few years.’ He hesitated. ‘I have no idea whether the symbol you’ve come across during your search has anything do with what I’ve told you this evening. But I know of a place where you might find information that could point you in the right direction.’
Alexa straightened in her seat. ‘Where?’
They left the restaurant minutes later and made their way out of Kumkapi, Jackson and Alexa walking the professor to where he had parked his old Volkswagen Bora. ‘Please be careful,’ Sadik said through the open window of his car. ‘The forces you’re meddling with are very dangerous.’ He turned the key in the ignition. ‘One last thing. Although I have no way of proving this or anything else we’ve talked about tonight, I do believe this secret sect is old. Very old indeed.’
‘What makes you say that?’ asked Alexa.
‘A cult with this much power and influence is not born overnight. It wouldn’t surprise me if they’ve been lurking in the shadows for centuries,’ replied Sadik.
They stood on the side of the road and watched the lights of the Bora fade into the distance. Waves lapped against a rocky shore a short distance from where they stood. Jackson shivered in the icy wind blowing off the Sea of Marmara.
‘Let’s go,’ said Alexa. She turned on her heels.
‘You’re the boss,’ Jackson said mostly to himself before following her.
She guessed from his brooding silence on their walk to the car that Sadik’s words lay heavy on Jackson’s mind. She had to admit she was not too pleased with this latest development either. If there was indeed a link between the tomb raiders and this secret society that the retired professor feared so much, then the task that Reznak ha
d assigned them was far more complex than a simple treasure hunt.
Chapter Ten
They drove through a fine veil of sleet toward the Galata Bridge and headed across the Golden Horn. The domes and minarets crowning the mosques that straddled the summits of the hills upon which the old city had been built shone with a radiance that outdid the lights on the south shore of the bay. Brightly lit ferryboats dotted the Bosphorus below them. A short distance from the water, crowds thronged the market and restaurants that lined the lower level of the bridge. The pale, medieval stone tower of Galata loomed against the dark sky to the north of the estuary.
The address Sadik had given them was in Beyoglu, a historic district and cosmopolitan area on the European side of Istanbul. Home to Istiklal Avenue, one of the most famous streets in Istanbul, the area also hosted scores of memorable landmarks, churches, and foreign consulates housed in Neoclassical and Art Nouveau buildings that had come to epitomize the grandiose elegance and sophistication of its past.
Alexa maneuvered the Taurus through the narrow, steep streets that populated the neighborhood and parked the vehicle less than a quarter of a mile west of Taksim Square. From there they walked to Istiklal. The first thing they saw on entering the avenue was an old, red and white tram gliding past slowly on electrified tracks. Billboards, shop signs, and neon lights illuminated the noisy pedestrian walkway around them.
They merged with the crowd and turned left, their breath misting in the frosty air. Sadik’s directions led them past the richly decorated, towering gates of Galatasaray High School and the beautiful red brick buildings of the St. Anthony of Padua Catholic Church. Moments later, they headed down a side passage.
Unlike the bright and busy thoroughfare behind them, this alley was dark and deserted. Blocks of flats and commercial buildings rose three to five storeys on either side of the narrow lane, the upper levels overhanging the cramped space and lending to its claustrophobic feel. Halfway down the passageway, they came to a dimly lit staircase leading down to a basement-level entrance. Faint yellow light surrounded the edges of the large door at the bottom. The dull clamor of voices rose from behind the thick, bleached wood.
‘I’m starting to get a bad feeling about this,’ said Jackson uneasily.
Alexa ignored him and strolled down the steps. Heat washed over her when she crossed the narrow landing and opened the door.
The room beyond was a traditional Turkish beer hall. The décor was stark and functional: bare stone walls and a few naked bulbs hanging from a low, irregular ceiling. Smoke wreathed the air and the weak light showed groups of men drinking at low wooden tables crowding the dirty, stained floor.
The noise level inside the tavern dropped when she stepped across the threshold. It picked up slightly after Jackson joined her.
‘You do know that women are not welcome in these kind of places, right?’ he whispered in her ear as they headed toward the bar.
Alexa glanced at him with a raised eyebrow. His sigh was audible above the low mutters around them. Ignoring the stares from the other men in the room, she stopped at the counter and ordered a couple of beers.
The man on the other side smiled at them nervously and reached for a pair of glasses. ‘You tourists?’ he asked in a heavy accent, glancing furtively from her to Jackson.
‘No,’ she retorted curtly.
‘Oh.’ The smile slipped from the bartender’s face. ‘You, er, sound American,’ he added hesitantly. ‘You live in Istanbul?’
Alexa frowned. The man gulped and brought their drinks swiftly before busying himself at the opposite end of the bar. She took a sip of the lukewarm beer and turned to study the tavern.
‘It wouldn’t hurt to be a bit friendly,’ said Jackson in a low voice. ‘We could have asked him about the Rose Croix.’
She glanced at the bartender’s reflection in the mirror on the opposite wall. Her eyes narrowed fractionally before shifting to the rest of the room.
The men in the beer hall were mostly locals enjoying a quiet drink after a hard day’s work. The majority were middle-aged, blue-collar workers who nervously looked away from her penetrating stare. Several of the younger men ogled her more openly, emboldened by the alcohol in their bloodstream and the muted jeers of their companions.
Her attention was drawn to a table near the far left wall. Three men sat around it, silently nursing drinks. Two of them were olive-skinned with dark hair and eyes. The third man was fair and had pale blue eyes set high in a long, equine face. Their glasses were nearly full and their expressions detached.
There was movement in the mirror. Alexa watched the bartender put down a dishtowel and head for a thick, beaded curtain at the rear of the tavern. A door stood behind it. A second before he disappeared through the opening, the man glanced over his shoulder.
She put her drink down on the counter and started after him.
‘Where are you going?’ asked Jackson, trailing in her footsteps.
‘The bartender knows something,’ she said in a low voice.
‘And you deduced this how?’ responded Jackson incredulously.
‘He flinched when you mentioned the Rose Croix.’ She indicated the mirror with a brief tilt of her head.
They reached the back of the beer hall. Alexa pulled the beaded curtain aside to find the door ajar. She pushed the bottom edge gently with the tip of her boot; the door opened with a faint creak to reveal a dingy corridor.
She entered the narrow passageway silently, Jackson close behind. They passed a fetid restroom and a storage area. The corridor twisted to the right. A fire exit appeared at the far end. There was another door about a dozen feet from it.
Alexa put her hand against Jackson’s chest and stopped him in his tracks.
‘What?’ he whispered.
She studied the weak light seeping through the bottom of the doorframe on the left. A shadow moved across it. A low mumble of voices rose from the other side. ‘Stay close,’ she said quietly. She flexed her gloved fingers, walked to the side of the doorjamb, and turned the handle.
The room beyond was small and dreary. A row of beer barrels stood next to the wall on the left. A single, naked light bulb hung from the low ceiling. It cast a dull glow on the five men seated around the table in the middle of a concrete floor. Papers lay scattered across the old, pitted wood. A map of Europe was pinned to a corkboard on the wall behind them.
The facial features of four of the strangers suggested an Eastern and Southern European origin. The pair with their chairs angled toward the door bore faintly visible Rose Croix tattoos just below their hairline.
It was the man at the head of the table, however, who immediately caught and held her gaze. Older than his companions by a good couple of decades, his red hair and beard were richly peppered with streaks of white. Deep-set, pale gray eyes watched her inscrutably from beneath thick eyebrows. His thin, white lips were fixed in a rigid, uncompromising line below his high, straight nose.
The bartender hovered next to the table, his posture apprehensive and his voice hushed while he spoke. He looked around distractedly at the sound of their footsteps. His face went ashen. ‘You—you cannot be here! Please go! Go now!’
Alexa saw the bartender’s eyes flicker, shoved Jackson against the wall next to her, reached up, and grabbed the arm closing around her neck in a stranglehold. She twisted on her heels, hit the man behind her in the face with the back of her fist, locked her fingers on his armpit, and threw him up and over her shoulder. She jabbed a straight punch at his solar plexus as he crumpled to the floor in front of her.
A harsh grunt left her attacker’s lips, and his pale blue eyes reflected his shock. It was the man from the tavern.
She dropped below the hook strike from one of his dark-skinned accomplices, pivoted on one foot, and hit the man in the stomach with a spinning heel kick. He stumb
led backward and crashed into the wall across the corridor before sliding silently to the ground.
Jackson deflected a blow from the third henchman, head butted him in the nose, yanked him down by the shoulders, and struck him in the face with his knee. He winced and rubbed his forehead gingerly as his stunned assailant fell at his feet.
A thrill of satisfaction coursed through Alexa. The Harvard professor was learning fast.
A horrified whimper erupted from the other side of the room. His dark eyes glazed with terror, the bartender gaped briefly at the unconscious men on the floor before fleeing from the room. His sandaled footsteps echoed down the passage as he disappeared in the direction of the beer hall.
Alexa straightened and scrutinized the men at the table. They had not moved. Her gaze shifted to the figure with the red hair and deep-set eyes. ‘Where’s Boyko Dragov?’ she demanded curtly.
‘Who the hell are you?’ retorted the man closest to her.
She glanced at him. ‘Answer the question.’
One of his companions leveled a calculating stare at her. ‘What makes you think we know someone by that name?’
Faint groans rose from the injured henchmen on the floor. Alexa’s eyes never moved from the still figure at the head of the table.
‘Well, the Rose Croix tattoo on your neck is a bit of a giveaway,’ said Jackson darkly.
The second man grinned and glanced at his companions. Alexa smiled thinly. She had the Sig out and was squeezing the trigger before he had fully straightened the arm holding the semi-automatic Makarov pistol he had been hiding under the table.
King's Crusade (Seventeen) Page 11