Veil of the Goddess

by Rob Preece

  "It might be dangerous,” Zack said.

  "No one ever claimed that the Lord's work must be easy."

  He set off at a clip that Ivy thought admirable.

  * * * *

  Constantinople had been looted by the Catholics during the infamous Fourth Crusade, and by the Turks when the Empire had finally fallen. Ivy would have guessed that the city's conquerors would have left the Church's treasury bare.

  She would have guessed wrong.

  The Patriarch punched a combination into an electronic lock as sophisticated as anything Ivy had seen in any U.S. bank and stepped into a huge warehouse that glistened with gold and with every color of power.

  "When the Roman Emperors created Constantinople as the New Rome, they moved many of the Eternal City's ancient treasures here,” the Patriarch said when he saw Ivy's interest. “We hold in our treasury the ancient gods from the thousands of cities and tribes the Romans conquered, as well as objects remaining from the destruction of the Second Temple in Jerusalem and many relics of the prophets and disciples of our Lord. We protected many of them from both Franks and Turks."

  "Where are the Cross and Veil?” Zack got to the point.

  The Patriarch led them to a second vault, then froze when he saw that its door was ajar.

  He struggled to push the armored steel door open until Zack lent his muscle.

  The vault stood empty.

  "When the pilgrims refused to stay, I was horribly disappointed,” the Patriarch said. “That must have been a test of faith for Father Galen as well. A test that, tragically, he seems to have failed."

  "Where would he have taken them?” Zack demanded.

  The Patriarch shrugged. “I cannot believe he would simply sell them. Perhaps he intends to use them to set up a heretical church of his own. Maybe he thought to smuggle them out to our sister church in Rome, or the wealthy Orthodox Church in Russia."

  "Whatever he plans,” Ivy said, “he won't make it far. The Foundation learned of the Veil and it must have realized we'd sprung their trap. They'll be over Galen like flies on, uh, honey."

  "When the Foundation finds him, they'll kill him,” Zack added. “These are not nice people."

  "Perhaps we should notify the police,” the Patriarch said. “They might be able to find Father Galen before the Founda—"

  "Your police are working with the Foundation,” Ivy interrupted. “We've got to go after him ourselves."

  She looked at her watch. It was after three in the morning. The Foundation wouldn't let a little thing like darkness get in their way, but their agents had been working all day and would be nearly as tired as she was. It was possible that they hadn't immediately picked up on Galen's theft. If he'd left in the middle of the night, he might have gotten a jump on them. He might be able to stay ahead for a few hours. Time enough to catch up with him—maybe.

  "If Galen stays in Istanbul, the Foundation will find and kill him. If he's not a complete idiot, he knows that and he wouldn't leave without a plan, some sort of bolt-hole he thinks is going to get him out of this with both the relics and his life."

  In her opinion, whatever Galen's plan might be, it didn't stand a chance. The Foundation had shown an unhealthy ability to track down the Cross wherever it went. And Galen was an obese and sedentary Priest, not a battle-hardened soldier like Zack or even herself.

  The Patriarch nodded. “Perhaps. But how does this help us?"

  Cejno shuffled his feet. “I could, perhaps, contact some of my friends. But they will want money."

  Now it was Ivy's turn to get nervous. In her bank account back home she had a couple of thousand dollars. She didn't think that was the kind of cash Cejno's “friends” would be interested in. For that matter, she doubted if they would take an IOU. Zack was probably a bit better off than her—a Captain's pay is significantly better than an NCO's, but that still didn't make him a moneybags. And recently, Cejno had been subsidizing them.

  "We'll get them money somehow,” Zack promised.

  "Remind them that the Foundation Agent I killed had a briefcase full of hundred-dollar bills,” Ivy said.

  Zack turned on her, horror showing on his face. “You're talking about murder. Setting Americans up as targets."

  "I'm talking about saving the world from something more horrible than Hiroshima."

  * * * *

  Zack sighed. He was tired and it was only going to get worse.

  With a loan from Cejno, flush after his hashish sales, the remaining hundred dollar bills Cejno had returned to them, and an offer of ten thousand Euros from the Patriarch, they put together a reward for the underworld. Enough, they hoped, to be interesting.

  The reward taken care of, the Patriarch commanded a small army of priests to search the neighborhood churches and cathedrals for any evidence of Father Galen. Zack, Ivy, and Cejno took responsibility for the seamier side of the city.

  "Father Galen isn't an idiot,” Zack said. “He would have joined with some of the pilgrims and headed back toward Greece or Bulgaria. You saw all of the crucifixes and icons they carried. I'd think all that stuff would provide a sort of religious radar cover for whatever the Foundation uses to track the Cross."

  Cejno had shaken his head. “He will try to get hashish first."

  Which was why they were standing outside of a highrise condo complex where the average monthly apartment rent was probably higher that what Zack made in a decade.

  "I don't sense anything,” Ivy admitted.

  "Would you? I mean, through the walls and everything?"

  "Maybe. I'm still learning how this second sight works. I don't know how long the Foundation has been working on this, but I'm guessing they have a lot more practice than I do."

  Maybe. But what they were very unlikely to have was someone who had been brought back to life by the Cross or who had held the Veil of the Virgin Mary in her hands.

  "We go up and pay a visit on my friend,” Cejno suggested.

  "How do we get past security?” They could possibly break into a second story apartment, then use the elevators to head up to the tenth floor where Father Galen's pusher lived, but the odds of getting caught were pretty high.

  "Trust me,” Cejno said.

  He waved them to come after him and tromped directly into the marble and plush carpet security lobby.

  The guard looked up from his desk, then gave a double-take when he saw the submachine guns over Ivy and Zack's shoulders.

  The thick armored Plexiglas separating him from the visitor portion of the lobby muffled his voice, but not enough. He was practically screaming at Cejno.

  Cejno opened his wallet and showed the guard the thick sheaf of U.S. Hundreds and 500 Euro bills and proceeded to give the security guard what Zack guessed was a lecture on his need for a bodyguard.

  The security guard considered, then shook his head, shaking it more firmly when Cejno offered him one of the five hundreds. He did look longingly at the large lump of hashish Cejno added to the bribe, but finally shook his head again. Letting an armed squad into his building would cost him his job and a cushy job like that had to be worth more than a few hundred Euros and a good high.

  "Have him phone your contact,” Ivy broke in. “It's not like we want to hurt the guy. We just want to make him rich."

  Cejno's face showed he hadn't even considered that idea. Zack hadn't either. He'd been assuming they would have to trick the dealer into giving up his customer. But if he knew Father Galen was heading out of town, he wouldn't have much residual loyalty to him anyway.

  Cejno passed the thought to the guard who picked up the phone and then grabbed the hashish lump from the security opening before Cejno could get it back.

  "I leave it there of purpose,” Cejno whispered, in English. “He feels better, get the jump on us."

  After a few minutes on the phone, the guard buzzed them through and they rode the elevator to the dealer's apartment.

  * * * *

  Zack had expected nice. He hadn't expected to
be whisked into the world of the Arabian Nights or the land of Odysseus's Lotus Eaters.

  The elevator opened directly into a huge chamber carpeted with what looked like antique Persian carpets. Beautiful women, mostly dark-haired, but some blonde or redheaded, swirled around in skimpy silk pants and halters. The hemp smoke was almost thick enough to get Zack high just by breathing.

  A cosmopolitan group of Europeans, rich Americans, and Arab princes smoked oversized water pipes, played cards, drank single malt whiskey, and allowed the beautiful women to distract them occasionally.

  A young Turk in an Italian suit that probably cost five thousand dollars gave Cejno a nod and said something in Turkish.

  "Speak English,” Cejno suggested. “My friends are limited in their education."

  The elegant Turk bowed to them. “Welcome to my home,” he said in perfect English. “I hope you don't plan to rob me with those guns. You would never leave the building alive."

  Zack shook his head. “We're looking for friends, not enemies."

  The Turk's smile gleamed white. “You have definitely come to the right place. We are all friends here."

  "We're looking for one particular friend,” Ivy said. “Someone I think you know. Father Galen. He's an Orthodox priest."

  "I rarely give my friend's names away, even to other friends.” He looked like he sincerely regretted not being able to help. He also looked like he'd already be heading back to an overly buxom blonde if his attention hadn't become fixated on Ivy.

  What Zack noticed, though, was the slight emphasis on the word ‘rarely.’ He hadn't said never.

  "Galen's life is in danger. His dope-buying days are over if we don't get help."

  "Everyone wants to help Father Galen. I suspect that some of those who say they want to help him may be lying."

  "Has someone else been looking for the priest?” Zack knew he should fake indifference, but he couldn't. If this drug dealer had sent the Foundation ahead of them, they were in serious trouble.

  "Perhaps. And perhaps their financial incentive was more generous than the puny reward I understand you can offer."

  That should have been obvious. Of course they'd never be able to outbid the Foundation. From everything they'd seen, the Foundation as good as had access to the printing presses back in the U.S. Mint. They could only hope the priests found something on their end because the underworld was a dead end.

  Ivy, however, didn't give up easily.

  "You're a Moslem, aren't you?"

  He shrugged. “I'm a Turk. Of course I'm a Moslem."

  She shook her head. “A real Moslem. You believe. You've done the Hajj. You mean it when you pray."

  "How could you know that?"

  "Miss Ivy is a Saint,” Cejno said. “She has the second sight."

  The Turk lost that dreamy lusty look in a hurry. “All right. This is true. I am a believer. But your Father Galen means nothing to me. I am not obligated to favor one group of infidels over another."

  "How would you feel about a war between Moslems and Christians?” Ivy demanded. “A war launched by Christian extremists and aimed at destroying the entire Moslem population."

  "Allah will prevent it."

  "Do you Moslems have a saying about Allah helping those who help themselves? Does Allah want you to just let it happen and force him to step in? In the story of David and Goliath, David picks up five stones. He's going to give it his best shot, not test God by picking only one. Maybe you're Allah's way of preventing this war."

  The drug dealer's face grew first red, then deadly pale under Ivy's attack.

  As she trailed off, he turned to Cejno.

  "She is a Saint? This is not a lie?"

  "More than one holy imam has so asserted."

  "Then I will do what I can to help. Unfortunately, I fear it is too late. I gave the CIA men what they wanted to know hours ago. By now, they will surely have Father Galen in their custody."

  "If they catch him, they'll kill him,” Zack said.

  Chapter 16

  Istanbul is one of the world's great natural harbors. Standing at the junction between the Black Sea and the Mediterranean, Europe to the west and Asia to the East, and with the Suez Canal only a few hundred miles to the south, Istanbul rested, as it had for thousands of years, at the crossroad between cultures, continents, religions, and worlds.

  That's what Zack explained to her. To Ivy, it just looked like there were a whole bunch of ships there, everywhere all around because the core city was a peninsula practically surrounded by water.

  The drug dealer, whose name turned out to be Mustafa, after the famous creator of modern Turkey, drove them across the Bosphorus Bridge, back to Asia. A dozen bodyguards, including three of the beautiful women from the party now dressed in practical commando clothing, followed Mustafa's Mercedes in tiny Opals.

  Father Galen had been smart enough to know the Foundation would be watching official border crossings. He'd gone to Mustafa for advice on smuggling himself, and his stolen relics, out of Turkey. Mustafa had given him the name of a tramp freighter.

  A couple of hours later, he'd shared the name of that steamer to the Foundation Agent who'd visited his home, somehow getting through the security system that had stopped Zack and Ivy. Finally, he'd provided that information to Zack and Ivy.

  The Foundation Agents had paid Mustafa fifty thousand U.S. dollars, in sequentially numbered hundred dollar bills, for the information. Zack and Ivy didn't pay anything. Ivy's insight into Mustafa's character had proven enough.

  "I'd hide for the next few weeks,” Zack said when Mustafa mentioned the amount of money he'd extorted out of the Foundation. “I wouldn't be surprised if they decide you know too much, and try to clean up their mess."

  If Mustafa hadn't been having a party with some of the jet set of Europe and America, Ivy guessed they would have cleaned things up right there rather than wasting their money.

  "Perhaps it is time to visit my suppliers in Kurdistan,” Mustafa agreed. “I hear the mountains are quite beautiful this time of year."

  "I think you will need only a few of your most attractive bodyguards,” Cejno effused. “We can have a very nice vacation. Very restful."

  "What about Mijgul?” Ivy reminded him. “I don't think your girlfriend would take kindly to the competition."

  Cejno reconsidered. “Perhaps the female bodyguards should stay in Istanbul."

  They slowed down as they approached the wharfs. Dawn peered over the horizon and was reflected back by dark waters.

  "Looks quiet,” Zack breathed.

  Ivy let herself hope they'd beaten the Foundation Agents here and could get in and off without anyone getting hurt. Surely it would take the Foundation a while to get their assets in place. It had been pure luck that Mustafa had been willing to launch himself into their adventure.

  She could hope, but she wouldn't count on it.

  "I'm going on board the ship. Zack, stay hidden and be ready to provide me cover if anyone spots me. I'd recommend that the rest of you get out of here if you don't want to be caught in a crossfire."

  Mustafa shook his head. “That a Saint recognizes my faith is a great day in my life. I am not a very good man and have often run when I should fight. This time, I stay and help."

  "It's dangerous."

  He reached into his glove compartment and pulled out a solid black automatic—a nice Glock. “Have you ever met an old drug dealer? In America, you may have them. Here in Turkey, we die young. Why not take a chance when I can do something good rather than only evil?"

  Males. “Right. If you, Cejno and your bodyguards will provide cover, then I'll go in with Ivy,” Zack said before Ivy could argue any more. “Let's move."

  "I'm on point,” she insisted.

  "Fine."

  She moved.

  Crates of supplies, pallets of freight, and a couple of rusty and warped containers that looked like rejects from the regular merchant service gave them plenty of cover as they approached the old f
reighter.

  The small ship was so covered in filth and rust that Ivy couldn't even guess what color it had once been. No flag flew anywhere onboard. A pump poured a steady stream of rusty water into the Marmara Sea.

  Two gangplanks provided access to the ship, but Ivy ignored them. Instead, she swarmed up a line that tied the ship to the wharf, entering at the bow.

  Zack waited until she was on board, his Kalashnikov silently fanning the deck, and then followed while she covered him scanning for any hint of movement on the deck.

  Ivy hadn't spent much time around ships, but something seemed wrong. Why weren't there sailors on deck? Surely they should be loading and unloading. Even if most of their merchandise moved at night, wouldn't they pretend to be legitimate?

  Mustafa, Cejno, and the bodyguards were almost invisible as they covered the ship's gangways, hiding themselves in the clutter of the wharf. They were willing, but Ivy wondered how much actual damage they could do with a collection of overpriced handguns. Maybe she should have swapped weapons with Mustafa, giving him a gun with some range and firepower. But she'd made her decisions and it was too late to change them.

  Zack climbed over the bow and kept moving, leapfrogging her hiding place next to a small crane.

  He crouched next to a stack of ropes and waved her forward. She moved, leapfrogging him in turn as each provided cover for the other, protected each other, worked as a team.

  She wasn't a professional soldier, had once looked forward to getting back to real life, but she was glad she'd had the chance to experience the teamwork and co-dependence that the infantry creates and requires. Like a circus trapeze artist, she was willing to let go of her connection to safety and fly, knowing that Zack would be there to catch her.

  She skidded to a stop when she saw Zack wasn't giving her cover. He was looking at a lump on the ship's deck.

  With an abrupt change of focus, she realized that the lump wasn't the pile of trash she thought she'd seen. It was a body.