Crescent Dawn

by Clive Cussler

  “They just took Arie away,” she said, referring to agent Holder. “Shot dead over some stupid artifacts.”

  “They were as apt at stealing as they were at killing. They heisted only the scrolls, didn’t even bother with the other artifacts,” he replied, nodding toward the tent.

  Sophie’s face seemed to harden. “The phony antiquities agent tipped them off. The young student, Stephanie, thought he was one of the gunmen here tonight.”

  “Any idea who would use such commando tactics to acquire black market antiquities?”

  Sophie nodded. “I would have to suspect the Mules. A gang of Lebanese smugglers with suspected ties to Hezbollah. They’re mostly known for transporting weapons and drugs, but they’ve drifted into antiquities before. They’re the only ones I know of who would kill for artifacts.”

  “I wouldn’t think those scrolls would be very easy to pawn.”

  “They’ve probably already been paid for. This was likely a contract job for a wealthy collector. One who knows no bounds.”

  “Catch them,” Dirk said quietly.

  “For Holder’s sake, I will,” she replied firmly. She gazed at the sea for a while, then looked at Dirk with a softened expression.

  “I’m not sure any of us would be alive if you hadn’t showed up on the beach.”

  Dirk smiled. “I just wanted to make sure I got a second date.”

  “That,” she said, standing and giving him a peck on the cheek, “I can almost guarantee.”

  17

  PITT STOOD IN THE TERMINAL WAITING AREA AND LET OUT a slow sigh of relief. Looking out the window, he watched Loren’s plane back away from the gate and head toward a line of jets awaiting takeoff from Atatürk International Airport. At last he could relax, knowing his wife was out of danger.

  It had been an uneasy interval since he had stood on the dock of Yenikoy and watched the would-be assassins sail off on the Bosphorus ferry. He and Loren had quickly hailed a cab and raced back to Istanbul, sneaking into the rear entrance of their hotel and quietly checking out. They crisscrossed the city to ensure they weren’t being followed, then checked into a modest hotel near the airport for the night.

  “We probably should have gone to the U.S. Mission and reported the whole thing,” Loren complained as they entered their bland room. “They could have at least provided us security at a nice hotel.”

  “You’re right,” Pitt conceded. “After thirty-seven briefings with a dozen bureaucrats, they’d probably find a safe place for us by a week from Thursday.” He wasn’t surprised that she hadn’t pushed for diplomatic aid earlier. Despite her years in Congress, she rarely used her status to press for special treatment.

  “The State Department is going to hear about it all the same,” she replied. “Those creeps need to be put behind bars.”

  “Just do me a favor and wait until you are safely home before you blow your horn.”

  Rebooking their flights, he saw her off on the first departure to Washington. With time to kill before catching his flight to Chios, he ate breakfast at an airport café, then tried phoning Dr. Ruppé. He was surprised when the archaeologist answered the number in Rome he had given Pitt.

  “You calling from the airport?” Ruppé asked as a highly amplified boarding announcement blared from a speaker above Pitt’s head.

  “Yes, I just saw Loren off and I’m waiting for my flight out.”

  “I thought you two were staying another day.”

  Pitt filled him in on their adventure up the Bosphorus.

  “Thank goodness you two are safe,” Ruppé said, shocked at the story. “Those guys must certainly be well connected. Have you reported this to the police?”

  “No,” Pitt replied. “I was a bit leery after they discovered our whereabouts so quickly.”

  “Probably a wise move. The Turkish police have had a reputation for corruption. And based on my spate of bad news, you were probably right to think that way.”

  “What happened?”

  “I got a call from my assistant at the museum. Apparently, someone broke into my office and tossed the place during daylight hours. The good news is, they didn’t find my safe, so your gold crown is still safe.”

  “And the bad news?”

  “They took the coins and some of my papers, which included your charts showing the location of the wreck. I can’t say for sure, but it would seem to me there has to be a connection with all these events. Nothing like this has ever happened to me before.”

  “Another by-product of the leaky Turkish police?” Pitt asked.

  “Might well be. My assistant already reported the crime, and they are conducting an investigation. But like the Topkapi robbery, they claim to be working without any leads.”

  “They ought to have a bushelful by now,” Pitt lamented.

  “Well, I guess there’s not much more to be done. I’ll try to have an interpretation of your crown when I get back to Istanbul.”

  “Take care, Rey. I’ll call in a few days.”

  Pitt hung up the phone, hoping that his involvement with the Topkapi thieves was at an end.

  But deep down, he had a feeling that it wasn’t.

  18

  THE MOROCCAN-STYLED VILLA COMMANDED AN ARRESTing view of the Mediterranean from its rocky perch along the Turkish coastline. While not as gargantuan as some of the moneyed estates situated near the sea, it was built with a discerning eye for detail. Exquisitely glazed tiles covered every external wall, while miniature spires capped each roofline. Yet functionality superseded opulence, and a high premium was placed on the resident’s privacy. A high stone wall encircled the landward perimeter, obscuring the interior compound from the eyes of locals and tourists alike who traveled along the coastal road to the nearby beach resort of Kuşadasi.

  Ozden Celik stood at a large picture window, staring beyond the shimmering blue sea toward the faint outline of Samos, a Greek island fifteen miles away.

  “It is a travesty that the islands off our own shore have been taken by another nation,” he said bitterly.

  Maria sat at a nearby desk, reviewing a stack of financial documents. The sunlit room was decorated similarly to the Bosphorus office, with tribal rugs on the floor and collectible artifacts from the Ottoman era gracing the walls and shelves.

  “Do not antagonize yourself over the failings of men long dead,” she said.

  “The land was still ours when Suleiman ruled. It was the great Atatürk who sacrificed our empire,” he said in a sarcastic tone.

  Maria ignored the comment, having heard her brother rail against the founder of modern-day Turkey many times before. Celik turned to his sister, his eyes ablaze with intensity. “Our heritage cannot be forgotten nor our rightful destiny denied.”

  Maria nodded quietly. “The Sheikh’s wire transfer has cleared,” she said, holding up a bank transmittal.

  “Twenty million euros?” he asked.

  “Yes. How much did you promise the Mufti?”

  “I told him to expect twelve million, so let’s give him fourteen, and we’ll keep the remainder as before.”

  “Why so generous?” she asked.

  “It’s important to maintain his trust. Plus, it will allow me greater influence as to where the money is spent.”

  “I assume you have a strategy for that?”

  “Of course. Attorneys and judicial bribes will absorb a large portion, to ensure that the Felicity Party, with Mufti Battal atop the ticket, appears on the ballot come Election Day. The remaining funds will be used for traditional political expenses; organized rallies, promotion and advertising, and additional fund-raising.”

  “His coffers must be filling fast, given the squeeze he’s putting on his mosques, not to mention his general rising popularity.”

  “All of which we can take credit for,” Celik replied smugly.

  It had taken Celik several years to find and cultivate the right Islamic leader to front his goals. Mufti Battal had just the right mix of ego and charisma to lead the
movement while still being malleable to Celik’s designs. Under Celik’s carefully choreographed campaign of bribes and threats, Battal had consolidated pockets of fundamentalist Islamic support throughout Turkey and gradually built it into a national movement. Working behind the scenes, Celik was about to turn the religious movement into a political one. Smart enough to realize his own aspirations would meet public resistance in some quarters, he hitched his wagon to the populist Mufti.

  “It appears from the media reports that public outrage is still high over the Topkapi theft,” Maria said. “It is being viewed as a very visible affront to the Muslim faithful. I would be surprised if it didn’t raise the Mufti’s popularity a percentage point or two.”

  “Exactly the intent,” Celik replied. “I must ensure that he releases a public statement strongly condemning the heinous thieves,” he added with a wry smile.

  He stepped over to the desk, noting an array of coins in a felt box beside a stack of research journals and a nautical chart. They were the objects stolen from Dr. Ruppé, taken by Maria when she ransacked the archaeologist’s office while visiting the museum dressed as a tourist.

  “A bit risky, returning to the scene of the crime?” he asked.

  “It wasn’t exactly the Topkapi Privy Chamber,” she replied. “I thought there was an outside chance our second bag of Muhammad relics might have ended up there, until I heard otherwise from the police. It was a quick and easy job to access his office.”

  “Anything of interest beyond the coins?” he asked, admiring one of the gold pieces he pulled from the container.

  “An Iznik ceramic box. There’s a note by the archaeologist that says it dates to the Age of Suleiman, along with the coins. They apparently all came from the shipwreck discovered by the American.”

  Celik’s brow rose in interest. “So it is a Suleiman shipwreck? I wish to know more.”

  There was a knock on the office door, which opened a second later to reveal a large man in a dark suit. He had a light complexion and gray, hardened eyes that had clearly witnessed the darker side of life.

  “Your visitors have arrived,” he said in a coarse voice.

  “Show them in,” Celik ordered, “and return with another Janissary.”

  The term Janissary dated back many centuries and referred to the personal guards and elite troops of the Ottoman sultans. In an odd twist of loyalty, the original Janissaries who served the Islamic palace typically were not Muslim themselves but Christians from the Balkans area. Conscripted as young boys, they were schooled and groomed as servants, bodyguards, and even Army commanders in service to the Sultan’s empire.

  In a similar fashion, Celik’s Janissaries were Christian recruits from Serbia and Croatia, mostly former military commandos. In Celik’s case, however, they were hired strictly as bodyguards and mercenaries.

  The Janissary disappeared for a moment, then returned with a companion, who escorted three men into the room. They were the assassins who had chased Pitt and Loren up the Bosphorus. They shuffled in with a noticeable hint of apprehension, all avoiding direct eye contact with Celik.

  “Did you eliminate the intruders?” Celik asked without greeting.

  The tallest of the three, who had worn the mirrored sunglasses, spoke for the group.

  “The man named Pitt and his wife apparently detected our presence and fled on a ferryboat to Sariyer. We established contact with them, but they escaped.”

  “So you failed,” Celik said, letting the words hang in the air like an executioner’s sword. “Where are they now, Farzad?”

  The man shook his head. “They checked out of their hotel. We don’t know if they are still in the city.”

  “The police?” he asked, turning to Maria.

  She shook her head. “Nothing has been reported.”

  “This man Pitt. He must be lucky, if not resourceful.”

  Celik walked over to the desk and picked up the gold coin from Ruppé’s office.

  “He will no doubt return to his shipwreck. An Ottoman shipwreck,” he added with emphasis. He walked close to Farzad and looked him in the eye. “You have failed once. I will not tolerate a second failure.”

  He stepped back and addressed all three men. “You will be paid in full for your work. You can collect your wages on the way out. Each of you is to remain underground until called for the next project. Is that clear?”

  All three men nodded quietly. One of the Janissaries opened the door, and the men made a quick retreat for the exit.

  “Wait,” Celik’s voice suddenly boomed. “Atwar, another word with you. The others may go.”

  The man who had worn the blue shirt stood where he was while Farzad and the Persian left the room. The first Janissary stayed in the room, closing the door then moving behind Atwar. Celik stepped close to the Iraqi.

  “Atwar, you let this man Pitt subdue you during the Topkapi theft. As a result, we lost the Holy Mantle of the Prophet that was in our hands. Now yesterday, you let him elude you again?”

  “He caught us all by surprise,” Atwar stammered, looking to Maria for support.

  She said nothing as Celik pulled open a desk drawer and retrieved a three-foot-long bowstring. As with his Ottoman ancestors, it was his favored tool for execution.

  “Unlike Farzad, you have failed me twice,” Celik said, nodding at the Janissary.

  The guard stepped up and grabbed Atwar in a bear hug from behind, pinning the man’s arms to his side. The Iraqi tried to struggle, but the Janissary was too powerful to break the grip.

  “It was her fault,” he cried, motioning his head toward Maria. “She ordered us to abduct the woman. None of this would have happened if we had let her go.”

  Celik ignored the words, slowly stepping closer until he was inches from the struggling man’s face.

  “You will not fail me again,” Celik whispered in his ear. Then he flung the cord around Atwar’s neck and tightened it with a lacquered wooden cylinder.

  The man screamed, but his voice was quickly snuffed out as the cord tightened around his throat. His face turned blue and his eyes bulged as Celik twisted the block, applying greater pressure to the cord. A perverse look of delight filled Celik’s eyes as he stared into the face of the dying man. He held the twisted cord tight well after his victim’s body fell limp, seeming to savor the moment. He finally unraveled the garrote, taking his time removing it from the dead man’s throat before returning it to the desk drawer.

  “Take his body offshore after dark and dump it into the sea,” he said to the Janissary. The guard nodded, then dragged the stiffening body out of the room.

  The act of murder seemed to invigorate Celik, and he paced the room with nervous energy. The gold coin was back in his hand, fondled like a child’s toy.

  “You should have never brought in these imbeciles to do our work,” he barked at Maria. “My Janissaries would have not failed at the task.”

  “They have served us well in the past. Besides, as you have just shown, they are expendable.”

  “We can’t have any mistakes going forward,” he lectured. “The stakes are too high.”

  “I will personally lead the next operation. Speaking of which, are you certain you wish to proceed in Jerusalem? I’m not sure the benefits are worth the risk.”

  “It has the potential to create a massive unifying impact. Beyond that, with a bit of inflated Zionist fright, it will be good for another twenty million euros from our Arab backers.” Celik stopped pacing for a moment then gazed at his sister. “I realize it is not without danger. Are you committed to the task?”

  “Of course,” she replied without batting an eye. “My Hezbollah contact has already made arrangements with a top operator who will assist with the mission for the right price. And should there be any difficulties, they will offer the necessary culpability.”

  “Hezbollah was not opposed to the nature of the mission?”

  “I didn’t provide them all of the details,” Maria replied with a sly smile.
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  Celik walked over to his sister and gently stroked her cheek. “You have always proven to be the best partner a man could ask for.”

  “We have a destiny,” she replied, echoing his earlier words. “When our great-grandfather was exiled by Atatürk in 1922, the first Ottoman Empire ended. Our grandfather and father spent their lives as outcasts, failing to fulfill the dream of restoration. But by the grace of Allah, a renewed empire is now within our fingertips. We have little choice but to act, for the honor of our father and all those before him.”

  Celik stood silent as teardrops welled in his eyes, his hand squeezing the gold coin until his fist shuddered.

  PART II

  THE MANIFEST

  19

  THE LEMON YELLOW SUBMERSIBLE SLIPPED BENEATH THE sloshing waters of the moon pool and rapidly disappeared from sight. The pilot descended quickly, not wishing to loiter about the mother ship while fierce currents matched wits with a Force 7 wind.

  The frigid waters off the Orkney Islands northeast of the Scottish mainland were seldom mild. North Atlantic storm fronts routinely pounded the rocky islands with towering waves, while gale force winds seemed to blow without relief. But a hundred feet beneath the raging waters, the submersible’s three passengers quickly turned a blind eye to the violent surface weather.

  “I was a bit afraid of the descent, but this is actually much calmer than that rolling ship,” stated Julie Goodyear from the rear seat. A research historian from Cambridge University on her first dive, she had been fighting the ill effects of seasickness since boarding the NUMA research vessel Odin in Scapa Flow three days earlier.

  “Miss Goodyear, I guarantee that you are going to enjoy this flight so much, you’re not going to want to go back to that bouncing tub,” replied the pilot in a Texas drawl. A steely-eyed man with a horseshoe mustache, Jack Dahlgren toggled the diving controls with a surgeon’s deft touch as he eased their descent.