Dayan carried just over a million gallons, and Hammet knew its contribution to Israel’s water supply was a drop in the bucket, but the biweekly commutes across the Med ultimately added up. For him, it was easy sea duty, and he and his nine-man crew enjoyed the work.
Standing in the center of the wheelhouse, he studied the ship’s progress on a navigation monitor.
“Engine back two-thirds,” he ordered the helmsman. “We’re forty miles from Manavgat. No use in us arriving before daybreak since the pumping facility won’t be manned any earlier.”
The helmsman repeated the order as the speed was reduced on the ship’s single engine. Riding high on the sea with an empty hold, the tanker gradually slowed from twelve knots to eight. As midnight approached a few hours later, the executive officer appeared on deck to relieve the captain. Hammet took a final scan of the radar system before turning in.
“There’s a vessel coming up behind us off our port flank, but otherwise the seas are clear,” he told the exec. “Just keep us off the beach, Zev.”
“Yes, Captain,” the man replied. “No midnight swims tonight.”
Hammet retired to his cabin a deck below and quickly fell asleep. But he awoke a short time later, feeling something amiss. Shaking away the cobwebs, he realized that the ship’s engine was not throbbing and shuddering through the deck as usual when under way. He thought it odd that no one had come to wake him if there was a navigational problem or mechanical issue with the ship.
Slipping on a bathrobe, the captain exited his cabin and climbed a stairwell up to the bridge. Stepping into the darkened wheelhouse, Hammet froze in shock. A few feet in front of him, the executive officer was lying facedown in a small pool of blood.
“What’s going on here?” he barked at the helmsman.
The helmsman stared back at him in wide-eyed silence. Under the dimmed lights of the bridge, Hammet could see that the young man had an ugly gash across the side of his face. The captain’s vision was suddenly diverted out the forward window, where he noticed the lights of another vessel shining dangerously close to the tanker’s port beam.
“Hard right rudder!” he shouted at the helmsman, ignoring a rustling behind him.
A tall figure emerged from the back wall, dressed in black, with an ebony ski mask covering his head and face. In his hands, he held an assault rifle, which he raised to shoulder height. The helmsman ignored Hammet’s command, merely staring as the gunman stepped closer. Hammet turned and looked just in time to see the rifle whipping toward his face. He heard the crash of the gun’s stock strike him on the side of the jaw an instant before a flash of pain surged through him like a bolt of lightning. He felt his knees buckle, and then the pain vanished as everything turned to black and he joined his executive officer flat on the deck.
54
RIDLEY, MY FRIEND, COME IN, COME IN.”
The Fat Man’s voice sounded like sand in a mixer as he welcomed Bannister into his Tel Aviv apartment for the second time in as many weeks.
“Thank you, Oscar,” the archaeologist replied, strutting in with an air of confidence that had been notably lacking on his last visit.
Gutzman led him to a sitting area, where a thin, well-dressed Arab sat at a nearby desk, reviewing some documents. He looked up, eyeing Bannister with a suspicious stare.
“That is Alfar, one of my curators,” Gutzman said with a derisive wave of his hand. Catching a look of caution in Bannister’s face, he added, “Do not worry. His ears are safe.”
Gutzman reached his favorite sitting chair and tumbled into it without grace.
“Now, what is of such importance that you have called on me again so soon?” he asked.
Bannister spoke quietly, buttering up his victim for the kill.
“Oscar, you know as well as I that hunting for history is at best a speculative business. We may search for days, weeks, or even years for that one monumental discovery and still come up empty. Sure, along the way there may be important finds and occasionally the exciting piece that taps the imagination. Most of the effort usually ends up going for naught. But there is always the chance of that rare instance where the stars are in alignment and one is very, very lucky to find a singular gift from the heavens.”
He leaned forward in his chair for effect and stared into the Fat Man’s eyes.
“Oscar, I believe I may be on the verge of such a find.”
“Well, what is it, my boy?” Gutzman wheezed. “Don’t toy with me.”
“I was just in London for a short visit and happened to call on an antiquities dealer I’ve known for a number of years. He recently acquired a cache of items stolen years ago from the Church of England’s archives,” he lied, pausing, again for effect.
“Go on.”
“A portion of the material contained original artwork, jewelry, and artifacts liberated from the Holy Land during the Crusades.” Bannister looked cautiously back and forth across the room, then added in a low voice, “Included in the works was an original copy of the Manifest.”
Gutzman’s eyes inflated like balloons.
“Are . . . are you serious?” he rasped. He tried to contain his excitement, but his face turned flush with exaltation.
“Yes,” Bannister replied, producing an intentionally poor photocopy of the papyrus document. “I have not seen the original myself, but I’ve been assured that it is authentic.”
Gutzman studied the page for several minutes without uttering a word. Only the ruffling of the page in his unsteady fingers disturbed the silent room.
“It exists,” he finally said in a hushed tone. “I cannot believe by God’s good graces that it has come to be.” The old man then looked at Bannister sternly. “This dealer, he will sell it to me?”
Bannister nodded. “Given the nature of his acquisition, he is forced to sell it quietly. That is why he has priced it at only five million pounds sterling.”
“Five million pounds!” Gutzman cursed, propelling himself into a coughing fit. When he recovered his breath, he stared into Bannister’s eyes.
“I will never pay that,” he said, finding a strong voice.
Bannister paled slightly, not anticipating the response. “I suspect the price may be negotiable, Oscar,” he stuttered. “And the dealer indicated he would have the document carbon-dated at his expense.”
Having purchased artifacts from grave robbers to politicians, Gutzman knew how to get his price. More than that, he knew when he was being played, and the hesitation in Bannister’s voice did not go undetected.
“Stay here,” the Fat Man said, rising unsteadily from his chair and leaving the room.
He returned a moment later with a thick binder. Gutzman sat down and opened it, revealing a collection of photographs encased in plastic sleeves. Ancient artifacts of assorted age and style, large and small, appeared in the photographs. Bannister recognized statues, carvings, and pottery that he knew were worth hundreds of thousands of dollars. Gutzman flipped to the back of the binder, then removed several photos and handed them to Bannister.
“Take a look at these,” the Fat Man huffed.
“Part of your collection?”
“Yes, from my storehouse in Portugal.”
Bannister studied the photos. The first showed a small collection of rusty swords and spear tips. The second photo showed an iron military helmet that Bannister recognized as a Roman Heddernheim type. A thin bronze panel containing the image of an eagle, a scorpion, and several crowns appeared in the next photo. The final image was of an object undistinguishable to Bannister. It appeared to be a large, angular mass of metal that was twisted and warped on one side.
“A rare collection of Roman armament,” Bannister said. “I’m guessing the eagle and scorpion reliefs are part of a battle standard?”
“Very good, Ridley. It’s not just any standard, however, but the emblem for the Scholae Palatinae, the elite Roman guards of Constantine the Great. What do you make of that last object, my friend?”
Bannister studied the photogra
ph again but shook his head.
“I’m afraid I don’t recognize it.”
Gutzman smiled in minor triumph. “It is the bronze ram from an imperial galley ship. Based on its size, it likely came from a Liburnian bireme.”
“Yes, I see it now. The business end has been flattened by contact. Where on earth did you find this?”
“It was lodged in the hull of another vessel, a fourth-century Cypriot raider, if the story is to be believed. The damaged vessel ran aground and sank in a protected area of soft silt. A number of the artifacts were remarkably preserved. It wasn’t long before the wreck was picked over by local divers, well before the state archaeologists arrived on the scene. A wealthy collector snatched up most of the items before the authorities knew what had been removed.”
“Let me guess who the wealthy collector was,” Bannister said with a smirk.
Gutzman let out a gurgled laugh. “A fortunate tip that came my way, in this particular instance,” he said, grinning.
“They are extremely nice pieces, Oscar. But why are you showing them to me?”
“I purchased these artifacts many years ago. And for many years, I have thought about the rumor of the Manifest. Is it true? Could the cargo possibly exist? Then, one night, I had a dream. I dreamt that I was holding the Manifest in my hands, much like I held your copy today. And, in my mind, I see Roman weapons and artifacts around me. But not just any artifacts. I see these artifacts,” he said, pointing to the pictures.
“We often dream the reality we seek,” Bannister said. “You really think there is a connection between the Manifest and these Roman relics? Couldn’t they have come from any sea engagement?”
“Not just any sea engagement would involve the Scholae Palatinae. You see, they were the successors to the Praetorian Guard, who were wiped out by Constantine at the Battle of Milvian Bridge, when he routed Maxentius and consolidated the empire. No, it’s clear to me that the Cypriot vessel tangled with a galley of imperial decree.”
“Does the vessel itself date to the proper era?”
Gutzman smiled again. “The vessel, as well as the armaments and artifacts, all consistently date to approximately 330 A.D. Then there is this,” he said, pointing to a weathered Roman shield in one of the photographs.
Bannister had missed it in his first viewing, but now noticed the shield beside the spear tips, featuring a faded Chi-Rho cross across its center.
“The cross of Constantine,” Bannister muttered.
“Not only that but the papyrus from Caesarea adds weight to the theory,” Gutzman said. “The dream is real, Ridley. If your Manifest is true, then I have already heard the voice of Helena through my own artifacts.”
Bannister’s eyes lit up with intrigue at the possibility of it all.
“Tell me, Oscar,” he asked pointedly, “where was the shipwreck discovered?”
“The vessel was found near the village of Pissouri, on the southern coast of Cyprus. Perhaps it is not impossible that the actual cargo of the Manifest is buried in the vicinity?” he speculated with raised brows. “Now, that would be a gift from the heavens, would it not, Ridley?”
“Indeed,” the archaeologist said, the wheels turning in his head. “It would be a discovery for the ages.”
“But, alas, we are jumping the gun. I must examine the Manifest first and see if it is indeed authentic. You tell your London friend I’m willing to pay a hundred thousand pounds for it. But I will require the carbon dating and a personal examination first,” he said, rising to his feet.
“A hundred thousand pounds?” Bannister replied, his voice the one now rasping.
“Yes, and not a penny more.”
The old collector patted Bannister on the shoulder. “Thank you for coming to me first, Ridley. I believe that we are on the path to glorious things here.”
Bannister could only nod in disappointment as he walked to the door. After he was safely down the elevator, Gutzman walked back to the living area and approached Alfar.
“You listened to our conversation?” the Fat Man asked.
“Yes, Mr. Oscar. Every word,” the Arab replied in a course accent. “But I do not understand why you do not buy this Manifest.”
“Very simple, Alfar. I am quite certain that it is Bannister who possesses the Manifest, not some London broker. He is trying to bilk me mightily for it and he yet might succeed.”
“Then why tell him about your Roman artifacts?”
“To plant the seed. You see, he has a gift for discovery. He now leaves here disillusioned about selling the Manifest but also bewildered, as am I, about the possibility that the artifacts actually exist. I am certain that his ego will drive him there immediately. It may be a fool’s gamble, but why not try? Bannister is resourceful and lucky. If it can be found, then he is the man to do it. So why not let him find it for us?”
“You are a smart man, Mr. Oscar. But how will you control Bannister?”
“I want you to contact Zakkar. Tell him I have a simple surveillance job for him, one that will pay very well.”
“He left word that he does not want to set foot in Israel for several months, if possible.”
“Feeling the heat, is he?” Gutzman said with a chuckle. “No matter. You tell him not to worry, the job won’t be in Israel. It’s Cyprus where he’ll have to earn his pay.”
55
HAMMET WINCED UNDER THE GLARE OF THE BRIGHT fluorescent lights that welcomed his first efforts at opening his eyes. The discomfort was nothing in comparison to the searing pain that throbbed from the back of his head. Forcing his lids open once more, he fought to identify where he was. The first answer was: Flat on his back, staring into a bank of overhead lights.
“Captain, how are you feeling?” came the familiar voice of the Dayan’s executive officer.
“Like I was leveled by a locomotive,” Hammet replied, raising his head to take in his surroundings.
As his vision cleared, he could see he was lying on a dining table in the ship’s mess, a stack of linen napkins serving as a makeshift pillow beneath his head. Members of his crew circled around him, concern and fear evident in their faces. Suddenly feeling self-conscious at his position, he raised himself to his elbows and slid off the table, the executive officer helping him slump into a chair. Overcoming a wave of nausea, he peered at the exec and nodded in thanks.
For the first time, he noticed that the executive officer wore a bloodied bandage around his head and that his skin was two shades paler than normal.
“I feared you were dead,” Hammet said.
“Lost a bit of blood, but I’ll manage. You had us more worried, as you slept the night away.”
The tanker captain gazed toward a nearby porthole, seeing the rays of the early-morning sun streaming in. He suddenly realized that the ship’s engine was silent and that the ship was obviously moored in place. A few feet along the bulkhead, he was startled to see a pair of black-clad men sitting on either side of the entry door. They cradled automatic rifles on their laps while staring back at him with menacing glares.
“How’d they get aboard?” Hammet asked quietly.
“Not sure,” the exec replied. “Must have been by small boat from that freighter. A group of armed men burst onto the bridge before we knew what was happening.”
“Did you get off a distress call?”
The exec shook his head grimly. “No time.”
Hammet took a headcount of his crew seated around him, noticing his third officer was absent.
“Where’s Cook?”
“He was taken to the bridge early on. My guess is, they had him piloting the ship.”
A short time later, the door to the mess was thrown open, and the third officer brusquely shoved inside by another gunman. Sporting a large bruise on his cheek, the young officer stepped to the table and approached Hammet.
“Glad to see you’re okay, Captain,” he said.
“What can you report?” Hammet asked.
“Sir, they had me pilot the s
hip at gunpoint. We tracked north at full speed all night, following a black freighter named the Ottoman Star. At around dawn, we docked alongside her in a small protected cove. We’re still in Turkish waters, about ten miles north of the Dardanelles.”
“Any idea who these people are?”
“No, sir. They spoke Turkish but made no demands. Can’t imagine why someone would hijack an empty water tanker.”
Hammet nodded in response, quietly wondering the same thing.
THE ISRAELI TANKER CREW was held aboard the ship for another twenty-four hours, given access to the galley but little else. Several times Hammet approached the guards with questions or requests but each time was silently rebuked with the muzzle of a gun. Throughout the day and night, they could hear the sound of workers and machinery echoing from the forward deck. Sneaking a peek out the porthole, Hammet could glimpse a crane swinging crates from the freighter to the tanker.
They were finally taken off the ship late in the day when some additional guards arrived and they were ordered to help load the ship. Marched down the pier, Hammet was shocked to see what had been done to his vessel. The assailants had cut away a pair of huge holes in the forward deck. The tanker’s twin forward storage tanks, which each held 150,000 gallons of water, were now exposed like a half-open can of sardines. The captain could see that the crates he had witnessed being off-loaded from the freighter now lined the perimeter bulkheads of each exposed tank.
“The idiots have converted our tanker to a cargo carrier,” he cursed as they were led ashore.
His dismay only grew when the crew was marched into the south warehouse and directed to transport the small boxes of plastic explosives from the Army container. They were guided back to the tanker, where they deposited the explosives in the center of the two open tanks. Hammet took a second to study the crates already loaded aboard, seeing they were filled with fifty-pound bags marked “Ammonium Nitrate Fuel Oil.”
“They mean to blow up the ship,” he whispered to his exec as they were marched back for a second load of HMX.
Crescent Dawn - Dirk Pitt Book 21 Page 32