Quickly hobbling over, Pitt bent over the dead man and searched around his hands.
“Looking for this?” came a sudden taunt from the galley.
Hesitantly peering over his shoulder, Pitt saw Zakkar looking at him with the dead gunman’s pistol aimed squarely at his head.
98
PITT DIDN’T KNOW WHY THE ARAB DIDN’T IMMEDIATELY shoot him. Zakkar stood motionless for several seconds before Pitt noticed that he was looking past him. Pitt cautiously followed his gaze toward the channel, where an unusual disturbance appeared in the water.
A dull glow was visible beneath the surface, gradually growing brighter as a mass of bubbles agitated the waters above it. A glaring bank of xenon lights was the first thing to emerge from the depths, followed by an acrylic cockpit and then a long white hull. Pitt gave a grim smile toward the Bullet as it broke to the surface, then bobbed in the grotto channel.
Seated at the controls, Dirk and Giordino looked out of the cockpit in awe at the sight of the large cavern and the Roman galley parked at its center. Then they saw Pitt standing under the barrel of Zakkar’s gun, both men bathed in the submersible’s glaring lights. Looking up at the Arab, Dirk nearly choked in recognition.
“That’s the terrorist from Jerusalem,” he stammered to Giordino. “Keep the lights on him.”
Before Giordino could respond, Dirk had bolted from his seat and opened the rear hatch. In an instant, he climbed to the side ballast tank, still clutching Herman Melville’s book in his hand. The submersible was nearly ten feet from the bank as Giordino pivoted it to face the galley, but Dirk didn’t wait for him to move closer. Taking a running leap, he jumped into the channel and swam to shore, holding the book over his head.
On the galley’s deck, Zakkar surveyed the scene with agitation. He turned his pistol toward Pitt and fired a quick shot, watching him fall prone to the sand. Then he focused his attention on the submersible. Though he heard the splash of Dirk jumping into the water, he couldn’t see him emerge on shore due to the Bullet’s blinding lights. Taking careful aim, he shot out one of them, then peppered the acrylic bubble with several shots before eliminating a second light. Then he noticed a tall figure emerge on shore with his arms stretched out in front of him.
Zakkar fired first, missing with a bullet that whizzed instead within a hair of Dirk’s left ear. Dirk kept moving, marching directly toward the Arab without flinching. A surge of emotions ran through his body, from loving thoughts of Sophie to torrid flashes of anger and vengeance. But noticeably absent was any sense of fear.
Locking Zakkar in the sights of the Colt .45 he held in his outstretched hands, he calmly squeezed the trigger. Neither the roar nor the kick from the .45 slowed his pace, and he marched closer, squeezing the trigger with each step like some robotic soldier.
Dirk’s first shot splintered the rail in front of Zakkar, and Zakkar flinched with his return volley, missing high. He didn’t get another chance to fire. The next slug from Dirk’s .45 tore into Zakkar’s shoulder, nearly taking his arm off. He spun, then fell back against the rail, where he was hit again in the side.
Slumped over the rail as the life drained out of him, Zakkar wasn’t allowed a slow death. Dirk marched closer, pumping five more shots into him, until leaving an ugly mass of red carnage streaming down the galley’s hull. He stood staring at the dead terrorist as the cavern fell silent for a moment, then he turned at the sound of splashing water behind him.
Summer had helped guide the Bullet through the sea cave’s entrance and came staggering up the submerged ledge. Reaching dry land, she ran up to Dirk, panting, “Where’s Dad?”
Dirk nodded grimly toward the prone figure in the Roman helmet and armor lying near the first dead gunman. Giordino had since run the submersible to shore and hopped out, joining Dirk and Summer in rushing over to Pitt.
The head of NUMA stirred slowly, then looked up and gave his kids a weary smile.
“Dad, are you okay?” Summer asked.
“I’m fine,” he assured. “Just got knocked a bit woozy. Help me to my feet.”
As Dirk and Summer helped him up, Giordino surveyed the armor and grinned.
“Hail, Caesar,” he said, thumping his chest with a closed fist.
“I should thank Caesar,” Pitt replied, pulling off the helmet. He held it up, showing a crease near the temple where Zakkar had grazed it with a bullet.
“That’ll ring your bell,” Giordino said.
Pitt swung the cuirass off his back and examined it. Three neat, round bullet holes had pierced the breastplate, but they had just left indentations in the back plate. Only by doubling over the armor had Pitt’s life been spared.
“There’s something to be said for Roman engineering,” he said.
Dropping the armor to the ground, he looked over at Dirk and the .45 still gripped in his hand.
“That Colt looks familiar.”
Dirk reluctantly passed the weapon to his father. “You told me once how Loren had sent you a gun in Mongolia hidden in a cutout copy of Moby-Dick. I checked your cabin on a hunch and saw it on the shelf. Hope you don’t mind.”
Pitt shook his head, then gazed at the bloody muck that was left of Zakkar.
“You did quite a number on him,” he said.
“That lowlife led the attacks at Caesarea and Jerusalem,” Dirk replied coldly, leaving unsaid the fact that Zakkar was indirectly responsible for Sophie’s death.
“It’s pretty odd that he ended up here,” Summer said.
“I suspect your British friend might know something about that,” Pitt said, pointing toward Bannister.
The archaeologist had pulled himself upright against the rocks and stared at them with a dazed look.
“I’ll go check on him,” Giordino offered. “Why don’t you guys find out what’s aboard.”
“Did you find the Manifest cargo?” Summer asked hopefully.
“I was a bit too preoccupied to find out,” Pitt replied. “Come, somebody help a feeble old man aboard.”
With Dirk and Summer’s aid, Pitt hobbled up onto the galley, then climbed down the companionway to the dark galley deck. He limped over to the stack of crates that he had earlier used for cover.
“I suggest we start here,” he said. Grabbing one of the smaller crates, he blew a layer of dust off of its side, then shined a flashlight at it. A faded red Chi-Rho symbol was visible on the wood.
“Summer, that’s your Cross of Constantine,” Dirk noted.
Summer grabbed the flashlight from her father’s hand and studied the image, nodding quietly in excitement.
The crate showed damage along its side, where a burst from Zakkar’s Uzi had riddled the edge. Pitt took the butt of his .45 and rapped it carefully against the damaged seam to open the crate. The narrow end piece easily popped off, causing the damaged front cover to fall away. A pair of well-worn leather sandals tumbled out of the open box, falling to the deck. Summer tracked the sandals with the flashlight’s beam, noting a small slip of parchment strapped to one of the shoes. Shining the light closer, she illuminated a handwritten label penned in Latin:
Sandalii Christus
The translation was not lost on anyone. They were staring at the shoes of Jesus.
EPILOGUE
THE SAVIORS
99
THE CROWDS HAD GATHERED OUTSIDE THE DOORS OF Hagia Sophia in an immense line that stretched for more than six blocks. Pious Christians rubbed elbows with devout Muslims as pilgrims of both religions waited anxiously for the doors to open to the exhibit displayed inside. The venerated landmark building had been witness to countless historical dramas in the fourteen hundred years it had dominated the skyline of Istanbul. Yet few events in its past had generated the kind of excitement that pulsed through the crowd clamoring for a chance to make their way inside.
Those in the crowd paid scant attention to the old green Delahaye convertible parked in front of the entrance. Had they looked closer, they might have noticed a seam of bullet holes
stitched across the trunk, which the car’s new owner had yet to repair.
Inside the building, a small group of VIPs stepped reverently across Coronation Square, admiring the dual exhibits beneath Hagia Sophia’s towering main dome one hundred and seventy-seven feet above their heads. To their right, they found a display devoted to the life of Muhammad, containing the stolen battle pendant, a partial handwritten recitation of the Qur’an, and other artifacts gleaned from the personal collection of Ozden Celik. On the left side of the hall were the relics of Jesus, discovered on the galley in Cyprus. Dozens of armed guards began assembling around the display cases of both exhibits, preparing for the museum’s formal opening to the public.
Giordino and Gunn were conversing with Loren and Pitt near a glass-encased ossuary when Dr. Ruppé joined them.
“It’s magnificent!” Ruppé beamed. “I can’t believe you pulled this off. A joint exhibit featuring relics from the lives of both Jesus and Muhammad. And in such a setting.”
“With its historic legacy as both a church and a mosque, Hagia Sophia seemed like the perfect place to showcase the artifacts,” Pitt said. “I guess you could say that the Mayor of Istanbul owed me one as well,” he added with a grin.
“It certainly helped that the folks in Cyprus agreed to a tour of the Jesus artifacts while they construct a permanent exhibit for the relics and the galley,” Gunn said.
“Don’t forget the late Mr. Celik’s contributions,” Giordino said.
“Yes, the Muhammad relics all belong to the good people of Turkey now,” Pitt noted.
“Another job well done,” Ruppé said. “The public is going to be thrilled. It really is an inspired lesson in tolerance to combine the religious histories.” He looked at Pitt with an arched brow. “You know, if I were a gambling man, I might think you were simply trying to hedge your bets in the afterlife.”
“It never hurts to have insurance,” he replied with a wink.
Across the square, Julie Goodyear stood enthralled before a small case containing several faded sheets of papyrus.
“Summer, can you believe this? It’s an actual letter written by Jesus to Peter.”
Summer smiled at the enthusiasm displayed on the historian’s face.
“Yes, there’s a translation below. He appears to be instructing Peter to make preparations for a large gathering. Some biblical archaeologists believe it could be a reference to the Sermon on the Mount.”
After staring at the document for a short while, Julie turned to Summer and shook her head.
“It’s just unbelievable. The fact that these artifacts were listed on a physical document that survived to this day is amazing enough. But then to have actually discovered all of the artifacts, and in excellent condition to boot, is nothing short of a miracle.”
“With some hard work and a little luck thrown in,” Summer replied with a smile. Spotting Loren and Pitt across the floor, she said, “Come on, I want you to meet my father.”
As Summer led Julie across the floor, Julie made her stop for a moment at the very first item in the Jesus exhibit. Displayed in a thick, protective case was the original Manifest. Beneath it was a small tag that read “On Loan from Ridley Bannister.”
“It’s nice to see the original again, though frankly I’m surprised that Mr. Bannister agreed to loan it to the exhibit,” Julie said.
“He nearly died in the grotto on Cyprus, and I dare say he came out of the experience a changed man. It was actually his suggestion to include the Manifest in the exhibit, and he has already agreed to display it permanently, along with the other relics, in Cyprus. Of course, he has managed to produce a book and documentary film about the Manifest,” she added with a smirk.
They stepped over to Pitt and the others, where Summer introduced her friend.
“It’s a pleasure to meet the young lady responsible for all this historic treasure,” Pitt said graciously.
“Please, my role was minuscule,” Julie replied. “You and Summer were the ones that discovered the actual relics. Especially the most intriguing item,” she added, pointing over Pitt’s shoulder at the limestone ossuary.
“Yes, the ossuary of J,” Pitt replied. “It created quite a stir, at first. But after careful analysis, the epigraphists deciphered the Aramaic inscription found on the front as reading ‘Joseph,’ not ‘Jesus.’ A number of experts postulate it’s Joseph of Aramathea, but I guess we’ll never know for sure.”
“I would think it’s likely. He was wealthy enough for an elaborate tomb and ossuary. Why else would Helena have included it in the collection? It’s just a shame that the bones have vanished.”
“That’s a mystery I’ll leave to you,” Pitt said. “Speaking of which, Summer tells me that you’ve found a new clue regarding Lord Kitchener and the Hampshire.”
“Yes, indeed. Summer may have told you how we found letters from a Bishop named Lowery who hounded Kitchener to turn over the Manifest shortly before the Hampshire’s sinking. Lowery was disabled in an automobile accident a short time later and ended up taking his own life in a bout of depression. I found a suicide note in his family’s papers in which he admitted to his role in the Hampshire disaster. The ship was intentionally sunk out of fear that Kitchener was taking the Manifest to Russia for public release. At a time when the First World War was at a stalemate, the Church of England was apparently terrified of its contents, particularly in regard to the ossuary of J and its paradox to the Resurrection.”
“I guess the Church is going to have a bit of explaining to do.”
As they talked, Loren drifted over to a small painting displayed behind velvet ropes. Easily destined to be the most popular item of the exhibit, it was a contemporary portrait of Jesus on a wooden panel, painted by a Roman artist. Though lacking the skilled hand of a Rembrandt or a Rubens, the artist nevertheless had created a strikingly realistic portrait of a reflective man. Lean-faced, dark-haired, and bearded, the subject stared from the panel with a striking aura. It was the eyes, Loren decided. The olive-colored orbs nearly jumped off the panel, gleaming with a mixture of intensity and compassion.
Loren studied the painting for several minutes, then called Summer to her side.
“The only known contemporary image of Jesus,” Summer said reverently as she approached. “Isn’t it remarkable?”
“Yes, quite.”
“Most of the Roman paintings that survived from that era are in the form of frescoes, so a freestanding portrait is quite rare. One of the experts believes it may have been created by the same artist who painted a well-known fresco in Palmyra, Syria. The artist likely painted frescoes in the homes of the wealthy of Judaea and supplemented his income with portraits. The historians seem to think he captured Jesus at the height of his ministry, shortly before he was arrested and crucified.”
She followed Loren’s gaze and studied the subject.
“He has a true Mediterranean look about him, doesn’t he?” Summer said. “A real man of the sun and wind.”
“Certainly nothing like the images created by the master medieval painters depicting Jesus as though he was born in Sweden,” Loren said. “Does he remind you of someone?” she asked, entranced by the image.
Summer tilted her head while studying the painting, then smiled. “Now that you mention it, there is a resemblance.”
“A resemblance to whom?” Pitt asked, stepping over to join them.
“He has wavy black hair, a lean face, and a tan complexion,” Loren said. “The same features as you.”
Pitt looked at the painting, then shook his head. “No, his eyes aren’t quite as green. And judging by the background, he couldn’t have stood more than five foot three and weighed much over a hundred pounds. On top of that, there’s another big difference between us,” he added with a slight grin.
“What’s that?” Loren asked.
“He walked on water. I swim in it.”
100
THE AFTERNOON HEAT HAD PASSED ITS ZENITH, AND THE sun was casting long shad
ows on the Jerusalem District Court Building when the final jury verdict was read. The television and print reporters were the first to exit the building, anxious to file their stories on the trial. The courthouse hounds and curiosity seekers who had filled the courtroom gallery filed out next, gossiping among themselves about the outcome. Last came the witnesses and attorneys, thankful that the long trial had finally reached its end. Noticeably absent, however, was the defendant. Oscar Gutzman would not stroll freely out the front door of the courthouse. Cuffed and under heavy guard, he was quietly escorted out the back door and into a waiting police van, which whisked him away to Shikma Prison to begin serving his sentence.
Dirk Jr. and Sam Levine lingered in the foyer, thanking the prosecuting attorneys for their good work, before stepping out into the fading sunlight. Both men wore the look of bitter justice on their faces, knowing that the verdict would never fully make up for the deaths of Sophie and her fellow antiquities agent.
“Fifteen years for aiding and abetting the death of agent Holder at Caesarea,” Sam said. “We couldn’t have done much better.”
“It should ensure that he dies in prison,” Dirk replied impassively.
“In his poor health, I’ll be surprised if he survives the first year.”
“Then you better get moving if you’re going to try him on antiquities charges,” Dirk said.
“Actually, we’ve already cut a plea deal with his attorneys. Although we had a solid case against him for trafficking in stolen antiquities, adding a few years to his sentence would have been an academic exercise.”
“So what did you get out of him?”
“All charges were dropped in exchange for him cooperating in the ongoing investigation into the sources of the stolen artifacts in his collection. In addition,” Sam said with a smile, “Gutzman has agreed to bequeath his entire collection to the State of Israel upon his death.”
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