Текст книги "Crescent Dawn"

Автор книги: Clive Cussler

Соавторы: Dirk Cussler,Clive Cussler
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Текущая страница: 12 (всего у книги 32 страниц)

21

Julie Goodyear strolled past a monstrous pair of long-silenced fifteen-inch naval guns pointed toward the Thames, then walked up the steps to the entrance of the Imperial War Museum. The venerated national institution in the London borough of Southwark was housed in a nineteenth-century brick edifice originally constructed as a hospital for the mentally ill. Known for its extensive collection of photographs, art, and military artifacts from World Wars I and II, the museum also contained a large archive of war documents and private letters.

Julie checked in at the information desk in the main atrium, where she was escorted up two floors in a phone-booth-sized elevator, then climbed an additional flight of stairs until reaching her destination. The museum’s reading room was an impressive circular library constructed in the building’s high central dome.

A bookish woman in a brown dress smiled in recognition as she approached the help desk.

“Good morning, Miss Goodyear. Back for another visit with Lord Kitchener?” she asked.

“Hello again, Beatrice. Yes, I’m afraid the field marshal’s enduring mysteries have drawn me back once more. I phoned a few days ago with a request for some specific materials.”

“Let me see if they have been pulled,” Beatrice replied, retreating into the private archives depository. She returned a minute later with a thick stack of files under her arm.

“I have an Admiralty White Paper inquiry on the sinking of the HMS Hampshireand First Earl Kitchener’s official war correspondence in the year 1916,” the librarian said as she had Julie sign out the documents. “Your request appears to be complete.”

“Thanks, Beatrice. I should just be a short while.”

Julie took the documents to a quiet corner table and began reading the Admiralty report on the Hampshire. There was little information to be had. She had seen earlier accusations against the Royal Navy by residents of the Orkneys, who claimed the Navy dithered in sending help to the stricken ship after its loss had been reported. The official report clearly covered up any wrongdoings by the Navy and brushed aside rumors that the ship sank by means other than a mine.

Kitchener’s correspondence proved only slightly more illuminating. She had read his war correspondence before and had found it mostly mundane. Kitchener held the post of Secretary of State for War in 1916, and most of his official writings reflected his preoccupation with manpower and recruiting needs of the British Army. A typical letter complained to the Prime Minister about pulling men from the Army to work in munition factories on the home front.

Julie skimmed rapidly through the pages until nearing June fifth, the date of Kitchener’s death on the Hampshire. The discovery that the Hampshirehad sunk from an internal explosion compelled her to consider the possibility that someone may have actually wanted him dead. The notion led her to an odd letter that she had seen months before. Thumbing through the bottom of the file, her fingers suddenly froze on the document.

Unlike the aged yellowing military correspondence, this letter was still bright white, typed on heavy cotton paper. At the top of the page was embossed “Lambeth Palace.” Slowly, Julie read the letter.

Sir,

At behest of God and Country, I implore you a final time to relinquish the document. The very sanctity of our Church depends upon it. For while you may be waging a temporal war with the enemies of England, we are waging an eternal crusade for the salvation of all mankind. Our enemies are wicked and cunning. Should they seize the Manifest, it could spell the demise of our very faith. I strongly submit there is no choice but for you to accede to the Church. I await your submittal,

– Randall Davidson

Julie recognized the author as the Archbishop of Canterbury. In the margins, she noticed a handwritten notation that said “Never!” It was written in a script that she recognized as Kitchener’s.

The letter struck her as perplexing on several levels. Kitchener, she knew, had been a churchgoing religious man. Her research had never revealed any conflicts with the Church of England, let alone the head of the Church himself, the Archbishop of Canterbury. Then there was the reference to the document or Manifest. What could that possibly be?

Though the letter seemed to have no possible bearing on the Hampshire, it was intriguing enough to stir her interest. She made a photocopy of the letter, then worked her way through the rest of the folder. Near the bottom, she found several documents related to Kitchener’s trip to Russia, including a formal invitation from the Russian Consulate and an itinerary while in Petrograd. She copied these as well, then returned the folder to Beatrice.

“Find what you were looking for?” the librarian asked.

“No, just an odd kernel here and there.”

“I’ve found that the key to discovering historical treasures is to just keep on kicking over the stones. Eventually, you’ll get there.”

“Thank you for your assistance, Beatrice.”

As she left the museum and made her way to her car, Julie reread the letter several times, finally staring at the Archbishop’s signature.

“Beatrice is right,” she finally muttered to herself. “I need to kick over some more stones.”

She didn’t have far to go. Barely a half mile down the road sat historic Lambeth Palace. A collection of ancient brick buildings towering over the banks of the Thames River, it served as the historical London residence of the Archbishop of Canterbury. Of particular interest to Julie was the presence on the grounds of the Lambeth Palace Library.

Julie knew that the palace was not typically open to the public, so she parked on a nearby street and walked to the main gate. Passing a security checkpoint, she was allowed to proceed to the Great Hall, a Gothic-style red brick building accented with white trim. Contained inside the historic structure was one of the oldest libraries in Britain, and the principal repository for the Church of England’s archives, dating back to the ninth century.

She stepped to the entrance door and rang a bell, then was escorted by a teenage boy to a small but modern reading room. Approaching the reference desk, she filled out two document request cards and handed them to a girl with short red hair.

“The papers of Archbishop Randall Davidson, for the period of January through July 1916,” the girl read with interest, “and any files regarding First Earl Horatio Herbert Kitchener.”

“I realize the latter request may be a bit unlikely, but I wish to at least attempt an inquiry,” Julie said.

“We can perform a computerized search of our archives database,” the girl replied without enthusiasm. “And what is the nature of your request?”

“Research for a biography of Lord Kitchener,” Julie replied.

“May I please see your reader ticket?”

Julie fished through her purse and handed over a library card, having utilized the Lambeth archives on several occasions. The girl copied her name and contact information, then peered at a clock on the wall.

“I’m afraid we’ll be unable to retrieve these documents before closing time. The data should be available for your review when the library reopens on Monday.”

Julie looked at the girl with disappointment, knowing that the library would still be open for another hour.

“Very well. I will return on Monday. Thank you.”

The red-haired girl clutched the document request cards tightly in her hand until Julie left the building. Then she waved the teenage boy to the counter.

“Douglas, can you please watch the desk for a minute?” she asked in an urgent tone. “I need to place a rather important phone call.”

22

Oscar Gutzman was his real name, but everyone called him the Fat Man. The origin of the moniker was evident at first sight. Carrying well over three hundred pounds on a five-foot frame, he appeared nearly as wide as he was tall. With a clean-shaven head and unusually large ears, he resembled an escapee from a traveling carnival. Yet his appearance belied the fact that Gutzman was one of the richest men in Israel.

He grew up a ragtag urchin in the streets of Jerusalem, digging up coins from the hillside tombs with orphaned Arab boys or bumming free meals from Christian soup kitchens. His exposure to Jerusalem’s diverse religions and culture, along with a hustler’s ability to survive the streets, served him well as an adult businessman. Building a tiny construction firm into the largest hotel developer in the Middle East, he became a self-made man of huge riches who floated freely with the power brokers of the entire region. His personal drive for wealth and success was surpassed, however, by his passion for antiquities.

It was the death of his younger sister at an early age, in a traffic accident outside a synagogue, that had altered his life. Like others who suffer a tragic personal loss, he began a private search for God. Only his quest migrated from the spiritual to the tangible as he sought to prove the truth of the Bible through physical evidence. A small collection of biblical-era antiquities had grown exponentially with his accumulated wealth, turning an early hobby into a lifelong passion. His artifacts, numbering in the hundreds of thousands, were now stored in warehouses spread over three countries. In his late sixties, Gutzman now devoted his full time and resources to his personal quest.

Ridley Bannister entered an upscale boutique hotel situated on a prime parcel of Tel Aviv beachfront. The lobby was decorated in a minimalist contemporary style, with a number of uncomfortable-looking black leather chairs sitting starkly on a bright white-tiled floor. Bannister considered the design well executed, though he normally detested the look. A matronly hotel clerk greeted him warmly as he stepped to the front desk.

“I have an appointment with Mr. Gutzman. My name is Bannister,” he said.

After a confirming phone call, he was escorted by a burly security guard to a private elevator and whisked to the top floor. Stepping off the elevator, the door to the penthouse was immediately thrown open by the Fat Man, a large cigar dangling from his lips.

“Ridley, come in, my boy, come in,” Gutzman greeted in a wheezy voice.

“You’re looking well, Oscar,” Bannister replied, shaking hands before entering the apartment.

Bannister still found himself marveling at Gutzman’s apartment, which resembled a museum more than a residence. Shelves and display cases were crammed everywhere, stuffed with pottery, carvings, and other relics, all thousands of years old. Gutzman led him down a hallway lined with ancient Roman mosaics, taken from a public bath in Carthage. They passed under a stone arch from the ruins of Jericho and entered an expansive living room that overlooked the sands of Tel Aviv’s Gordon Beach and the sparkling Mediterranean beyond.

Taking a seat in an overstuffed leather chair, Bannister was surprised to find the residence empty but for a lone servant. On his prior visits, he had always found a throng of antiquities dealers milling about, hoping to hawk their latest prized artifact to the rich collector.

“The heat… I find it more oppressive all the time,” Gutzman said, gasping from the walk to the front door. He then sank into an adjacent chair.

“Marta, some cold drinks, please,” he shouted to his servant.

Bannister removed the pendant from his pocket and placed it in Gutzman’s hand.

“A gift to you, Oscar. It’s from Tel Arad.”

Gutzman studied the pendant, a broad smile slowly forming across his face.

“This is quite nice, Ridley, thank you. I have a similar specimen from Nahal Besor. Early Canaanite, I would say.”

“You are correct, as usual. Is this new?” Bannister asked, pointing to a small glass plate on the coffee table that had a molded rim.

“Yes,” Gutzman said, his eyes perking up. “I just acquired it. Excavated from Beth She’an. Second-century molded glassware, probably manufactured in Alexandria. Look at the polishing on it.”

Bannister picked up the plate and studied it closely.

“It’s in beautiful condition.”

The servant Marta appeared, delivering two glasses of lemonade, before disappearing into the kitchen.

“So, Ridley, what is the latest buzz in the world of legal archaeological discovery?” Gutzman asked with a chuckle.

“There appear to be relatively few new projects slated to take the field next year. The Israel Museum will be sponsoring a dig on the shores of Galilee in search of an early settlement, while Tel Aviv University has approval for new exploration work at Megiddo. Most of the academic efforts appear to be directed at the continuation of existing field projects. There are, of course, the usual assortment of foreign theologically sponsored digs, but, as we know, they seldom amount to much.”

“True, but at least they show more imagination than the academic institutes,” Gutzman said with derision.

“I’ve been looking at two sites that I think you will be interested in. One is at Beit Jala. If Bathsheba’s tomb exists, I think it would be there, in the town of her birth, which was then called Giloh. I’ve already formulated a site summary and excavation plan.”

Gutzman nodded for him to continue.

“The second site is near Gibeon. There’s an outside chance of proving King Manasseh’s palace is located there. This one needs more research but has great potential, I believe. I can obtain the necessary excavation paperwork as before under the auspices of the Anglican Church, if you are agreeable to sponsorship.”

“Ridley, you have always delivered exciting finds, and I have found much joy in collaborating with your field digs. But I’m afraid my days of field sponsorship have come to an end.”

“You have always been most generous, Oscar,” Bannister replied, suppressing his anger at losing the support of a longtime benefactor.

Gutzman gazed out the window with a distant look in his eye.

“I have spent most of my personal fortune collecting artifacts that support the narratives of the Bible,” he said. “I own mud bricks allegedly from the Tower of Babel. I have stone footings that may have supported Solomon’s Temple. I have a million and one objects from the biblical era. Yet there is an element of doubt about each and every one of my pieces.”

He suddenly fell into a wheezing fit, coughing and gasping for air, until he settled himself with a drink of lemonade.

“Oscar, do you need help?”

The Fat Man shook his head. “My emphysema has been getting the better of me lately,” he gasped. “The doctors are not hopeful.”

“Nonsense. You’re as strong as David.”

Gutzman smiled then slowly rose to his feet. The act seemed to give him renewed strength, and he stepped briskly over to a cabinet, then returned carrying a small plate of glass.

“Take a look at this,” he said, handing it to the archaeologist.

Bannister took the glass, observing that it was actually two sealed plates compressing a document in the middle. Holding it up to the light, he could see the protected document was a rectangular piece of papyrus with clear horizontal writing.

“A fine example of Coptic script,” he noted.

“Do you know what it says?”

“I can make out a few words, but am a bit lost without my reference materials,” he acknowledged.

“It’s a harbormaster’s report from the Port of Caesarea. It details the capture of a pirate vessel by a Roman galley. The pirates had in their possession armaments from a Roman centurion, one belonging to the Scholae Palatinae.”

“Caesarea,” Bannister said with a raised brow. “I understand that some papyrus artifacts were taken as part of the recent theft there. Along with the occurrence of at least one murder.”

“Yes, most unfortunate. The document clearly dates to the early fourth century,” Gutzman said, brushing off the inference.

“Interesting,” Bannister replied, suddenly feeling uneasy with his host. “And the significance?”

“I believe it offers potentially confirming evidence of the Manifest, as well as an important clue to the cargo’s disposition.”

The Manifest. So that’s what it was all about, Bannister thought. The old goat was staring down the Grim Reaper and was making a desperate play for divine evidence before his time ran out.

Bannister chuckled to himself. He had pocketed a lot of money from both Gutzman and the Church of England trying to hunt down the legend of the Manifest. Perhaps there was still more to be gained.

“Oscar, you know I’ve searched extensively both here and in England and have come up empty.”

“There must be another path.”

“We both came to the conclusion that it probably no longer exists, if it ever did in the first place.”

“That was before this,” Gutzman said, tapping the glass plate. “I’ve been at this game a long time. I can smell the link here. It is real and I know it. I’ve decided to devote myself and my resources to this and nothing else.”

“It is a compelling clue,” Bannister admitted.

“This will be,” the Fat Man said in a tired voice, “the culmination of my life’s quest. I hope you can help me reach it, Ridley.”

“You can count on me.”

Marta appeared again, this time reminding Gutzman of a pending doctor appointment. Bannister said good-bye and let himself out of the apartment. Leaving the hotel, he contemplated the papyrus scroll and whether Gutzman’s assumptions could possibly be correct. The old collector did know his stuff, he had to admit. Of more concern to Bannister was formulating a means to profit from the Fat Man’s new pursuit. Deep in thought, Bannister didn’t notice a young man in a blue jumpsuit waiting beside his car.

“Mr. Bannister?” the youth inquired.

“Yes.”

“Courier delivery, sir,” he replied, handing Bannister a large, thin envelope.

Bannister slid into his car and locked the doors before opening the letter. Shaking out the contents, he just sat and shook his head when a first-class airline ticket to London plopped into his lap.

23

“Summer, over here!”

Stepping off the train from Great Yarmouth with a travel bag over her shoulder, Summer had to scan the crowded platform a moment before spotting Julie standing to one side, waving her hand in the air.

“Thanks for meeting me,” she said, greeting the researcher with a hug. “I’m not sure I’d find my way out of here alone,” she added, marveling at the massive covered rail yard of the Liverpool Street Station in northeast London.

“It’s actually pretty simple,” Julie replied with a grin. “You just follow all the other rats out of the maze.”

She led Summer past several station platforms and through the bustling terminal concourse to a nearby parking lot. There they climbed into a green Ford compact that resembled an overgrown insect.

“How was the voyage down to Yarmouth?” Julie asked as she navigated the car into the London traffic.

“Miserable. We caught a northerly storm front after leaving Scapa Flow and faced gale force winds during our entire run down the North Sea. I’m still feeling a little wobbly.”

“I guess I should be thankful I was able to fly back from Scotland.”

“So what’s the latest on the mystery of the Hampshire’s sinking?” Summer asked. “Have you established any connection with Lord Kitchener?”

“Just a very few loose threads, quite tenuous at best, I’m afraid. I checked the Admiralty’s official inquiry into the sinking of the Hampshire, but it was a banal White Paper that simply blamed destruction on a German mine. I also examined the claim that the IRA may have planted a bomb on the ship, but it seems to be without merit.”

“Any chance that the Germans could have planted a bomb?”

“There’s absolutely no indication from known German records, so that seems unlikely as well. It was their belief that a mine from U-75 caused the sinking. Unfortunately, the U-boat’s captain, Kurt Beitzen, didn’t survive the war, so we have no official German account of the event.”

“So that’s two brick walls. Where are those loose threads that you were talking about?” Summer asked.

“Well, I carefully reviewed some of my documents on Kitchener and rechecked his military war records. Two unusual documents cropped up. In the late spring of 1916, he made a special request to the Army for two armed bodyguards for an unspecified reason. In that age, bodyguards were something of a rarity, reserved for perhaps only the King. The other item was a strange letter I found in his military files.”

Stopping at a red light, she reached into a folder on the backseat and handed Summer a copy of the letter from Archbishop Davidson.

“Like I said, they are two flimsy items that probably mean nothing.”

Summer quickly scanned the letter, wrinkling her brow at its contents.

“This Manifest he refers to… Is it some sort of Church document?”

“I really haven’t a clue,” Julie replied. “That’s why our first stop is the Church of England’s archives at Lambeth Palace. I’ve ordered up the Archbishop’s personal records in hopes we might find something more substantial.”

They crossed the River Thames over the London Bridge and drove into Lambeth, where Julie parked the green Ford near the palace. Summer absorbed the beauty of the ancient building that fronted the water, with Buckingham Palace visible across the river. They made their way to the Grand Hall, where they were escorted to the library’s reading room. Summer noticed a thin, handsome man smile at them from a copy machine as they entered.

The archivist had a thick stack of folders waiting when Julie approached the desk.

“Here are the Archbishop’s records. I’m afraid we had nothing on file related to Lord Kitchener,” the young woman declared.

“Quite all right,” Julie replied. “Thank you for searching.”

The two women moved to a table and split the files and then began poring through the documents.

“The Archbishop was a rather prolific writer,” Summer noted, impressed with the volume.

“Apparently so. This is his correspondence for just the first half of 1916.”

As she attacked the file, Summer noticed the man at the copy machine gather some books and take a seat at the table directly behind her. Her nose detected a dose of cologne, musky but pleasing, which wafted from the man’s direction. Taking a quick glance over her shoulder, she noticed he wore an antique-looking gold ring on his right hand.

She flipped through the letters quickly, finding them mostly dry pronouncements on budget and policy directed at the subordinate Bishops around Britain, along with their in-kind replies. After an hour, the women had both weeded through half of their piles.

“Here’s a letter from Kitchener,” Julie suddenly announced.

Summer peered anxiously across the table. “What does it say?”

“It appears to be a response to the Archbishop’s letter, as it is dated just a few days later. It’s short, so I’ll read it to you:

“Your Excellency,

I regret that I am unable to comply with your recent request. The Manifest is a document of powerful historic consequence. It demands public exposure when the world is again at peace. I fear that in your hands, the Church would only bury the revelation, in order to protect its existing theological tenets. I beg of you to recall your subordinates, who continue to persecute me ceaselessly.

Your obedient servant, “H.H. Kitchener”

“Whatever could this Manifest be?” Summer wondered.

“I don’t know, but Kitchener clearly held a copy of it and felt it was important.”

“Obviously the Church did, too.”

Summer heard the man behind her clear his throat, then turn and lean over their table.

“Pardon me for overhearing, but did you say Kitchener?” he asked with a disarming smile.

“Yes,” Summer replied. “My friend Julie is writing a biography of the field marshal.”

“My name is Baker,” Ridley Bannister lied, obtaining introductions in return. “Might I suggest that a better source of Lord Kitchener historical documents may be found at the Imperial War Museum?”

“Kind of you to say, Mr. Baker,” Julie replied, “but I’ve already exhaustively searched their materials.”

“Which brings you here?” he asked. “I wouldn’t expect a military hero’s influence to stretch very far into the Church of England.”

“Just tracing some correspondence he had with the Archbishop of Canterbury,” she replied.

“Then this would indeed be the place,” Bannister said, smiling broadly.

“What is the nature of your research?” Summer asked him.

“Just a bit of hobby research. I’m investigating a few old abbey sites that were destroyed during Henry VIII’s purge of the monasteries.” He held up a dusty book entitled Abbey Plans of Olde England, then turned again toward Julie.

“Have you uncovered any new secrets about Kitchener?”

“That honor belongs to Summer. She helped prove that the ship he was sunk on may have had a planted explosive aboard.”

“The Hampshire?” he said. “I thought it was proven that she had struck a German mine.”

“The blast hole indicates that the explosion originated inside the ship,” Summer replied.

“Perhaps the old rumor of the IRA planting a bomb aboard may have been true,” he said.

“You know the story behind that?” Julie asked.

“Yes,” Bannister replied. “The Hampshirewas sent to Belfast for a refit in early 1916. Some believe a bomb was inserted into the ship there and detonated months later.”

“You seem to know a lot about the Hampshire,” Summer commented.

“I’m just an obsessive World War One history buff,” Bannister replied. “So, where is your research taking you from here?”

“We’ll be going to Kent for another pass through Kitchener’s personal papers housed at Broome Park,” Julie said.

“Have you seen his last diary?”

“Why, no,” Julie said, surprised at the question. “It has always been presumed to have been lost.”

Bannister looked down at his watch. “Oh my, look at the time. I’m afraid I must run. It was a delight to meet you ladies,” he said, rising from the table and offering a faint bow. “May your quest for historical knowledge meet with profound fulfillment.”

He quickly returned his book to the librarian, then waved good-bye as he left the reading room.

“Quite a handsome fellow,” Julie gushed with a grin.

“Yes,” Summer agreed. “He was certainly knowledgeable about Kitchener and the Hampshire.”

“That’s true. I wouldn’t think too many people would be aware that Kitchener’s last diary went missing.”

“Wouldn’t it have gone down with him on the ship?”

“Nobody knows. He traditionally captured his writings in small bound books that covered the period of a single year. His writings from 1916 were never found, so it’s always been presumed that he carried it with him on the Hampshire.”

“What do you make of Mr. Baker’s claim that the IRA may have bombed the Hampshire?”

“It’s one of many outlandish assertions that arose after the sinking that I’ve found has no historical justification. It’s difficult to believe that the Hampshirewould have been carrying a bomb aboard for over six months. The IRA, or Irish Volunteers as they were known at the time, certainly wouldn’t have known that far in advance that Kitchener would set foot on the ship. They didn’t actually become a very militant group until the Easter Rising in April of 1916, well after the Hampshirehad left Belfast. More telling is the fact that they never actually claimed responsibility for the sinking.”

“Then I guess we keep digging,” Summer said, opening up a new folder of the Archbishop’s papers.

They worked for another hour before the stacks grew thin. Nearing the bottom of her last folder, Summer suddenly sat upright when she read a short letter from a Bishop in Portsmouth. She read it a second time before passing it over to Julie.

“Take a look at this,” she said.

“‘The parcel has been delivered and the messenger sent away,’” Julie said, reading the letter aloud. “‘The item of interest shall cease to be a concern within 72 hours.’ Signed, Bishop Lowery, Portsmouth Diocese.”

Julie set the letter down and gave Summer a blank look. “I’m afraid I don’t see the relevancy,” she said.

“Look at the date.”

Julie gazed at the top of the letter. “June 2, 1916. Three days before the Hampshiresank,” she said in a surprised voice.

“It would seem,” Summer said quietly, “that the plot has thickened.”