Текст книги "Crescent Dawn"

Автор книги: Clive Cussler

Соавторы: Dirk Cussler,Clive Cussler
сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 3 (всего у книги 32 страниц)

“I guess that means no wild night out on Chios for King Al,” Giordino said, passing the towel to Pitt.

Pitt glanced at the sleepy village ringing the harbor, then climbed into the idling truck.

“To be honest,” he said as the driver began pulling away, “I’m not sure Chios is ready for King Al.”

3

The commuter plane touched down at Atatürk International Airport in Istanbul just before dark. Scurrying around a mass of commercial jumbo jets like a mosquito in a beehive, the small plane pulled into an empty terminal slot and bumped to a halt.

Pitt was one of the last passengers off the plane and had barely stepped into the tiled terminal when he was mauled by a tall attractive woman with cinnamon-colored hair.

“You were supposed to beat me here,” Loren Smith said, pulling away after a deep embrace. “I was afraid you weren’t going to come at all.” Her violet eyes beamed with relief as she gazed at her husband.

Pitt crooked an arm around her waist and gave her a long kiss. “A tire problem on the plane delayed our departure. Have you been waiting long?”

“Less than an hour.” She crumpled her nose and licked her lips. “You taste salty.”

“Al and I found a shipwreck on the way to the airport.”

“I should have guessed,” she said, then gave him a scolding look. “I thought you told me flying and diving didn’t mix?”

“They don’t. But that puddle jumper I flew in on barely cleared a thousand feet, so I’m plenty safe.”

“You get the bends while we’re in Istanbul, and I’ll kill you,” she said, holding him tight. “Is the shipwreck anything interesting?”

“It appears to be.”

He held up his overnight bag with the artifacts wrapped inside. “We retrieved a couple of artifacts that should be revealing. I invited Dr. Rey Ruppé of the Istanbul Archaeology Museum to join us for dinner tonight, in hopes that he can shed some further light.”

Loren stood on her toes and looked into Pitt’s green eyes, her brow wrinkled.

“It’s a good thing I knew when I married you that you’d always keep the sea as a mistress,” she said.

“Fortunately,” he replied with a grin while holding her close, “I have a heart big enough for the both of you.”

Grabbing her hand, they waded through the terminal crowd and collected his baggage, then caught a taxi to a hotel in Istanbul’s central historic district of Sultanahmet. After a quick shower and change, they hopped another cab for a short ride to a quiet residential area a dozen blocks away.

“Balikçi Sabahattin,” the cabdriver announced.

Pitt helped Loren out onto a quaint cobblestone lane. On the opposite side of the street was the restaurant, housed in a picturesque wood-frame house built in the 1920s. The couple waded past some tables outside to reach the front door and entered an elegant foyer. A thickset man with thinning hair and a jovial smile stepped up and shoved out a hand in greeting.

“Dirk, glad you could find the place,” he said, crushing Pitt’s hand in a vise grip. “Welcome to Istanbul.”

“Thanks, Rey, it’s good to see you again. I’d like you to meet my wife, Loren.”

“A pleasure,” Ruppé replied graciously, shaking Loren’s hand with less vigor. “I hope you can forgive an old shovel jockey’s intrusion on dinner tonight. I’m off to Rome in the morning for an archaeology conference, so this was the only opportunity I had to discuss your husband’s underwater discovery.”

“It’s no intrusion at all. I’m always fascinated by what Dirk pulls off the seafloor,” she said with a laugh. “Plus, you have obviously led us to a lovely dining spot.”

“One of my favorite seafood restaurants in Istanbul,” Ruppé replied.

A hostess appeared and escorted them down a hallway to one of several dining rooms fitted into the former house. They took their seats at a linen-covered table aside a large window that overlooked the back garden.

“Perhaps you can recommend some regional favorites, Dr. Ruppé,” Loren said. “It’s my first visit to Turkey.”

“Please, call me Rey. When in Turkey, you can never go wrong with fish. Both the turbot and sea bass are excellent here. Of course, I can never seem to eat my fill of kebobs, either,” he grinned, rubbing his belly.

After placing their orders, Loren asked Ruppé how long he had lived in Turkey.

“Gosh, going on twenty-five years now. I came over one summer from Arizona State to teach a marine archaeology field school and never left. We located an old Byzantine merchant trader off the shores of Kos that we excavated, and I’ve been busy here ever since.”

“Dr. Ruppé is the foremost authority on Byzantine and Ottoman marine antiquities in the eastern Mediterranean,” Pitt said. “His expertise has been invaluable on many of our projects in the region.”

“Like with your husband, shipwrecks are my true love,” he said. “Since taking the maritime studies post at the Archaeology Museum, I regrettably spend less time in the field than I’d prefer.”

“The burden of management,” Pitt concurred.

The waiter set a large plate of mussels with rice on the table as an appetizer, which they all quickly sampled.

“You certainly work out of a fascinating city,” Loren noted.

“Yes, Istanbul does live up to its nickname as the ‘Queen of Cities.’ Born to the Greeks, raised by the Romans, and matured under the Ottomans. Its legacy of ancient cathedrals, mosques, and palaces can grip even the most jaded historian. But as a home to twelve million people, it does have its challenges.”

“I’ve heard that the political climate is one of them.”

“Is changing it the purpose of your visit, Congresswoman?” Ruppé asked, with a grin.

Loren Smith smiled at the allusion. Though a long-serving House representative from the state of Colorado, she wasn’t much of a political animal.

“Actually, I only came to Istanbul to visit my wayward husband. I’ve been traveling with a congressional delegation touring the south Caucasus and just stopped off on my way back to Washington. A State Department envoy on the plane mentioned that there were U.S. security concerns about the growing fundamentalist movement in Turkey.”

“He’s right. As you know, Turkey is a secular state that is ninety-eight percent Muslim, mostly of the Sunni faith. But there has been a growing movement under Mufti Battal, who’s centered here in Istanbul, for fundamentalist reforms. I’m no expert in these matters, so I can’t tell you the actual extent of his appeal. But Turkey is suffering economic distress like other places, which breeds unhappiness and discontent with the status quo. The hard times seem to be playing right into his hands. He’s visible everywhere these days, really attacking the sitting President.”

“Aside from upsetting the Western alliances, I can’t help but think that a Turkish shift toward fundamentalism would make the entire Middle East an even more dangerous place,” Loren replied.

“With a Shia-controlled Iran flexing her military muscle, I fear your concerns are quite valid.”

Their dinners were brought to the table, Loren receiving a baked sea bass dish and Pitt a grilled grouper plate, while Ruppé dined on Black Sea turbot.

“Sorry to ruin the meal with politics, it’s a bit of an occupational hazard,” Loren apologized. “The sea bass is outstanding, I’m happy to report.”

“I don’t mind, and I’m sure Dirk is used to it,” Ruppé said with a wink. He turned to his old friend. “So, Dirk, tell me about your project in the Aegean.”

“We’re investigating a number of low-oxygen dead zones in the eastern Mediterranean,” Pitt replied between bites. “The Turkish Environment Ministry has steered us to a number of regional spots in the Aegean where recurring algae blooms have snuffed out all marine life. It’s a growing problem we’ve been seeing in many places around the globe.”

“I know that it’s been a major concern in the Chesapeake Bay, right in our own backyard,” Loren remarked.

“Dead zones in the Chesapeake have become quite large in recent summer months,” Pitt acknowledged.

“All due to pollutants?” Ruppé asked.

Pitt nodded. “In most instances, the dead zones are located near the delta areas of large rivers. Low oxygen levels are usually a direct result of nutrient pollution, primarily in the form of nitrogen from agricultural or industrial runoff. The nutrients in the water initially create a mass growth of phytoplankton, or algae blooms. When the algae ultimately die and sink to the bottom, the decomposition process removes oxygen from the water. If the process reaches critical mass, the water becomes anoxic, killing all marine life and creating a dead zone.”

“What have you found so far in Turkish waters?”

“We’ve confirmed the presence of a moderately sized dead zone between the Greek island of Chios and the Turkish mainland. We are continuing to conduct survey work in the region and will ultimately map the perimeter and intensity of the zone.”

“Have you traced its source?” Loren asked.

Pitt shook his head. “The Turkish Environment Ministry is helping identify potential industrial or agricultural polluters in the area, but we’re not close to identifying the source, or sources, just yet.”

The waiter appeared and cleared their dinner dishes, then brought a tray of fresh apricots and three coffees to the table. Loren was surprised to find that her coffee was already sweetened.

“Dirk, is your shipwreck located in the dead zone?” Ruppé asked.

“No, but not far off. We were actually laid up repairing our sensing equipment when we discovered the site. A fishing boat that is now short a few feet of net gave us some help.”

“In your call, you mentioned retrieving some artifacts?”

“Yes, I actually brought them with me,” Pitt replied, nodding toward a black bag that sat near his feet.

Ruppé’s eyes lit up, then he looked at his watch. “It’s after eleven, and I’ve probably kept you up too late as it is. But the museum is just a few minutes down the road. I’d love to take a look at the items, and then you can leave them in the safety of my lab, if you like.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Loren piped up, averting potential disappointment for her husband. “We’re both dying to have your assessment.”

“Great,” Ruppé smiled. “Let’s enjoy our coffee, and then we can go to my office to take a proper look at what you found.”

The coffee cups drained and the check paid, the trio wandered out of the restaurant and up the street. Ruppé stopped in front of a green Volkswagen Karmann Ghia convertible parked at the curb.

“My apologies for the lack of legroom, I know the backseat is pretty cramped,” he said.

“I love these old VWs,” Loren said. “I haven’t seen one this nice in ages.”

“She’s getting on in years but still runs like a top,” Ruppé said. “I’ve found it to be a great car for zipping around the cramped streets of Istanbul, though I miss having air-conditioning.”

“Who needs that when the top goes down?” Pitt mused, taking the passenger seat after Loren had wedged herself into the backseat.

Ruppé drove back into the heart of the city, then turned through a large arched gate.

“We’re entering the grounds of Topkapi, the old Ottoman palace,” he explained. “Our museum is located near the entrance to the inner courtyard. You should take a tour of the palace, if you have the chance. But go early, it’s a tourist favorite.”

Ruppé motored through a parklike setting studded with historic buildings. Driving up a slight rise, he pulled into an employee parking lot at the rear of the Istanbul Archaeology Museum. A half block away rose the high wall that surrounded the inner palace of Topkapi.

After uncoiling themselves from the cramped car, Loren and Pitt followed Ruppé toward a large neoclassical building.

“The museum actually encompasses three buildings,” Ruppé explained. “There’s the Museum of the Ancient Orient around the front, next to the Tiled Kiosk, which houses the Museum of Islamic Art. I kick around here in the main building, which houses the Archaeology Museum.”

Ruppé led them up the back steps of the columned building, constructed in the nineteenth century. After he unlocked the back door, they were greeted by a night watchman stationed just inside.

“Good evening, Dr. Ruppé,” the guard said. “Working late again?”

“Hi, Avni. Just a quick visit with some friends, and then we’ll be gone.”

“Take your time. It’s just me and the crickets.”

Ruppé led his guests through the main hallway, which was filled with ancient statues and carvings. Exhibit halls on either side show-cased elaborate tombs from across the Middle East. The archaeologist stopped and pointed out a massive stone sarcophagus covered with bas-relief carvings.

“The Alexander Sarcophagus, our most famous artifact. The scenes along the sides depict Alexander the Great in battle. Nobody knows who’s actually inside, though many believe it’s a Persian Governor named Mazaeus.”

“Beautiful artwork,” Loren murmured. “How old is it?”

“Fourth century B.C.”

Ruppé guided them down a side corridor and into a spacious office overflowing with books. A large lab table occupied one wall, its stainless steel surface covered with artifacts in varying stages of conservation. Ruppé flicked on a bank of overhead lights, which brightly illuminated the room.

“Let’s take a look at your soggy goods,” he said, pulling a couple of stools up to the table.

Pitt unzipped the bag and pulled out Giordino’s iron box, unwrapping it carefully from the towel.

“Somebody’s piggy bank, I believe,” he said. “The lock came off by itself,” he explained with a guilty grin.

Ruppé slipped on a pair of reading glasses and studied the box.

“Yes, it looks like the equivalent of a strongbox, quite old from the appearance.”

“The contents might make dating it a little easier,” Pitt remarked.

Ruppé’s eyes widened as he opened the lid. Spreading a cloth on the table, he carefully laid out the silver and gold coins, seven in all.

“I should have let you pay for dinner,” he said.

“My word, is that real gold?” Loren asked, picking up the gold coin and noting its heavy weight.

“Yes, looks to be from an Ottoman mint,” Ruppé replied, studying the stamped inscription. “They operated several around the empire.”

“Can you read any of the writing?” she asked, admiring the swirling Arabic script.

“It appears to be a rendition of ‘Allahu Akbar,’or ‘God is great.’”

Ruppé crossed the room and scanned his bookshelf, finally retrieving a thick-bound volume from the shelves. Flipping its pages, he stopped at a photograph of several antique coins. Comparing the image with one of the coins, he nodded in satisfaction.

“A match?” Pitt asked.

“Spot-on. Identical to coins known to be minted in Syria, during the sixteenth century. Congratulations, Dirk, you’ve likely discovered an Ottoman wreck from the Age of Suleiman the Magnificent.”

“Who’s Suleiman?” Loren asked.

“One of the most successful and admired of the Ottoman sultans, perhaps only behind the reigning founder of the empire, Osman I. He expanded the Ottoman Empire across southeastern Europe, the Middle East, and North Africa during his reign in the mid fifteen hundreds.”

“Perhaps this was a gift or offering to the Sultan,” Pitt said, removing the ceramic box from his bag and slowly unwrapping it. Loren’s eyes brightened at the intricate design in blue, purple, and white that adorned the lid.

“What beautiful artistry,” she remarked.

“The old Muslim craftsmen did wonders with tile and ceramic,” Ruppé said. “I haven’t seen anything quite like this, however.”

He held the box up to the light and studied it carefully. There was a small uneven crack on one side, which he rubbed a finger over.

“The design is similar to items I’ve seen known as Damascus ware,” he said. “It’s a pattern from the well-known ancient kilns of Iznik, Turkey.”

He carefully pried the lid off, then removed the encrusted crown from inside.

“Oh my,” Loren said, inching closer.

Ruppé was equally impressed. “That’s something you don’t see every day,” he said, holding it for study under a portable lamp. He picked up a small dental pick and lightly scraped off a particle of sediment.

“This should clean up quite nicely, given a careful scrubbing,” he said. Examining it a bit closer, he squinted with a furrowed brow. “That’s odd,” he said.

“What is it?” Loren asked.

“There appears to be an inscription on the inside rim. I can just make out a few letters, but it appears to be Latin.”

“That doesn’t make much sense,” Loren said.

“No,” Ruppé agreed. “But I think after a bit of conservation, we’ll be able to figure it out. Should allow us a good chance at identifying its origin.”

“I knew we came to the right place,” Pitt said.

“It would seem that your shipwreck may contain more than one mystery,” Ruppé said.

Loren looked at the crown through tired eyes, then suppressed a yawn.

“I’m afraid I’ve kept you up far too late,” Ruppé remarked, placing the crown in a wall safe, then putting the lockbox, coins, and ceramic box into a plastic bin filled with fresh water. “I’ll be anxious to examine the items in more detail with the help of my associates as soon as I return from Rome.”

“I’d like to know what a gold crown inscribed in Latin is doing on an Ottoman shipwreck,” Pitt said.

“We may never know, but I’m curious to see what else is on that wreck,” Ruppé replied. “Strange as it seems, there’s actually been only a small number of Ottoman wrecks discovered in the Med.”

“If you can notify the Turkish authorities of our find, we’ll do what we can to help,” Pitt said. He handed Ruppé a nautical chart with the wreck’s location marked in red. “It’s pretty close to Chios, so the Greeks might have something to say about it.”

“I’ll make a call first thing in the morning,” Ruppé said. “Is there any chance you and your vessel could help initiate a full survey of the site?”

Pitt smiled. “I’d like nothing more than to figure out exactly what we found. I’ll manage to divert our vessel for a day or two. We have an archaeologist already aboard who can help direct the work.”

“Fine, fine. I’m on good terms with the Turkish Ministry of Culture. They’ll be pleased to know that the wreck is in good hands.”

He looked at Loren, who was fighting to keep her eyes open.

“My dear, forgive my historic ramblings. It’s very late, and I need to get you back to your hotel.”

“You better, before I lie down to sleep on one of the sarcophagi outside.”

Ruppé locked up his office, then escorted them past the guard and out of the building. As they were descending the museum’s steps, a pair of muted explosions erupted in the distance, and a series of nearby alarms sounded suddenly, echoing over the high walls of Topkapi. The trio stopped, astonished, and listened to the faint voices of men shouting and then the pop of gunfire rattling through the night sky. More shots were fired, the sounds drawing closer to them. Seconds later, the door to the museum opened behind them, and the security guard came running toward them with a horrified look on his face.

“The palace is under attack!” he yelled. “The Chamber of the Sacred Relics in Topkapi has been raided, and the guards at Bâb-üs Selâm are not responding. I must make sure the gate is barricaded.”

Bâb-üs Selâm, or the Gate of Salutations, was the main entry point into the enclosed sanctuary of Topkapi Palace. It was a high-towered palisade resembling a Disneyland castle, where tourists lined up in the morning to explore the palace and grounds of the grand Ottoman sultans. A security station was located just inside the gate, which housed several Turkish Army guards assigned to night duty. Situated just up the road, the gate was clearly wide open, and no guards were visible.

The museum guard, Avni, sprinted past Ruppé and across the parking lot. About a hundred yards from the gate, he ran past a white utility van parked just off the road. The van’s motor immediately turned over and coughed to life.

Its headlights were turned off, immediately triggering an uneasy feeling in Pitt. Sensing something amiss, he instinctively followed after Avni.

“Be right back,” he grunted, then took off at a sprint.

“Dirk!” Loren shouted, confused at her husband’s sudden reaction. But he didn’t bother to answer when he noticed the white van begin to pull forward.

Pitt knew what was about to happen but was powerless to prevent it. When the van lurched forward with a whining squeal from its motor, he could only watch as if it were a movie scene in slow motion. The van aimed for the museum guard and quickly picked up speed. Running at full tilt, Pitt shouted a warning.

“Avni! Behind you!” he yelled.

But it was a futile gesture. With its headlights still turned off, the van lurched forward and struck the museum guard from behind. His body flew high off the vehicle’s hood, then cartwheeled to the pavement with a thud. The van continued accelerating, then screeched to a stop in front of the open gate.

Pitt kept running, quickly approaching the prone guard. From the grotesque shape of the man’s head, Pitt could tell that the guard’s skull had been shattered, killing him instantly. Unable to do anything for him now, Pitt proceeded toward the van.

The van driver sat behind the wheel, anxiously staring through the open Bâb-üs Selâm portal. With the engine running, he failed to detect Pitt’s footsteps until he was alongside the van. He turned to look out the open side window and was met by a pair of hands that reached in and grabbed him by the collar. Before he could even resist, his head and torso were yanked halfway through the window.

Pitt heard additional footfalls approach, but only caught a shadow out of the corner of his eye as he wrestled with the driver. He had looped an elbow beneath the man’s chin and was nearly ripping his head off. The driver regained his wits and struggled to release Pitt’s grip, jamming his knees under the steering wheel and flailing with his arms. But Pitt was able to exert pressure on the driver’s throat until he gasped for air, then started to fall limp in his arms.

“Let him go,” a female voice suddenly barked.

Pitt turned toward the prone body of the dead museum guard while maintaining his grip on the choking van driver. Loren and Ruppé had followed him up the road to assist Avni and were now positioned alongside the dead man. Ruppé was leaning down on one knee, holding his hand to a bloody gash inflicted across his forehead, while Loren stood alongside looking at Pitt with fear in her eyes.

Standing beside them was a short woman wearing a black ski mask, sweater, and pants. She stood with her arm extended, pointing a pistol at Loren’s head.

“Let him go,” she said once more to Pitt, “or the woman dies.”