Текст книги "Crescent Dawn"

Автор книги: Clive Cussler

Соавторы: Dirk Cussler,Clive Cussler
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Текущая страница: 31 (всего у книги 32 страниц)

96

For the second time in as many minutes, Summer faced a life-or-death choice. Should she turn back or keep going? She had no idea how far back the ceiling had become submerged. It could be five feet or fifty yards. But swimming against the current, light as it was, could make fifty yards seem like a mile. Following her instincts this time, she made a snap decision. She would keep going forward.

Kicking and stroking, she propelled herself through the tunnel, her arms and head occasionally bumping into the surrounding stone. Every other stroke, she would raise an arm above her, hoping to break the surface into a pocket of air. But every time her hand would drag against immersed stone. She felt her heart pounding harder, and fought a sudden reflex to exhale, as a creeping sense of panic began to set in. How long had she been underwater? she asked herself. A minute? Two minutes? It seemed like an eternity. But whatever the answer, she knew the more important question was how many more seconds could she hold out?

She tried kicking even harder, but it began to feel like she was swimming in slow motion as her brain labored for oxygen. Her arms and legs felt an odd burning sensation as the effects of hypoxia sapped her muscles. The black water seemed to turn even darker before her eyes, and she no longer felt the salt water stinging them. An internal voice yelled at her to remain strong, but she could feel herself slipping.

And then she saw it. A faint green glow appeared in the water ahead of her. Perhaps it was just a trick of the eyes or the first stages of blacking out, but she didn’t care. Exhaling what little air was left in her chest, she summoned every last remaining reserve of energy and kicked hard toward the light.

Her limbs now burned with fire as her ears rung in a deafening tone. Her heart felt like it was going to beat out of her chest while her lungs ached to explode. But she ignored the pain, the doubts, and the urge to let go, and kept pulling herself through the water.

The green glow gradually expanded into a warm light, bright enough to show particles and sediment in the seawater. Just overhead, a silvery gleam caught her eye, appearing like a bowlful of mercury. With her energy failing fast, she kicked upward with a final, desperate surge of strength.

Summer emerged from the water like a show dolphin at Sea World, rising high into the air before tumbling back with a splash. Gasping and panting for air, she paddled to a nearby rock and clung to its barnacled surface while her oxygen-depleted body tried to restore order. She rested for nearly five minutes before regaining the strength to move. Then, in the distance, she heard muffled gunfire, and she remembered her father.

Taking her bearings, she found she was in a semisubmerged rock outcropping a hundred yards west of the cave. She quickly spotted the NUMA Zodiac, tied to the rocks beside two other small boats. Plunging back into the water, she circled around the rocks and began swimming toward the boats.

Her arms soon felt like lead weights, and several times the surf nearly flung her onto the shoreline rocks, but she managed to reach the boats without collapsing. The Zodiac didn’t carry a radio, so she dragged herself onto the deck of the first of the two other boats, a small wooden trawler that Zakkar had appropriated. Inside its tiny, open wheelhouse, she found a marine band radio and immediately hailed the Aegean Explorer.

Dirk, Giordino, and Gunn were all on the bridge when Summer’s frantic voice burst over the radio.

“Summer, this is Explorer. Go ahead,” Gunn replied calmly.

“Rudi, we found the galley inside the cave. But three armed men showed up. I escaped, but Dad’s still in there, and they’re trying to kill him.”

“Take it easy, Summer. We’re on our way. Try to hide until we get there, and keep yourself out of danger.”

Kenfield had already turned the Exploreraround and was accelerating to top speed by the time Gunn hung up the transmitter. Dirk stepped forward and looked out the bridge window.

“We’re six or seven miles away,” he lamented to Gunn. “We’ll never get there in time.”

“He’s right,” Giordino said. “Stop the boat.”

“What do you mean, stop the boat?” Gunn cried.

“Give us two minutes to launch the Bullet, and we’ll get there in a flash.”

Gunn considered the request a moment. Even to Gunn, Pitt was more than a boss, he was like a brother. If the tables were reversed, he knew exactly what Pitt would do.

“All right,” he said with reservation. “Just don’t get yourselves killed.”

Dirk and Giordino immediately bolted for the door.

“Al, I’ll meet you on deck,” Dirk told him. “I need to grab something on the way.”

“Just don’t miss the bus,” Giordino replied, then disappeared aft.

Dirk hustled down to the ship’s lower deck, which housed the crew accommodations. Sprinting to his father’s cabin, he burst in, stepping up to a small, built-in work desk. Above the desk was a shelf of books, and Dirk quickly scanned their titles. His eyes halted when he spotted a heavy, leather-bound edition of Herman Melville’s Moby-Dick. Ripping the book off the shelf, he quickly flipped the cover open for a second.

“‘To the great white beast, Ishmael,’” he muttered, then tucked the book under his arm and darted out of the cabin.

97

Pitt had nearly forgotten about Zakkar, who had finally clambered over the bow and now shouted for his partner. Met with silence, the Arab flicked on Salaam’s penlight and aimed it at the aft end of the deck. The light’s beam played upon the figure of Pitt, who stood with a shield in his hand and an upturned grin on his face.

But Pitt was already diving over the other side of the mast when Zakkar’s Uzi barked, sending a burst over his head and into the raised steering deck. Pitt didn’t wait for his accuracy to improve, quickly snaking across the deck and launching himself down the companionway as Zakkar chased after him.

The body of Ali lay barely visible in the small patch of light that reached the lower deck from above. Pitt could see that the Arab’s head was tilted at an unnatural angle, his neck having snapped in the fall. Pitt quickly knelt alongside the body, searching the surrounding deck for the gun, but it wasn’t there. Let loose during Ali’s fall, it had bounced into one of the recessed rowing stations nearby. Pitt had left his flashlight on the upper deck while throwing the pilumand had no chance of locating the gun in the pitch-blackness.

As Zakkar charged aft overhead, Pitt moved forward, groping along a center walkway that divided the rowing stations on either side of the ship. He had left all his Roman weapons above deck and now found himself defenseless in the unlit bay. His only hope was to get up the forward companionway as Zakkar descended in the stern.

But Zakkar knew he had his man on the run and didn’t hesitate dropping down the aft ladder. Pitt could hear him descending and shuffled faster, spotting a faint ray of light ahead, which he knew was the open companionway.

His feet dropping to the lower deck, Zakkar spent only a second examining the dead figure of Ali before playing the small flashlight beam across the deck. He detected a movement at the far end, then locked the light on Pitt struggling to reach the forward ladder. He immediately aimed and fired a burst ahead of him.

Pitt dove for the deck as the bullets chewed into the wood around him. Several small crates were stacked near the base of the companionway, and he quickly crawled forward, ducking behind them for cover. Zakkar stepped closer and fired again, splintering one of the crates just inches from Pitt’s head.

Unarmed, Pitt was in a hopeless situation. His only real chance was to somehow scale the ladder before Zakkar moved any closer. He again searched for a weapon, but only spotted another skeleton lying nearby. The long-expired body had belonged to another Roman legionary, as the bones were clad in an armored tunic and helmet. The dead soldier must have fallen through the companionway when he was killed in battle, Pitt surmised. Studying the armor for a moment, he suddenly reached over and plucked them off the dried bones.

By the fourth century, the Roman soldier had turned to iron for much of his protective gear. Brutally heavy, it could withstand the sharpest spears and strongest swords. And perhaps, Pitt considered, it just might resist the slugs from a 9mm Uzi submachine pistol. Pitt slipped on the heavy circular helmet, which had an enlarged back piece that swooped outward to protect the neck. He then studied the armored breastplate. Known as a cuirass, it was an iron sheet molded in the shape of a man’s chest, with matching back plate. Pitt could see it was obviously made for a man shorter than himself.

Wasting no time in trying to fit in the cuirass, he simply flung the twin plates onto his back, tying them around his throat with a leather strap. Crawling to the base of the companionway, he looked up at the deck overhead, took a deep breath, then sprang up the ladder as fast as his arms and legs could propel him.

Zakkar was still fifty feet away, running down the aisle with his penlight aimed at the ladder, when he saw Pitt spring up it. The experienced killer immediately stopped and raised his weapon. Holding the light beneath the barrel with his left hand, he took careful aim at Pitt and pulled the trigger.

The wood around Pitt exploded in a shower of splinters as the bullets sprayed into the ladder’s supporting bulkhead. He felt three hard thumps on his back that knocked him forward like the blows of a sledgehammer, but he was able to keep moving. With his arms and legs pumping, he jumped onto the open deck as a second fusillade shredded the top of the ladder where his feet had just been.

Pitt made his way to the side rail, surprised to have escaped the companionway unscathed. Still clad in his Roman armor, he prepared to jump over the side when he noticed another pilumon the deck, identical to the one he had flung at the first gunman. Deciding to take the offensive, he grabbed the spear and inched back toward the open companionway.

Zakkar had already approached the foot of the ladder and wisely flicked off the penlight. The galley was suddenly deathly silent as both men froze in their tracks. Zakkar then began slowly climbing the shredded ladder, moving quietly inch by inch. Unable to hold both the light and the gun as he climbed, he stuffed the light in his teeth, then held the Uzi up high.

Only his head had cleared the deck when he spotted Pitt moving a few feet away. The pilumleft Pitt’s hand quickly, rotating in a spiral as it shot toward the Arab. But the target was too small, and Zakkar easily ducked his head, leaving the pilumto harmlessly strike the ladder frame. Zakkar stuck the Uzi out and fired at Pitt without looking before rising up the ladder as his clip ran dry.

Pitt was already at the rail and threw himself over the side as the bullets flew by wildly. But the volley had thrown off his balance, and he landed awkwardly on the sand some fifteen feet below. A burst of pain flared through his right ankle as he rose and took a step, immediately hopping onto his other foot. With a twisted ankle, the water channel suddenly appeared miles away. But much closer was the body of Salaam. It lay just a few feet away, and Pitt knew he had been armed with a pistol.

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 Bulletas 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 Bulletthrough 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 cuirassoff 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 Hampshiredisaster. 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.”