Byzantine Gold (13 page)

Atakan shrugged. “The owner wants what the owner wants.”

“What’s really going on? You’re hiding something. Don’t dance around the issue. I want the truth.”

He could almost see the wheels of her mind spinning as the pieces came together for her. She answered before he had a chance to. “Iskender was an escort for me. That’s why you asked where he was?” He knew the second she hit on the reason.

“You didn’t wait because you believe the risk factor going between here and camp has increased. You don’t want me exposed.”

“Yes.”

Her shoulders sagged and she broke eye contact, staring at the wet spot on the sheet.

“You think Tischenko is coming here, rather than Istanbul, don’t you?” She lifted her gaze to him. “You’re giving the room up. The bungalow is too vulnerable.”

“Yes.”

“Why the lie?”

“I didn’t wish to exacerbate your worries.” He enunciated each syllable of exacerbate. He grinned and said, “I found a use for that strange English word.”

It broke the tension and Charlotte kissed him. “Do me a favor. I’d rather the truth to a kind lie. Don’t hold back information in an effort to spare me. We’re in this together.”

“My fear is for you. If he caught me here alone, that’s a different matter than if he found us together. I won’t allow the danger to you.”

Charlotte touched a finger to her naked hip and the scar Tischenko left. “We’ll stay in camp. No problem.”

“Iskender and I examined the area around the resort. We can leave camp and enjoy ourselves in the restaurant. There’s ample cover. But we must come separately.”

She nodded and was quiet for a moment. “He could be here by now.” 

“I believe he already is.”

Chapter Twenty-Four

Perspiration trickled down along the edges of Charlotte’s mask and dripped into her eyes. Over the last three weeks, the air temperature soared into the nineties heating the water to almost bath temperature.

Charlotte kicked over to the phone booth. “Oh man.” She rubbed her salt-stung eyes and ran her hands over her cheeks and forehead.

Everyone took turns dashing back and forth to the booth. They removed their masks and wiped forearms and palms across their sweat-drenched faces. A brief break, then they quickly returned to the heavy work. Whipped up by the activity, a cloud of silt enveloped the divers. They spent days on the labor-intensive job of carrying fragile hull timbers to the balloon for airlift to the surface. Once initial examination was done, they’d ship the timbers to MIAR headquarters.

The cleared area gave the team access to part of the wreck’s cargo hold. A majority of the skeletal frame remained buried in the sand. Subsequent excavations over more dive seasons would recover those. Most of the planks brought up came from what was the top deck. Beneath the stern section, lay scattered utensils from the galley. Under the central tower, near the main mast, lay a field of various size intact amphoras and a large distribution of broken pottery pieces. The complete amphoras were scheduled for removal later in the week. After the pottery was excavated, they’d remove one cache of gold pictured in the MIAR newsletter.

Charlotte looked forward to examining the pottery contents. The largest amphoras or pithois likely contained wine or oil. Refik and Talat said if they carried wine, the two of them wanted to taste it.

“Not me,” Charlotte said. “I’m not that adventurous. Guaranteed, it’ll be nasty tasting. Who knows what mystery ingredient they might’ve added a thousand years ago?”

The next set of six divers entered the site and relieved the group with Charlotte. She signaled Nassor and they returned to the Suraya.

“I’m glad we’re done for the day. The murky water is like working in a liquid volcanic ash cloud,” Charlotte said and climbed out of the shuttle boat onto the camp’s dock.

Nassor hopped onto the dock after her. “My shoulders and back ache. It’s exhausting loading that wood. Why not bring the gold to the surface first?” he asked as they walked to the tent with the previously excavated planks.

“The other artifacts take longer to clean. We’ll get a jump start on those in the conservation lab.”

“The gold needs polishing too.”

“Come on, Nassor.” She shot him a
get real
look. “You can’t compare the effort involved. Without the concretion problem gold cleaning and polishing is much easier.”

She was repeating information any first year archaeology student knew. She continued walking, but the ignorance of his comment troubled her. Curiosity about Nassor’s educational background had her thinking. Had he lied to MIAR? Were his credentials falsified? Tonight, she’d discuss her doubts about him with Atakan.

“I wonder if the amphoras carry anything of real value,” Nassor said.

“Well, the seals on most are probably broken. Anything we find in the ones still plugged is valuable to some scientist.”

The raised flaps of the conservation tent provided little relief. The cool breeze blew from the closed, rear side of the tent. Moisture from the soggy timbers and the hot air gave the space a sauna feel.

Inside, they went in different directions. Charlotte joined Atakan and Iskender. Saska waved Nassor over.

Refik spread out photos of the cargo on a table. The group gathered around. “From what we discovered so far, the ship carried a mix of Judaic and Christian relics.”

He pointed to a picture of a gold altar-size Patriarchal Cross, approximately twenty-four inches long and twelve wide. The relic displayed the slanted crosspiece near the bottom often seen in Byzantine Greek and Eastern Orthodox churches. Then, he pointed to a second photo. The tops of a gold menorah’s seven branches poked through the sand.

“We haven’t found any Islamic symbols. I believe those will turn up as well,” Refik said.

“There are amphoras with the Arabic inscriptions,” Charlotte said, indicating the pictures she and Nassor had taken.

“The real question is: what are the religious pieces doing on a Dromon of the Byzantine Navy.” Refik said. “If they were intended for delivery to various ports, they’d be on a merchant ship.”

“What if the Dromon’s crew came upon a merchant ship in distress and brought their cargo and crew onboard?” Derek asked.

“Possible but unlikely,” his friend Ben said. “A ship this size carried two-hundred-plus rowers and an additional company of Marines. If it was patrolling the area, as we assume, she carried a large store of weapons and supplies. I don’t see how it could take on cargo and the crew from another ship. Pretty tight fit.”

“Could’ve just taken the cargo,” Derek responded.

“Makes sense. The merchantman is sinking and the Dromon captain decides to save what’s most valuable...the cargo,” Talat said.

Ben shook his head. “If that happened, the Dromon would logically return the cargo to Constantinople. This ship was headed in the opposite direction.”

“No, Cyprus was the logical destination. This ship was sailing for a safe port.” Talat lit a cigarette. He stroked the sides of his perfectly trimmed Fu-Man-Chu mustache. He circled the hull pieces, looking lost in thought, French inhaling as the cigarette dangled from his lips.

Charlotte grimaced watching the smoke curl up his nostrils. Smokers didn’t offend her. The idea of acrid smoke going up his nose bothered her. Her nose twitched thinking about it.

“What we know doesn’t coincide with what we found, which is the troublesome mystery.” Talat said.

Atakan put down his bottle of water and stepped to the display of timber sections and planks.

“Maybe what you assume is obvious is wrong,” Atakan said.

Refik looked confused. “I don’t understand. This is a Byzantine ship and this region was part of their empire. Where’s the mistake?”

“I agree. Those facts are a given. Based on that, the Arab pots are an aberration with little value to the Byzantines. There’s no reason to take them from a merchantman in trouble. The containers and other cargo discovered at this point are all from the empire. As you indicated, it’s a strange mix of precious items found in settlements along the trade routes.”

“A couple of pots we can’t explain.” Refik shrugged. “How does that change our approach?”

Atakan had everyone’s attention. Charlotte suspected she knew the direction of his thoughts. They’d discussed the possibility of piracy the night after she told him about the Arab amphoras.

“A couple of pots so far, maybe that’s all, maybe not. Don’t get locked into any one theory. Stay open.”

“Go on,” Refik said, “you sound like you’re on another path.”

Atakan drew the photos of the gold relics from the group and lined them together. “Instead of considering this an odd cargo, what if it’s a hoard?”

“A horde? You’re suggesting the captain and crew went rogue and planned to sell the load and split the profit?”

From Atakan’s speculative expression, the idea hadn’t occurred to him. “I was thinking along a different line, but that is another possibility.”

“What other answer is there?” Talat stubbed out his cigarette on the bottom of his sandal and threw the butt in the trash.

“The amphoras with the Arabic writing are common pieces you’d find in any storehouse or market from North Africa, Lebanon, even here in Cyprus. The point I’m making is: don’t exclude an Arab presence onboard.”

Atakan ventured the opinion Charlotte was too hesitant to put forth with so little evidence.

“An Arab presence? Prisoners?” Talat asked.

“I doubt it. I’m thinking pirates,” Atakan said.

“Pirates,” Refik repeated, his skepticism apparent. “Where or how did they obtain a warship?”

“Like everything else—they stole it.”

A wave of low but audible disagreement rifled through the group. No one on the team, other than Charlotte, Refik, Talat, and Iskender had the courage to challenge Atakan. The others treated him with some trepidation, uncertain how freely they could speak to a government agent. Later, when the project was deeper under way and they knew him better, they might be more inclined to speak freely. As it was, it had taken two weeks for the new divers to stop calling him Mr. Vadim.

Nassor and Saska whispered to each other during the debate, paying little attention to the hypotheses presented. At the mention of pirates, Nassor’s attention shifted to Atakan. He inched closer and then eased back to Saska’s side when he noticed Charlotte watching him.

Chapter Twenty-Five

Kusadasi

Maksym dozed in the protective shade of the stern deck’s awning. He enjoyed the heat of the sun but feared getting sunburned. When the pills were effective, he slept the sleep of the dead.

“Are you bored?” 

Rana’s question woke him.

“Do you wish to make love?”

“Not now, darling.” He smiled, seeing she wore the bottom half of a new bikini he ordered from the hotel boutique.

“This is two days you wanted me only to talk with. You roam the boat all night and then sleep most of the day. You don’t eat enough for a bird let alone a man. I believe these new pills of yours are bad for you.”

A year ago, her concern would’ve irritated rather than pleased him.

“The pills are a great aid to me.” He stretched over and pulled the other lounger next to his so the sides touched. “Sit,” he said and patted the cushion.

Like a good girl, she did as he asked. Her grapefruit-sized breasts he loved playing with jiggled and swayed as she got comfortable. Maybe tomorrow he’d have the energy to bury his face and more between them.

“I thought the handfuls of other pills you take helped you,” she said.

“They’re for a different purpose. It’s too soon to tell if they help or not.”

She scrutinized him. She was the simplest person to read he’d ever met. She wanted to ask questions.

“What’s on your mind?” he asked.

“Are you sick, Maksym?”

“Everyone is sick in some way.”

“You’re avoiding the truth. Tell me.”

“I gave you an answer. The only one on the subject you’ll get. Ask something else.”

If he told her about the cancer eating away at him, she’d rail on about seeking medical treatment. Like all the doctors he’d seen, she’d tell him to submit to chemotherapy. Why? He was terminal. He’d rather enjoy what little quality of life remained for him than poison his body with chemo. He harbored no illusions about the homeopathic remedies he took. The clinic in Kusadasi listed testimonials from patients alleging they’d been cured. Maksym thought the claims an advertising fiction. Either that or the
healed
were desperate, delusional souls.  He only wanted the vitamins and sundry other natural treatments to let him feel a modicum of decent health. He had to stay well long enough to kill Atakan.

The diagnosis shocked him. The knowledge of his imminent death didn’t trouble him. He dealt in death, and years earlier accepted his own time would come. In truth, he hadn’t expected to live this long. It was the cause that shocked. He always envisioned he’d die in a violent encounter with one of his intended victims, one stronger than him, or at the hands of one of the many police agencies who wanted his capture. Never cancer. He couldn’t shake the deep-seated sense of embarrassment. He considered himself immune to the ravages of ordinary disease.   

Maksym emptied one bottle of water and opened a second. No matter how much water he drank, he suffered unquenchable thirst from the dry mouth the new pills caused.

“Why did you hire that man to captain the boat? You told me you sailed it here on your own.”

“I did, but I’m too tired to sail it myself to Cyprus. Do you not like Evgeniy?” Maksym sat up on his elbows. “Did he bother you in anyway?”

“No. He’s polite with me. I just wondered.”

“He’s an old associate.”

They were combat swimmers in the Russian military’s specialized unit, Spetsnaz. Maksym trusted the Russian with his life. On land, they’d fought side by side during the bloody campaign through Chechnya.

He glanced up at the bridge where Evgeniy studied the map to Salamis Bay. His friend drank too much and always had. Maksym never cared what trouble he stirred when drunk or about the liberties he took with women. When Maksym asked him to captain the boat, he demanded Evgeniy’s sobriety. He had to stay onboard, away from temptation, and the inevitable problems his drunkenness created. Problems that brought the attention of authorities and lead back to Maksym.  He also demanded courtesy and respect toward Rana. There’d be no pawing or unseemly ogling of her. Maksym paid him well but not foolishly, half payment up front, the other half he’d give him when the time was right in Cyprus.