Crescent Dawn (10 page)

“Amazing how the Zionist threat can be milked for such profits. Just think of the money that would be saved if the Arabs and Israelis ever kissed and made up.”

“They’d each find another scapegoat to antagonize,” Celik said, taking a seat behind the desk. He was a well-proportioned man, with thinning black hair combed back on the sides. His nose was wide, but he had a strong face, and would not have looked out of place on the cover of
Gentlemen’s Quarterly
magazine. Only his dark eyes hinted at a personality quirk, dancing constantly in a pirouette of emotional intensity. They twitched with anger as they focused on the woman.

“Maria, I would have preferred that you not show yourself so quickly. Particularly given your chaotic performance last night.” His eyes centered on her with a glowering intensity.

Whatever intimidation he intended had absolutely no effect on the woman.

“The operation went off entirely as planned. It was only the intrusion by some meddling bystanders that delayed our exit.”

“And subverted the acquisition of the Muhammad artifacts,” he hissed. “You should have killed them all on the spot.”

“Perhaps. But as it turns out, two of them were U.S. government officials, including a Congresswoman. Their deaths would have overshadowed our objective. And our objective seems to have been attained.” She folded the newspaper she was reading and tossed it over to Celik.

It was a copy of
Milliyet
, a Turkish daily newspaper, its blazing headlines proclaiming “Murdering Thieves Attack Topkapi, Steal Holy Relics.”

Celik nodded. “Yes, I’ve read the accounts. The media is blaming domestic heathens for stealing and desecrating our nation’s sacred Muslim relics. Exactly the headlines we intended. But you forget that we have paid influence with a number of local reporters. What is it that the police believe?”

Maria took a sip from a glass of water before responding. “We can’t be certain. My informant within the department was only able to obtain an electronic copy of the incident report this morning. It appears they have no real suspects, though the American woman did give some physical descriptions and reported that our team appeared to be speaking in Arabic.”

“I told you I didn’t like the idea of using Iraqi operatives.”

“They are well trained, my brother, and, if caught, still provide a safe scapegoat. A Shia thief, even if from Iraq, is nearly as productive as a Western infidel for our purposes. They are well paid to keep quiet. And besides, they falsely believe they are working for their Shia brethren. I couldn’t have obtained this without them,” she added, opening a small suitcase at her feet.

Reaching inside, she pulled out a flat object wrapped in loose brown paper. She stepped over and placed the package on the desk in front of Celik. His darting eyes zeroed in on the package, and he began unwrapping it with trembling fingers. Beneath the paper he uncovered a green taffeta bag. Opening the bag, he gently removed its contents, a faded black banner that was missing chunks along its border. He stared at the banner for nearly a minute before gently picking it up and holding it reverently in the air.

“Sancak-ı Şerif. The sacred standard of Muhammad,” he whispered in awe.

It was one of the most treasured relics of Topkapi, and perhaps the most important historically. The black woolen banner, created from the turban of a defeated foe, had served as the battle standard for the prophet Muhammad. He had carried it with him into the key Battle of Badr, where his victory had allowed for the very rise of Islam itself.

“With this, Muhammad changed the world,” Celik said, his eyes a sparkling mixture of reverence and delusion. “We shall do the same.”

He carried it over and set it on the glass case housing Sultan Mehmed’s tunic.

“And how were the other relics lost?” he asked, turning and facing the woman.

Maria stared at the floor, pondering a reply. “The American woman grabbed the second bag when she escaped the van. They hid in the Yerebatan Sarnici. I was forced to leave before I could retrieve it,” she added with disdain.

Celik said nothing, but his eyes bored through the woman like a pair of lasers. Again his hands trembled, but this time in anger. Maria quietly attempted to stave off an explosion.

“The mission was still a success. Even if all of the targeted relics were not obtained, the impact is the same. The entry and removal of the battle standard will generate the desired public response. Remember our strategic plan. This is just one step in our quest.”

Celik slowly cooled but still sought an explanation.

“What were these American tourists doing at Topkapi in the middle of the night?”

“According to the police report, they were at the Archaeological Museum, near the Bâb-üs Selâm Gate, meeting with one of the curators. The man—his name is Pitt—is some sort of underwater expert for the U.S. government. He apparently discovered an old shipwreck near Chios and was discussing the artifacts with the museum’s nautical authority.”

Celik perked up at the mention of the wreck. “Was it an Ottoman vessel?” he asked, eyeing the encased tunic before him.

“I don’t have any other information.”

Celik stared at the colorful threads of the aged tunic. “Our legacy must be preserved,” he said quietly, as if in a trance that had taken him back in time. “The riches of the empire belong to us. See if you can find out more about this shipwreck.”

Maria nodded. “It can be done. What of this man Pitt and his wife? We know where they are staying.”

Celik continued staring at the tunic. “I do not care. Kill them if you want, but do it quietly. Then prepare for the next project.”

Maria nodded, a thin smile crossing her lips.

S
OPHIE ELKIN DRAGGED A BRUSH THROUGH HER STRAIGHT black hair, then took a hurried look at herself in the mirror. Dressed in worn khaki pants and a matching cotton shirt, and, without any makeup, she would have been hard-pressed to make herself appear any plainer. Yet there was no hiding her natural beauty. She had a narrow face with high cheekbones, a petite nose, and soft aquamarine-colored eyes. Her skin was smooth and flawless, despite the many hours she spent outdoors. The features were mostly inherited from her mother, a French woman who had fallen in love with an Israeli geology student studying in Paris and had migrated with him to Tel Aviv.

Sophie had always minimized her looks and femininity. Even at an early age, she spurned the dresses her mother would buy, preferring pants so she could join the neighborhood boys in rough-and-tumble activities. An only child, she’d been close to her father, who had ascended to the head of the Geology Department at Tel Aviv University. The independent young girl had relished accompanying him on field expeditions to study the geological formations in the surrounding deserts, where she raptly absorbed his fireside tales of biblical events on the very grounds where they camped.

Her father’s work led her to study archaeology in college. While attaining her advanced degrees, she was jolted by the arrest of a fellow student for stealing artifacts from the university archives. The incident introduced her to the dark world of underground antiquities trading, which she grew to detest for its impact in the destruction of historic cultural sites. Upon receiving her doctorate, she abandoned academics and joined the Israel Antiquities Authority. With passion and dedication, she worked up to head of the Antiquities Robbery Prevention Unit in a few short years. Her devotion left little time for a personal life, and she dated infrequently, preferring to spend most nights working late.

Grabbing a handbag, she left her small hillside apartment overlooking the Mount of Olives and drove toward the Old City of Jerusalem. The Antiquities Authority was housed in the Rockefeller Museum, a sprawling white limestone structure situated near the northeast corner of the Old City. Employing just twelve people, her department was tasked with the impossible duty of protecting the roughly thirty thousand ancient cultural resource sites located around Israel.

“Good morning, Soph,” greeted the department’s senior detective, a lanky, bug-eyed man named Sam Levine. “Can I get you a coffee?”

“Thanks, Sam, I’d like that,” she said, covering a yawn as she squeezed into her cramped office. “There was some sort of all-night construction going on near my apartment last night. I slept terribly.”

Sam returned with the coffee and plopped down on the other side of her desk.

“If you weren’t going to sleep, then you should have joined us on recon last night,” he said with a grin.

“Any apprehensions?”

“No, our Hebron grave robbers must have taken the night off. We gave up by midnight but did come away with a nice stack of picks and shovels.”

Perhaps the world’s second-oldest profession, grave robbing ranked near the top of the Robbery Prevention Unit’s criminal hit list. Several times a week, Sophie or Sam would lead a late-night stakeout of ancient grave sites around the country where signs of recent excavation had been observed. Pots, jewelry, and even the bones themselves could usually find a ready buyer in the underground antiquities market that pervaded Israel.

“Now that they know we are onto them, they’ll probably lay low for a couple of weeks,” Sophie said.

“Or move elsewhere. Assuming they’ve got enough cash to buy some new shovels,” he added, smiling again.

Sophie glanced through some reports and news clippings on her desk, then passed one of the articles to Sam.

“I’m concerned about this excavation at Caesarea,” she said.

Sam quickly skimmed the article.

“Yes, I’ve heard about this. It’s a university-sponsored excavation of the old port facilities. It says here that they have uncovered some fourth-century seaport artifacts and a possible grave. You really think the site is a theft target?”

Sophie drained her coffee, then set down the cup with an agitated stare.

“The reporter might as well have put up a banner and flashing lights. Any time the word ‘grave’ finds its way into print, it’s like a magnet. I’ve begged the news reporters a thousand times to avoid publicizing grave sites, but they are more interested in selling papers than protecting our heritage.”

“Why don’t we go down and take a look? We’re scheduled for a recon tonight, but I could reassign the boys down there. They’d probably enjoy a trip to the coast.”

Sophie looked at her desk calendar, then nodded. “I’m free after one. I suppose we could go check it out, and stay the night if it looks worthwhile.”

“Now you’re talking. For that, I’ll go steal you another cup of coffee,” he said, jumping out of his chair.

“Okay, Sam, you got a deal.” Then she looked at him sternly. “But just don’t use the word ‘steal’ around me!”

SITUATED ON THE Mediterranean coast about thirty miles north of Tel Aviv, Caesarea was a lightly populated enclave easily overshadowed by its historic past as a seat of Roman power. Built by King Herod the Great as a fortified port city in the first century B.C., Caesarea featured the famous hallmarks of Roman architecture. A high-columned temple, a grand hippodrome, and an ornate palace along the sea all graced the city, which was fed cool inland water via massive brick aqueducts. Herod’s most impressive engineering feat was not on land, however. He designed and built massive breakwaters out of concrete blocks, using them to create the largest protected harbor in the eastern Mediterranean. The success of the harbor propelled Caesarea to greater importance as the capital of Judaea under Roman rule, and the city remained a key commerce center for over three hundred years.

Sophie was well acquainted with the remains of the ancient city, having spent a summer at the site while in college. Turning off the busy coastal highway, she eased the car through a luxury-home development, then entered the remains of the Roman site, which was now a protected state park. The centuries had not been kind to the original construction, its old Roman buildings having long since crumbled. Yet many remnants of the city’s ancient features were still intact, including a large section of an arched aqueduct that stretched across the ocher sands, not far from a sizable amphitheater that faced the sea.

Sophie parked the car in a lot near the hilltop entrance, adjacent to some Crusader-era fortifications.

“The university team is excavating near the harbor,” she said to Sam. “It’s just a short walk from here.”

“I wonder if there’s anything to eat around here?” He eyed the barren park hills around them with trepidation.

Sophie tossed him a water bottle from the backseat. “I’m sure there are some restaurants back near the highway, but you’ll have to settle for a liquid diet for now.”

They walked down a trail that weaved toward the beach, broadening at several points along the bluff. They passed a long-forgotten road that had once been lined with residences and small businesses, their ghostly remnants little more than disorderly piles of stone. As they descended the trail, the small harbor opened up before them. There was little left to recognize its boundaries, as the original breakwaters had become submerged centuries ago.