Crescent Dawn (22 page)

Julie looked from Dahlgren to Summer in confusion.

“What are you saying?” she finally asked.

“I think she’s saying that the Germans got a bum rap,” Dahlgren replied.

“How so?”

“Because,” Summer said, pointing to the hole, “the blast that sank the
Hampshire
appears to have come from inside the ship.”

NINETY MINUTES LATER, the trio sat in the wardroom of the
Odin
reviewing video footage of the
Hampshire
on a large flat-screen monitor. Dahlgren sped through the wreck’s initial footage, then slowed the viewing speed as the camera approached the port-side hole. Julie and Summer sat alongside with their noses to the screen, carefully studying the images.

“Stop right there,” Summer directed.

Dahlgren froze the video on a close-up image of the shattered hull plate.

“That view shows it quite clearly,” Summer said, pointing to the serrated steel edge that flared out like flower petals. “The force of the blast that created that had to come from within the ship.”

“Could it have been caused by Zaharoff’s salvage team?” Julie asked.

“Not likely,” Dahlgren replied. “Though they probably made use of explosives here and there, they probably cut their way into the interior spaces they were seeking. They would have had no reason to create such a massive entry point, especially this close to the main deck.” He hit the “Play” button on the video controls as he spoke. “We saw evidence of an internal explosion all around the opening, which wouldn’t be the case if Zaharoff had just tried to enlarge the existing hole.”

“How about an internal munitions explosion that might have been triggered by a mine or torpedo attack?” Summer asked.

“Not big enough,” Dahlgren replied. “From what we could view inside, there was plenty of internal damage, but it was all focused near the hull. If the ship’s munitions had gone off, it would have blown away major sections of the ship.”

“Then that leaves an internal explosion,” Julie said. “Perhaps there is something to the old rumors after all.”

“What rumors would those be?” Summer asked.

“The death of Lord Kitchener in 1916 was a momentous event. He had been the hero of Khartoum in the Sudan two decades earlier and was considered a key architect for the eventual defeat of Germany in World War One. Of course, he may have been best known for his iconic recruiting poster, which displayed his image pointing an outstretched finger, urging you to join the Army. When his body was never found, wild conspiracy theories took root, suggesting that he had survived the sinking or that a double had been sailing in his place. Others claimed that the IRA had planted a bomb aboard the ship when it was overhauled in Belfast a few months earlier.”

“I guess this throws a new wrench into your biography,” Summer remarked.

“Is that why you wanted to survey the
Hampshire
, because of Kitchener?” Dahlgren asked.

Julie nodded. “Documenting the state of the
Hampshire
was actually suggested by my dean, but the driving force was certainly my biography of the field marshal. I guess I’ll have to return to Kitchener’s old estate near Canterbury and take another look at his archives.”

“Canterbury?” Summer asked. “That’s not too far from London, is it?”

“No, less than a hundred miles.”

“London is my next stop after we return to Yarmouth.”

“Yarmouth is our next port of call after we drop you at Kirk-wall,” Dahlgren explained to Julie. “We’re going to resupply there, then some of us are headed to Greenland for another project,” he added, giving Summer an envious look.

“I will be flying to Istanbul next week to join my brother on a project in the Mediterranean.”

“Sounds sunny and warm,” Julie said.

“You’re telling me,” Dahlgren grunted.

“Maybe I can help you with your research for a few days, before my flight leaves London,” Summer offered.

“You’d do that?” Julie asked, surprised at the offer. “Diving into some dusty old books is not the same as diving into a shipwreck.”

“I don’t mind. I’m curious to know myself what happened with the
Hampshire
. Heck, it’s the least I can do since we helped open this can of worms.”

“Thank you, Summer. That would be marvelous.”

“No problem,” she replied with a smile. “After all, who doesn’t love a mystery?”

T
HE SHOP MARKED “SOLOMON BRANDY—ANTIQUITIES” was situated on a quiet side street in Jerusalem’s Old City, not far from the Church of the Holy Sepulchre. Like the seventy-four other licensed dealers in the country, Brandy was officially sanctioned by the State of Israel to sell and trade in antiquities, providing that the artifacts at hand were not stolen goods.

The legal stipulation was a minor impediment to most dealers, who simply reused legitimate tracking identification numbers to sell nebulous items that came in the back door. Israel’s antiquities laws strangely enough created a huge demand in Holy Land relics, and forgeries, by allowing the legal trade of artifacts, a practice banned by most other nations. Antiquities were often actually smuggled into Israel from neighboring countries, where they could be legitimized and sold to other dealers and collectors around the world.

Sophie Elkin stepped into Brandy’s well-lit shop, cringing at the sound of a loud buzzer that activated with the opening door. The small interior was empty of people but crammed with artifacts that overflowed from glass cases fronting all four walls. She moved to a center island case filled with small clay pots tagged with the label “Jericho.” Sophie’s trained eye could tell that they were all forgeries, which would soon be treasured heirlooms for unknowing tourists making their once-in-a-lifetime pilgrimage to the Holy Land.

A stumpy man with pancake eyes emerged from the back room, wearing a dusty apron over rumpled clothes. He set a small clay figurine down on the counter, then looked up at Sophie with unease.

“Miss Elkin, what a surprise,” he said in a flat tone that indicated her appearance was not quite welcomed.

“Hello, Sol,” Sophie replied. “No tourists in yet?”

“It’s still early. They see the sights in the morning, then shop in the afternoon.”

“We need to talk.”

“My license is current. I’ve filed my reporting in a timely manner,” he protested.

Sophie shook her head. “What can you tell me about the theft and shootings at Caesarea?”

Brandy visibly relaxed, then shook his head.

“A sad tragedy. One of your men was killed?”

“Thomas Raban.”

“Yes, I remember him. Very loud and vociferous. He threatened to wrap a shovel around my neck once, as I recall,” he said with a smirk.

Sophie had caught Brandy in a sting operation two years earlier, accepting a large quantity of artifacts stolen from Masada. She’d dropped the charges when he agreed to secretly cooperate with the prosecution of the actual artifact thieves. But the antiquities agent used the old case to occasionally press him for information on other field investigations. Brandy would usually evade most of her inquiries, but in all her dealings with him he had never outright lied to her.

“I want the man who killed him,” Sophie said.

Brandy shrugged his shoulders. “I’m afraid I can’t help you.”

“You hear things, Solomon. Was it the Mules?”

Brandy gazed nervously toward the window, looking for any lingering strangers. “They are a dangerous organization, the Mules. Terrorists operating within our own borders. You don’t want to get too close to them, Miss Elkin.”

“Were they responsible?”

Brandy looked her in the eye. “There are suspicions,” he said in a low voice. “But I cannot say with certainty any more than you can.”

“I know of no others who steal artifacts at the point of a gun and are not afraid to pull the trigger.”

“Nor do I,” Brandy admitted. “At least not in our country.”

“Tell me, Solomon, who would have hired such a team?”

“Certainly not a dealer,” he spat indignantly. “I don’t have to tell you how things work in the black market. The preponderance of illegal excavating is done by dirt-poor Arabs who are paid a pittance for their discoveries. The artifacts are then passed through a series of middlemen—sometimes dealers, sometimes not—until finding a home with a public or private collector. But I can tell you that no dealer in Israel is going to jeopardize his livelihood by purchasing artifacts with blood on them. There’s just too much risk.”

Though Sophie had few doubts that half the artifacts in Brandy’s store were acquired from illegal excavations, she knew that he was right. The quality of the best dealers’ inventories was based on secret, shadowy deal making that entailed trust by both parties. There was too much potential exposure to trade with the wrong elements. Killing for artifacts just seemed far beyond the realm for the dealers that Sophie knew.

“I believe that no
smart
dealer would knowingly involve himself with such butchers,” she said. “Have you heard of any attempts to sell Roman papyrus scrolls from the fourth century?”

“So, that is what they stole from Caesarea,” he replied with a comprehending nod. “No, I am not aware of any effort to pawn such articles.”

“If the goods are not on the market, then it must have been a job for a private collector.”

“That’s how I would see it,” Brandy agreed.

Sophie stepped to the counter and picked up the small clay figurine. It was in the crude shape of an ox with a gilded yoke. She studied the shape and design closely.

“First Temple period?” she asked.

“You have a keen eye,” he replied.

“Who’s it for?”

Brandy stammered a bit. “A banker in Haifa. He specializes in early Israelite earthenware. He has a small but quite impressive collection, actually.”

“Any papyrus scrolls in his possession?”

“No, not his area of interest. He’s more of a hobbyist than a dire fanatic. The few collectors I know that are into papyrus are focused on particular texts or content. None are what you’d call a high roller.”

“Then tell me, Sol, who would be passionate about these scrolls and also have the means to go to this extreme?”

Brandy gazed at the ceiling in thought.

“Who’s to say? I know wealthy collectors in Europe and the U.S. who are willing to go to great lengths to acquire a specific artifact. But there are certainly dozens of other collectors in the same league that I’ve never even heard of.”

“Knowledge of the Caesarea scrolls was but a day old,” Sophie said. “It doesn’t seem likely to me that a Western collector could have responded so quickly. No, Solomon, I think that this was instigated by a regional source. Any local names fit the profile?”

Brandy shrugged and shook his head. Sophie expected little else. She knew that the high-dollar collectors were the gravy train for dealers like Brandy. He probably had no clue who was behind the Caesarea attack, but he certainly wasn’t going to raise suspicions about any of his major clients.

“If you hear anything, anything at all, you let me know,” she said. She started to leave, then turned and faced him with an admonishing glare.

“When I find these murderers—and I will—I won’t treat kindly any accomplices, whether it’s by act or knowledge,” she stated.

“You have my word, Miss Elkin,” Brandy replied impassively.

The buzzer sounded as the front door was opened, and a lean man with a stiff upright posture walked in. He had a square handsome face, sandy combed-back hair, and roving blue eyes that glistened in recognition of Sophie. Dressed in worn khakis and a Panama hat, he cut a dashing figure laced with just a hint of snake oil.

“Well, if it isn’t the lovely Sophie Elkin,” he said with an upper-crust British accent. “Is the Antiquities Authority here to expand its biblical artifact collection beyond those acquired by confiscation?”

“Hello, Ridley,” she replied coolly. “And, no, the Antiquities Authority is not in the artifact-collection business. We prefer that they remain where they are, in proper cultural context.”

She glided over to the case of Jericho pots. “I’m just here to admire Mr. Brandy’s latest batch of forgeries. Something you should know a thing or two about.”

It was a stinging rebuke to Ridley Bannister. A classically trained archaeologist from Oxford, he had become a high-profile authority on biblical history in print and on television. Though many of his fellow archaeologists viewed him as a showman rather than an academic, no one denied that he had a remarkable understanding of the region’s history. On top of that, he seemed perpetually blessed with good luck. His peers marveled at his uncanny ability to produce exciting discoveries from even the most obscure digs, locating royal graves, important stone carvings, and dazzling jewelry from overlooked sites. Equally savvy at promotion, he exploited book and film deals on his discoveries to attain a comfortable wealth.