Crescent Dawn (26 page)

Zeibig hastily trained a handful of scuba-qualified scientists in the art of underwater survey and documentation, then coordinated a careful examination of the wreck. Pitt, Giordino, and even Gunn took a hand in the dive rotation, photographing, measuring, and excavating test pits at various locations around the site. A small amount of artifacts, mostly ceramics and a few iron fittings, were retrieved as skeletal fragments of the wreck were exposed.

Pitt stood near the stern rail of the
Aegean Explorer
eyeing a growing pattern of whitecaps that dotted the sea under a stiffening westerly breeze. An empty Zodiac bounced wildly on the waves, moored to a nearby buoy that was fixed to the wreck site. A pair of divers suddenly poked to the surface, then bellied their way into the inflatable boat. One of the men released the mooring line while the other started the outboard engine, then they quickly raced to the side of the research ship. Pitt lowered a cable over the side and helped hoist the Zodiac onto the deck with the two men still seated in it.

Rudi Gunn and Rod Zeibig hopped out and began stripping off their wet suits.

“It’s turned a bit bouncy out there,” remarked Zeibig, a buoyant man with bright blue eyes and salt-and-pepper hair.

“I’ve passed the word that we’re halting dive operations until the winds settle down,” Pitt said. “The weather forecast indicates that things should be calm by morning.”

“A good idea,” the archaeologist replied, “although I think Rudi will be on pins and needles until he gets back to the wreck.”

“Find something of interest?”

Gunn nodded with an excited look in his eyes. “I was digging in grid C-1 and touched a large carved stone. I only uncovered a small corner of it before our bottom time ran out. I think it may possibly be some sort of monolith or stele.”

“That could add a clue to the ship’s identity,” Pitt said.

“I just hope we don’t have to share in her discovery,” Zeibig said, nodding toward the starboard rail.

Pounding over the waves just over two miles away was a high-performance motor yacht headed directly for the
Aegean Explorer
. It was Italian built, with wraparound smoked-glass windows and a large open stern deck. A red Turkish flag with white crescent and star flew from a mast, along with a smaller red flag that featured a single gold crescent. Though it was far smaller than a Monte Carlo show yacht, Pitt still could see that it was an expensive luxury boat. The three men watched as the yacht closed to within a half mile before slowing to a halt, where it bobbed on the unsettled waters.

“I wouldn’t be too concerned about your wreck, Rod,” Gunn said. “They don’t exactly look like they’re here to perform excavation work.”

“Probably somebody just nosing about to see what a research ship is doing parked out here,” Pitt said.

“Or perhaps we’re blocking the view of someone’s villa on shore,” Gunn muttered.

Pitt assumed that no one besides Ruppé knew of the location of the wreck site. Perhaps he had already notified the Turkish Ministry of Culture, he considered. But then he remembered that Ruppé’s office had been burglarized and his chart to the site stolen with the artifacts. His concern was diverted when he heard his name shouted from the forward part of the ship. He turned to see Giordino hanging his torso out of a work bay door beneath the bridge.

“Some info from Istanbul just came in for you over the wire,” Giordino shouted.

“Speak of the devil,” Pitt muttered. “Be right there,” he yelled back, then turned to the other two men.

“I bet that is Dr. Ruppé’s analysis of our earlier artifacts from the wreck.”

“I’d like to see his results,” Zeibig said.

The two divers quickly changed clothes, then met up with Pitt and Giordino in the small bay, which housed several computers linked to a satellite communications system. Giordino handed Pitt a multipage printout, then sat down at one of the computers.

“Dr. Ruppé also e-mailed a couple of photographs with the report,” he said, tapping at a keyboard to open an electronic file. A close-up image of a gold coin filled the computer screen.

Pitt quickly scanned the report then passed it to Zeibig.

“Are we still looking at an Ottoman wreck?” Gunn asked.

“Almost certainly,” Pitt replied. “Dr. Ruppé found a representative coin from a mint in Syria that he believes is identical to one of the coins in Al’s lockbox. It dates to around 1570. Unfortunately, Ruppé says he had to base the comparison on memory, since the coins were stolen from his office.”

“I’d have to agree with him,” Giordino said. “It looks like the same coin to me.”

“The mint marks were known to have been used between 1560 and 1580,” Zeibig said, reading from the report.

“So we know the wreck is no older than 1560,” Gunn said. “A shame the whole box of coins was taken, as that might have zeroed things in a bit more.”

“The other dating clue was the ceramic box that held the crown,” Pitt said. “As Loren and I discovered at the Blue Mosque, the particular design indicates the tiles came from the kilns of Iznik.”

Giordino clicked to the next few photographs, which showed a number of known tile samples from Iznik.

“Unfortunately, the ceramic box was also taken from Ruppé’s office, so again we’re working from memory.”

“His report indicates that the tiles incorporate patterns and colors that were popular with Iznik ceramics in the late sixteenth century,” Zeibig noted.

“At least we have some consistency,” Giordino noted.

“I can also attest that from what I saw of the wreck’s framing, it corresponds with known sixteenth-century vessel construction in the Mediterranean,” Zeibig added, looking up from the report.

“That’s three for three,” Gunn said.

“Which brings us to King Al’s crown,” Pitt replied with raised inflection.

Giordino pulled up a new photograph, which showed a detailed image of the gold crown. The seabed encrustations had all been cleaned from it, leaving a sparkling headpiece that looked as if it had just left the goldsmith.

“Thank goodness my baby was kept safe in Dr. Ruppé’s vault,” Giordino said.

“Dr. Ruppé calls this one of the most significant finds in Turkish waters, as well as one of the most mysterious,” Pitt said. “Despite considerable research, he was unable to utilize the crown’s shape and size as a clue in identifying its provenance. However, after a thorough cleaning, he clarified the faint engraving on the inside of the band.”

Giordino brought up an enlarged photo of the crown while Zeibig thumbed to the description in the report.

“The engraving is in Latin,” Zeibig reported with a quizzical look. “Ruppé translated the inscription as follows: ‘To Artrius, in gratitude for capturing the relic pirates.—Constantine.’”

“Ruppé found records of a Roman Senator named Artrius. It so happens that he lived during the rule of Constantine,” Pitt said.

“Constantine the Great?” Gunn blurted. “The Roman Emperor? Why, he lived a thousand years earlier.”

The room fell silent as everyone stared at the photographic image. Nobody had expected such a disconnect with the shipwreck’s other artifacts, particularly by something as remarkable as the gold crown. And yet there was no clue as to why it was aboard. Pitt inched away from the monitor and stood up, finally breaking the silence.

“I hate to say it,” he said with a grin, “but I guess this means that King Al has been transferred to the Roman Legion.”

B
ROOME PARK WAS A CHARACTERISTIC OLD ENGLISH manor. Purchased by Kitchener in 1911, it featured a towering Jacobean-style brick house built during the rule of Charles I, surrounded by 476 acres of lush, parklike grounds. During his short occupancy, Kitchener labored extensively to upgrade the estate’s gardens, while commissioning an elaborate fountain or two. But like top hat and tails or horse and carriage, Broome Park’s original grace and charm was now mostly reserved for an earlier age.

Sixty miles southeast of London, Julie turned off at Dover and followed the short road to the estate. Summer was surprised to see a foursome playing golf on a stretch of grass just beyond a sign welcoming them to Broome Park.

“It’s an all-too-familiar tale around Britain,” Julie explained. “Historic manors are passed down from generation to generation until one day the heir wakes up and realizes he can’t afford the taxes and maintenance. First the surrounding acreage is sold off, then more desperate measures are eventually taken. Some are converted to bed-and-breakfasts, others leased to corporations for conferencing or used as outdoor concert venues.”

“Or even converted into golf courses,” Summer said.

“Precisely. Broome Park has probably suffered the worst of all fates. Most of the manor has been sold off as a time-share and overnight lodging, while the surrounding grounds have been converted into a golf course. I’m sure Horatio Herbert is looking down in disgrace.”

“Is the estate still in the hands of Kitchener’s heirs?”

“Kitchener was a lifelong bachelor, but he bequeathed the estate to his nephew Toby. Toby’s son Aldrich now runs the place, though he’s getting on in years.”

Julie parked the car in a wide lot, and they walked to the main entrance, passing an ill-kept rose garden along the way. Summer was more impressed when they entered the main foyer, which show-cased a large cut-glass chandelier and a towering oil painting of the old man himself, his stern gray eyes seemingly imposing their will even from the flat canvas.

A wiry white-haired man was seated at a desk reading a book, but he looked up and smiled when he noted Julie coming in.

“Hello, Miss Goodyear,” he said, springing up from the desk. “I received your message that you would be coming by this morning.”

“You’re looking well, Aldrich. Keeping the manor full?”

“Business is quite nice, thank you. Had a couple of short-term visitors check in already today.”

“This is my friend Summer Pitt, who’s helping me with my research.”

“Nice to meet you, Miss Pitt,” he said, extending a hand. “You probably want to get right to work, so why don’t you follow me on back?”

He led them through a side door into a private wing that encompassed his own living quarters. They walked through a large sitting area filled with artifacts from North Africa and the Middle East, all acquired by Kitchener during his Army years stationed in the region. Aldrich then opened another door and ushered them into a wood-paneled study. Summer noticed that one entire wall was lined with tall mahogany filing cabinets.

“I would have thought you’d have all of Uncle Herbert’s files memorized by now,” Aldrich said to Julie with a smile.

“I’ve certainly spent enough time with them,” Julie agreed. “We just need to review some of his personal correspondence in the months preceding his death.”

“Those will be in the last cabinet on the right.” He turned and walked toward the doorway. “I’ll be at the front desk, should you require any assistance.”

“Thank you, Aldrich.”

The two women quickly dove into the file cabinet. Summer was glad to see the correspondence was of a more personal and interesting nature than the records at the Imperial War Museum. She slowly read through dozens of letters from Kitchener’s relatives, along with what seemed an endless trail of correspondence from building contractors, who were being cajoled and pushed by Kitchener to complete refurbishments on Broome Park.

“Look how cute this is,” she said, holding up a card of a hand-drawn butterfly sent from Kitchener’s three-year-old niece.

“The gruff old general was quite close with his sister and brothers and their children,” Julie said.

“Looking at an individual’s personal correspondence is a great way to get to know him, isn’t it?” Summer said.

“It really is. A shame that the handwritten letter has become a lost art form in the age of e-mail.”

They searched for nearly two hours before Julie sat up in her chair.

“My word, it didn’t go down on the
Hampshire
,” she blurted.

“What are you talking about?”

“His diary,” Julie replied with wide eyes. “Here, take a look at this.”

It was a letter from an Army sergeant named Wingate, dated a few days before the
Hampshire
was sunk. Summer read with interest how the sergeant expressed his regret at being unable to accompany Kitchener on his pending voyage and wished the field marshal well on his important trip. It was a brief postscript at the bottom of the page that made her stiffen.

“‘P.S. Received your diary. Will keep it safe till your return,’” she read aloud.

“How could I have missed it?” Julie lamented.

“It’s an otherwise innocuous letter, written in very messy handwriting,” Summer said. “I would have skimmed past it, too. But it’s a wonderful discovery. How exciting, his last diary may indeed still exist.”

“But it’s not here or in the official records. What was that soldier’s name again?”

“Sergeant Norman Wingate.”

“I know that name but can’t place it,” Julie replied, racking her brain.

A high-pitched squeak echoed from the other room, slowly growing louder in intensity. They looked to the doorway to see Aldrich entering the study pushing a tea cart with a bad wheel.

“Pardon the interruption, but I thought you might enjoy a tea break,” he said, pouring cups for each of them.

“That’s very kind of you, Mr. Kitchener,” Summer said, taking one of the hot cups.

“Aldrich, do you happen to recall an acquaintance of Lord Kitchener by the name of Norman Wingate?” Julie asked.

Aldrich rubbed his brow as his eyes darted toward the ceiling in thought.

“Wasn’t he one of Uncle Herbert’s bodyguards?” he asked.

“That’s it,” Julie said, suddenly remembering. “Wingate and Stearns were his two armed guards approved by the Prime Minister.”