Crescent Dawn (43 page)

“I purchased these artifacts many years ago. And for many years, I have thought about the rumor of the Manifest. Is it true? Could the cargo possibly exist? Then, one night, I had a dream. I dreamt that I was holding the Manifest in my hands, much like I held your copy today. And, in my mind, I see Roman weapons and artifacts around me. But not just any artifacts. I see these artifacts,” he said, pointing to the pictures.

“We often dream the reality we seek,” Bannister said. “You really think there is a connection between the Manifest and these Roman relics? Couldn’t they have come from any sea engagement?”

“Not just any sea engagement would involve the
Scholae Palatinae
. You see, they were the successors to the Praetorian Guard, who were wiped out by Constantine at the Battle of Milvian Bridge, when he routed Maxentius and consolidated the empire. No, it’s clear to me that the Cypriot vessel tangled with a galley of imperial decree.”

“Does the vessel itself date to the proper era?”

Gutzman smiled again. “The vessel, as well as the armaments and artifacts, all consistently date to approximately 330 A.D. Then there is this,” he said, pointing to a weathered Roman shield in one of the photographs.

Bannister had missed it in his first viewing, but now noticed the shield beside the spear tips, featuring a faded Chi-Rho cross across its center.

“The cross of Constantine,” Bannister muttered.

“Not only that but the papyrus from Caesarea adds weight to the theory,” Gutzman said. “The dream is real, Ridley. If your Manifest is true, then I have already heard the voice of Helena through my own artifacts.”

Bannister’s eyes lit up with intrigue at the possibility of it all.

“Tell me, Oscar,” he asked pointedly, “where was the shipwreck discovered?”

“The vessel was found near the village of Pissouri, on the southern coast of Cyprus. Perhaps it is not impossible that the actual cargo of the Manifest is buried in the vicinity?” he speculated with raised brows. “Now,
that
would be a gift from the heavens, would it not, Ridley?”

“Indeed,” the archaeologist said, the wheels turning in his head. “It would be a discovery for the ages.”

“But, alas, we are jumping the gun. I must examine the Manifest first and see if it is indeed authentic. You tell your London friend I’m willing to pay a hundred thousand pounds for it. But I will require the carbon dating and a personal examination first,” he said, rising to his feet.

“A hundred thousand pounds?” Bannister replied, his voice the one now rasping.

“Yes, and not a penny more.”

The old collector patted Bannister on the shoulder. “Thank you for coming to me first, Ridley. I believe that we are on the path to glorious things here.”

Bannister could only nod in disappointment as he walked to the door. After he was safely down the elevator, Gutzman walked back to the living area and approached Alfar.

“You listened to our conversation?” the Fat Man asked.

“Yes, Mr. Oscar. Every word,” the Arab replied in a course accent. “But I do not understand why you do not buy this Manifest.”

“Very simple, Alfar. I am quite certain that it is Bannister who possesses the Manifest, not some London broker. He is trying to bilk me mightily for it and he yet might succeed.”

“Then why tell him about your Roman artifacts?”

“To plant the seed. You see, he has a gift for discovery. He now leaves here disillusioned about selling the Manifest but also bewildered, as am I, about the possibility that the artifacts actually exist. I am certain that his ego will drive him there immediately. It may be a fool’s gamble, but why not try? Bannister is resourceful and lucky. If it can be found, then he is the man to do it. So why not let him find it for us?”

“You are a smart man, Mr. Oscar. But how will you control Bannister?”

“I want you to contact Zakkar. Tell him I have a simple surveillance job for him, one that will pay very well.”

“He left word that he does not want to set foot in Israel for several months, if possible.”

“Feeling the heat, is he?” Gutzman said with a chuckle. “No matter. You tell him not to worry, the job won’t be in Israel. It’s Cyprus where he’ll have to earn his pay.”

H
AMMET WINCED UNDER THE GLARE OF THE BRIGHT fluorescent lights that welcomed his first efforts at opening his eyes. The discomfort was nothing in comparison to the searing pain that throbbed from the back of his head. Forcing his lids open once more, he fought to identify where he was. The first answer was: Flat on his back, staring into a bank of overhead lights.

“Captain, how are you feeling?” came the familiar voice of the
Dayan
’s executive officer.

“Like I was leveled by a locomotive,” Hammet replied, raising his head to take in his surroundings.

As his vision cleared, he could see he was lying on a dining table in the ship’s mess, a stack of linen napkins serving as a makeshift pillow beneath his head. Members of his crew circled around him, concern and fear evident in their faces. Suddenly feeling self-conscious at his position, he raised himself to his elbows and slid off the table, the executive officer helping him slump into a chair. Overcoming a wave of nausea, he peered at the exec and nodded in thanks.

For the first time, he noticed that the executive officer wore a bloodied bandage around his head and that his skin was two shades paler than normal.

“I feared you were dead,” Hammet said.

“Lost a bit of blood, but I’ll manage. You had us more worried, as you slept the night away.”

The tanker captain gazed toward a nearby porthole, seeing the rays of the early-morning sun streaming in. He suddenly realized that the ship’s engine was silent and that the ship was obviously moored in place. A few feet along the bulkhead, he was startled to see a pair of black-clad men sitting on either side of the entry door. They cradled automatic rifles on their laps while staring back at him with menacing glares.

“How’d they get aboard?” Hammet asked quietly.

“Not sure,” the exec replied. “Must have been by small boat from that freighter. A group of armed men burst onto the bridge before we knew what was happening.”

“Did you get off a distress call?”

The exec shook his head grimly. “No time.”

Hammet took a headcount of his crew seated around him, noticing his third officer was absent.

“Where’s Cook?”

“He was taken to the bridge early on. My guess is, they had him piloting the ship.”

A short time later, the door to the mess was thrown open, and the third officer brusquely shoved inside by another gunman. Sporting a large bruise on his cheek, the young officer stepped to the table and approached Hammet.

“Glad to see you’re okay, Captain,” he said.

“What can you report?” Hammet asked.

“Sir, they had me pilot the ship at gunpoint. We tracked north at full speed all night, following a black freighter named the
Ottoman Star
. At around dawn, we docked alongside her in a small protected cove. We’re still in Turkish waters, about ten miles north of the Dardanelles.”

“Any idea who these people are?”

“No, sir. They spoke Turkish but made no demands. Can’t imagine why someone would hijack an empty water tanker.”

Hammet nodded in response, quietly wondering the same thing.

THE ISRAELI TANKER CREW was held aboard the ship for another twenty-four hours, given access to the galley but little else. Several times Hammet approached the guards with questions or requests but each time was silently rebuked with the muzzle of a gun. Throughout the day and night, they could hear the sound of workers and machinery echoing from the forward deck. Sneaking a peek out the porthole, Hammet could glimpse a crane swinging crates from the freighter to the tanker.

They were finally taken off the ship late in the day when some additional guards arrived and they were ordered to help load the ship. Marched down the pier, Hammet was shocked to see what had been done to his vessel. The assailants had cut away a pair of huge holes in the forward deck. The tanker’s twin forward storage tanks, which each held 150,000 gallons of water, were now exposed like a half-open can of sardines. The captain could see that the crates he had witnessed being off-loaded from the freighter now lined the perimeter bulkheads of each exposed tank.

“The idiots have converted our tanker to a cargo carrier,” he cursed as they were led ashore.

His dismay only grew when the crew was marched into the south warehouse and directed to transport the small boxes of plastic explosives from the Army container. They were guided back to the tanker, where they deposited the explosives in the center of the two open tanks. Hammet took a second to study the crates already loaded aboard, seeing they were filled with fifty-pound bags marked “Ammonium Nitrate Fuel Oil.”

“They mean to blow up the ship,” he whispered to his exec as they were marched back for a second load of HMX.

“With us in it, I imagine,” the exec replied.

“One of us needs to try to slip away. We’ve got to find some help to stop this madness.”

“As the captain, you’ll be the first missed.”

“With that bloody head wrap, you wouldn’t be far behind,” Hammet said.

“I’ll try,” came a voice from behind them. It was the tanker’s helmsman, a diminutive man named Green.

“It’s dark in the warehouse, Green,” Hammet said. “See if you can get lost in the shadows.”

But the guards were poised to prevent an escape and ordered Green back in line every time he lingered or tried to drift away from the others. Reluctantly, he joined the line of explosives haulers.

The crew continued their forced labor until the explosives in the container dwindled. Hammet curiously noted a dark-eyed woman in a jumpsuit monitoring their progress from the tanker’s deck before taking a position up on the bridge. As they returned to the warehouse for what he knew would be the last load, Hammet turned to his helmsman.

“Try to stay behind in the container,” he whispered.

The captain passed the word for his entire crew to quickly crowd into the container before a guard yelled at them to slow down. But it gave Green the chance to slip to the back of the container. He quickly climbed to the top shelf, then stretched against the side of the wall, his bantam body barely visible from below. Hammet let the other crewmen carry out the last of the explosives, then walked out of the container with his palms up.

“No more,” he said to the nearest guard, then followed the others across the warehouse.

Stepping quickly, he couldn’t help craning his neck as the guard walked over and peeked into the container. Satisfied that it was empty, the guard turned and slammed the door shut. Hammet turned away, holding his breath as he prayed for silence. But his hopes vanished with the sound of the dead bolt sliding closed with a sickening thud that Hammet felt all the way down to his toes.

T
HE TIRES OF THE COMMUTER PLANE KICKED UP A CLOUD of dust as they touched down on the dry runway of Çanakkale Airport a short distance southeast of the Dardanelles. The plane turned toward its designated terminal, slowly pulling to a stop as its twin propellers fell quiet. Summer watched from behind a barricade as her brother stepped off the plane with the last passengers. He walked with a slight limp and sported a few small bandages but otherwise appeared healthy. But as he stepped closer, she could see that he carried the worst of his wounds internally.

“Still in one piece, I see,” she said, giving him a hug. “Welcome to Turkey.”

“Thanks,” he replied in a low voice.

Gone was his usual positive energy and upbeat disposition. Even his eyes seemed darker, Summer thought. Not sad and mournful, as she might have expected, but cold and almost angry. It was a look she had never seen in her brother before. Gently grabbing his arm, she led him toward the baggage claim.

“We read the news about the attack on the Dome of the Rock, never imagining you were involved,” she said quietly. “Then Dad heard through the grapevine that you were there and had prevented the explosion.”

“I only stopped one of the charges from going off,” he said bitterly. “The Israeli security forces kept me out of the news while they patched me up at an Army hospital. I guess they didn’t want the presence of an American to muddy up the local politics.”

“Thank goodness, you weren’t severely injured.” She paused and looked at him with concern. “I’m sorry to hear about your Israeli friend.”

Dirk nodded but said nothing. They soon reached the baggage claim and found his luggage. Making their way to a small borrowed van in the parking lot, Summer said, “We’ve got one more pickup to make.”

Driving to the opposite end of the airport, she found a dilapidated warehouse building marked “Air Cargo.” Requesting a pickup for NUMA, she was handed a pair of overnight packages, and then two men wheeled out a small crate and loaded it into the rear of the van.