Crescent Dawn (8 page)

T
OPKAPI PALACE WAS THE GRAND RESIDENCE OF THE Ottoman sultans for nearly four hundred years. A sprawling maze of garnished tiled buildings and chambers built on a hillside compound overlooking the Golden Horn, the palace contained a treasury of Turkey’s rich history. The popular and crowded guided tours provided a glimpse into the personal lives of the ruling sultans, while showcasing an impressive collection of art, weapons, and jewelry. Yet amid the royal opulence, the palace contained a serious collection of holy Islamic relics revered throughout the world. And it was these objects that the thieves had targeted.

A catering van had easily smuggled a small cache of arms and plastic explosives into the palace grounds several days before. The thieves merely entered the complex as tourists late in the day and quietly slipped aside, hiding in a groundskeeper’s shed. Under cover of darkness, long after the last tourists had left and the entrances secured, the thieves collected their weapons and moved on the Chamber of the Sacred Relics, where many of the holy objects were stored.

The actual assault took barely a minute, as they blasted their way through a side wall with the explosives, then shot and killed a nearby guard. They quickly gathered their desired relics, then escaped through the damaged wall.

The thieves had carefully orchestrated a series of small, diversionary explosions at various points around the compound as they made their way south on foot. Once past the main gate, they would be whisked off the grounds in the waiting van. It would take only a few minutes from there to reach the maze of Sultanahmet’s winding streets and become lost to the night.

Police sirens wailed in the distance as two men in black sprinted through Bâb-üs Selâm, each toting a canvas bag. The woman aiming the handgun at Loren immediately barked clipped orders to the men as they approached the van. The two thieves threw their bags in the back, then dragged the semiconscious driver there and laid him out. One of the men hurried around front and climbed into the driver’s seat, while the second man produced his own pistol and leveled it at Loren. The woman barked again at Pitt.

“You. Away from the van,” she ordered, training her gun on Pitt. “This woman is coming with us. If you wish to see her alive again, you will tell the police we escaped through the Gülhane Park Gate.” She motioned her weapon toward the northeast side of the compound.

Pitt’s hands clenched into fists, and his eyes nearly shot flames of anger, but there was nothing he could do. The woman sensed his wrath and leveled her gun at his head.

“Don’t even think about it,” she said.

The gunman grabbed Loren by the arm and roughly shoved her into the back of the van, then climbed in and closed the door behind them. The woman backpedaled to the front passenger door, holding her gun on Pitt until she jumped inside. The new driver immediately floored it, and the van squealed away with its tires smoking.

Pitt quickly ran to Ruppé, who had staggered to his feet but wobbled from the blow to his head administered by the woman.

“Your car,” Pitt said hurriedly.

Ruppé quickly fished out the keys.

“You go now. I’ll just slow you down.”

“Are you all right?”

“Just a scratch,” he replied with a weak smile, eyeing his blood-smeared hand. “I’ll be fine. You go ahead, and I will inform the police when they arrive.”

Pitt nodded as he grabbed the keys and dashed off toward the Karmann Ghia. The old Volkswagen fired on the first turn of the key. Pitt immediately jammed it into gear and chirped the tires as he sped off after the van.

The exterior grounds of Topkapi were laid out in the rough shape of a tilted
A
, with an entry gate at the base of each leg. Anticipating a more likely police response through the northern Gülhane Park Gate, the thieves headed for the Imperial Gate to the south. Despite a daily influx of tourist buses to the palace, the tree-lined roads through the grounds were narrow, curving affairs that limited speed.

Pitt took to the main road on which the van had exited, but the van was well out of sight by now. Passing several small side drives, Pitt felt his heart beat faster in the fear that he might not be able to locate the van. Professional thieves were usually not murderers, he tried telling himself. They would probably let Loren free at the first opportune moment. But then his mind flashed back to the image of the museum guard being intentionally run over. They had heard plenty of gunshots over the palace wall as well. An uncomfortable pang hit him at the realization that these thieves were in fact not afraid to kill.

He pushed the accelerator down harder, eliciting a painful wail from the Volkswagen’s air-cooled motor. The Karmann Ghia was far from a fast car, but its size and weight made it a nimble cornering vehicle. Pitt pushed the little car to its limits, constantly shifting between second and third gears as he shot down the curving road. Once he pushed it a little too far, sending a hubcap bounding into an elm tree when the back wheel kissed a curb.

The roadway straightened for a short stretch, then ended at a crossroads. Pitt slammed on the brakes, skidding into the empty intersection, as he contemplated which way to turn. A quick glance to either side revealed no traffic and no sign of the van. Pitt thought back to the woman’s remark about the Gülhane Gate. He had no clue where it was but recalled her wave of the pistol. Despite the twists and turns he had driven, he was certain that she had motioned to what was now his right. Jamming the gearshift into first, he stomped on the gas and popped the clutch, shooting off down the paved road to his left.

The wide canopies of aged oak trees whizzed by overhead as he accelerated hard, following the road as it faded to the right. Dropping down a low hill, he came to another crossroads. This time, he spotted a road sign in English, “Exit,” with an arrow pointing to the right. Slowing only slightly, he screeched through the turn with a squeal of blistering rubber, the Volkswagen drifting into the oncoming lane that was thankfully devoid of traffic.

The road opened onto an extended straightaway that led through the Imperial Gate. Pitt could sense an increase in light radiating ahead, as the trees and shrubs of the palace grounds gave way to the crowded urbanization of Istanbul’s ancient city center. Staring down the road, Pitt caught a glimpse of taillights turning just outside the gate.

It was the van.

Pitt felt a surge of hope as he held the throttle down and raced to the gate. The thieves must have been right, he thought. If the Istanbul police were responding to the alarm, they hadn’t yet made it to the Imperial Gate. As he approached the gate, he caught a glimpse of what appeared to be the bodies of two Turkish soldiers lying beside the road.

He ignored the sight, bursting past the gate and making a sharp right turn, slowing to avoid a loud squeal of tires. A glance ahead revealed that the van had cut south, down a perpendicular boulevard. Pitt quickly followed suit, flicking off his headlights as he made a sharp turn, then closed in on the van.

A congested mass of cars and people by day, the city’s historic Sultanahmet center was oddly quiet late at night. Pitt sped around a beat-up taxicab, then slowed as he saw the van stopped at a traffic light.

They were traveling past Hagia Sophia, one of the grandest monuments surviving from the Byzantine era. Built as a basilica by the Roman Emperor Justinian and later converted to a mosque, it stood as the largest domed building in the world for almost a thousand years. Its ancient frescoes and mosaics, along with its towering architecture, made it one of Istanbul’s most important cultural landmarks.

The van turned right again, crossing Sultanahmet Square and the forecourt of Hagia Sophia, where a handful of tourists milled about, taking photos of the illuminated exterior. Pitt tried to edge closer to the van but was cut off by a pair of taxis pulling away from the curb.

The van slowed its pace to avoid attention as a police wagon stormed by on a cross street with its lights and siren blazing, heading up the hill toward Topkapi. The small congregation of vehicles moved out of the square and down a block before stopping at a red light. A rusty garbage truck ambled down the cross street, then stopped near the corner to pick up a pile of trash. The truck momentarily blocked the van, which was wedged from behind by one of the taxis.

Sitting two cars behind that, Pitt watched a slow-moving garbageman attack the trash pile and decided the situation afforded him the chance to act. Without hesitation, he leaped out of the Karmann Ghia and rushed toward the back of the van, crouching low while hugging the sides of the taxis to avoid detection. The van’s rear panel doors had tinted windows, but Pitt could make out a figure seated on the right side who either had very short hair or was wearing a ski cap.

The light turned green, and the van lurched forward, then stopped, forced to wait while the lackadaisical garbageman slowly disposed of the pile of bulging plastic trash bags. Pitt approached the van in a crouch and placed a foot on its bumper, then grabbed the door handle with his right hand. Flinging the door open, he lunged in, his balled left fist coiled to strike.

It was a risky move, one that could get both Loren and himself killed. But he had the element of surprise on his side and rightly figured the gunman in the rear had let his guard down and was relishing the success of the theft. Deep down, there was another motive for abandoning caution. Pitt knew he could never live with himself if he failed to act and something happened to Loren.

With the door flung open, Pitt peered into the rear compartment while already in motion. He had gambled correctly and found the uninjured gunman seated on a bench to the right. Seated opposite was the original van driver, who was slowly regaining his color. Loren was seated beside him, wedged against a partition that divided the rear from the driver’s compartment. In the fraction of a second that they made eye contact, Pitt could see a look of fright in his wife’s eyes.

Surprise was completely his, as the gunman didn’t even have his pistol on Loren but was holding it down at his side. He gave Pitt a startled look through his ski mask before Pitt’s balled fist struck him on the chin. With surging adrenaline and controlled rage, Pitt could have probably put his fist through the van’s side panel had he aimed differently. The blow instantly knocked the man cold, sending him teetering to the floorboard without ever raising his weapon.

The other man reacted quickly, perhaps relishing the opportunity to retaliate against the earlier assault. He dove onto the back of Pitt’s outstretched body, pinning Pitt’s torso against the floor. The man had a gun in his pocket, which he struggled to retrieve while wrapping his other arm around Pitt. Pushed flat, Pitt immediately raised himself with his arms but couldn’t quite shake the man’s half bear hug. Seeking any measure of leverage he could, Pitt wedged a foot against the rear bumper, then tried shifting his weight to the rear. With his attacker glued to his back, Pitt heaved with both his arms and legs, flinging himself backward and out of the van.

The taxicab was idling just a foot or two behind the van. Hurtling through the air, the two intertwined bodies slammed backward onto the cab’s hood, the van driver sandwiched beneath Pitt and bearing the brunt of the impact. The man gasped as the breath was knocked from his lungs, and Pitt felt the grip around his torso soften. Spinning to his feet, Pitt pulled the man’s arm away, then shoved an elbow into the driver’s head with repeated blows. It was enough to stun the man into submission and he sank to the pavement before he could find the grip on his gun.

Catching his breath, Pitt looked up to see Loren scampering out of the van. In her hand, she was clutching one of the black bags.

“Quick, let’s go,” he urged, grabbing her arm and pulling her down the street. They staggered a few steps to the sidewalk, Loren resisting any attempts at speed.

“I can’t run in these shoes,” she pleaded.

Pitt heard a yell from the direction of the van but wasted no time looking. Instead, he roughly grabbed his wife and shoved her toward the alcove of a small square building a few steps away. He dove after her as two quick cracks from a pistol rang out. A pair of concrete chips flew in the air as the bullets peppered the ground near their feet.

The doorway provided cover, but just temporarily. It would only be seconds before the woman with the pistol stepped down the street far enough to have a clear shot at the two of them.

“Where to now?” Loren gasped, her heart pounding in fear.

Pitt quickly surveyed an ancient weathered door that stood at the top of the steps.

“A simple choice, I’d say,” he replied, nodding toward the door. “We go in.”

T
WO FIRM KICKS ON THE WOODEN DOOR WERE SUFFICIENT to dislodge the well-worn dead bolt from its housing and force an opening. Loren and Pitt quickly slithered into a plain, empty room, sided by a counter and cash register. At the back of the room was a wide, dimly lit stairwell that led to a lower level.

From outside the door, they could hear the sound of running footsteps approach. Pitt turned and swung the door closed as he caught a glimpse of the woman in black sprinting around the back of the taxi. He missed seeing the muzzle flash from her pistol as she fired again, but he saw the slug bury itself into the door a few inches from his face.

“I guess we go down,” he said, grabbing Loren’s hand and rushing to the stairs. They had hopped down a few of the carved stone steps when Loren yanked on his arm.

“I can’t make it that far in heels,” she said, noticing that the stairwell descended a considerable distance below them. She quickly yanked off her pumps, then proceeded to scurry down the stairs.

“Why does practicality never enter into the design of women’s shoes?” Pitt asked, catching up with her.

“Only a man would have to ask,” she grumbled, breathing hard from their exertion.