Crescent Dawn (9 page)

They continued plunging down the stairs, which descended over fifty steps. Their argument over footwear was lost to a sense of awe as their surroundings unfolded before them under sparse lighting.

They had descended into a huge man-made subterranean cavern. It was a totally unexpected and somewhat bizarre structure to find in the middle of bustling Istanbul. The steps ended at a wooden platform, which overlooked the deep cavern. Pitt admired a forest of thirty-foot-high marble columns that stretched into the darkness by the dozen, their capitals supporting a towering multi-arched ceiling. A bank of red overhead lights lightly illuminated the space, lending it a mysterious, almost hellish appearance.

“What is this place?” Loren asked, her voice echoing off the stone walls. “It’s breathtaking, in more ways than one.”

“It’s an underground cistern. A huge one, by the looks of it. The Romans built hundreds of them under the streets of Istanbul in order to store water, which was transported in from the countryside via aqueducts.”

They stood in what was actually the largest cistern in Istanbul, the Yerebatan Sarnici. Originally constructed by Emperor Constantine and later enlarged by Justinian, the structure stretched nearly five hundred feet in length. In its day, the cistern’s mortar-lined floor and walls were capable of holding 2.8 million cubic feet of water. Abandoned during the Ottoman reign, it became a forgotten, mud-filled bog until restored by the Turkish government in the twentieth century. As testament to Roman construction prowess, the floor of the cavern still stored a few feet of water for effect.

The vast chamber was nearly silent but for the splattering of water that occasionally dripped from the ceiling. The silence was suddenly disrupted by the sound of footsteps overhead as the armed woman in black rushed through the office and started down the stone steps. Pitt and Loren immediately took off running, following a raised wooden ramp that led toward the far end of the chamber.

The ramp ultimately split into a circular walkway that allowed tourists to view the myriad of carved columns that supported the cistern’s ceiling. Beneath it, the flat, shallow waters made a tranquil home to hundreds of colorful carp that never saw the light of day. Pitt and Loren had little time to admire the fish as they sprinted to the far end of the chamber.

The wooden ramps were wet from the dripping ceiling, and Loren slipped repeatedly in her stocking feet. Falling as they rounded a sharply angled corner, she lay for a second, catching her breath, until Pitt helped her to her feet. The sound of shoes rushing down the stone steps behind them echoed through the chamber.

“Why is she still bothering with us?” Pitt asked aloud as he dragged Loren around the corner.

“Might have something to do with this,” she replied, holding up the black bag still clutched in one hand. “I took it from the van. I thought it might be important.”

Pitt smiled at his wife’s instincts. “Yes, it probably is,” he said. “But it’s not important enough to get killed over.”

The pursuing footfalls had reached the bottom of the stairs, their tone changing to a muted thump on the wooden ramp. Pitt and Loren ran a few more yards, turning down a section of ramp that suddenly terminated in a dead end.

“Give me the bag, and you may walk away.”

The woman’s voice echoed through the cavern in angry repetition. After a silent pause, her steps resumed at a quickened pace. Though still out of view under the dim lights, she was audibly closing the gap.

“Into the water,” Pitt whispered, grabbing the black bag from Loren while guiding her to the rail. In her long dress, she clumsily climbed over the rail, then let Pitt help lower her quietly into the waist-deep water. Her body gave off an involuntary shiver, from both the cool water and the threat at hand.

“Move to the back of the far column and stay out of sight until I call for you,” he directed quietly.

“Where will you be?”

“Giving her the bag back.”

He leaned through the rail and gave her a quick kiss, then watched as she waded past several rows of marble columns before disappearing from sight. Satisfied that she was safely hidden, he turned and moved back down the platform. A thundering boom caused him to pause as a chunk of wooden railing splattered into the water a few feet ahead of him. He spotted the figure of the shooter a hundred feet away and he quickly sprinted ahead until a row of columns blocked her from view.

His mind raced in the few seconds of cover he had. He quickly contemplated the black bag, which was lightly weighed down by two separate objects. There was no place for concealment on the empty wooden ramps, so his eyes drifted upward at the huge columns nearby. He noted that every third column or so had a small red light fixture mounted near the crown, which backlit the cistern. As the sound of the woman’s footsteps drew closer, Pitt hoisted the bag and split the two objects through the exterior cloth. He then twisted the loose center cloth until the bag resembled a barbell, with the weighted objects at either end.

“Drop it!” he heard the woman’s voice yell.

In the dim light, Pitt gambled that she was still too far away for an accurate shot, so he took two quick steps toward the railing. The pistol barked again, twin muzzle flashes clearly visible out of the corner of Pitt’s eye as the shots thundered through the chamber. One bullet hit the rail while the other whistled past his ear. Already in motion, all he could do was keep moving.

With a third step, he swung the bag up from the floor and flung it upward with all his strength. Without breaking pace, he grabbed the top railing and pulled himself over the side. The bag spun like a pinwheel and was still drifting skyward when Pitt hit the water. He immediately spun under the surface toward the ramp, under its supports, kicking in the direction of the woman. With a controlled effort, he swam smoothly in the shallow water, trying not to break the surface. An old hand at free diving, he easily covered seventy-five feet before gently easing up for air.

He held perfectly still, quietly catching his breath beneath the ramp while checking where the woman was located. He correctly gauged that he had bypassed her beneath the ramp as she ran toward the point of his initial splash. Peering from the water’s edge, he saw her pacing on the far side with her gun pointed at the water.

Slipping back under the ramp, he cautiously followed it in the other direction until it made an angled turn. There was more illumination in the area than he preferred, but the bend offered a point of concealment as a staging area for attack. He started to pull himself up a support beam when he detected a new set of footsteps pounding down the stone stairs. A car horn honking on the street blared in the background.

“Miss Maria, we must leave at once,” shouted a male voice in Turkish. “The police are beginning to search outside of Topkapi.”

Pitt crept back into the water as the woman broke into a run in his direction. Hearing her pass overhead, he held perfectly still, listening as she began climbing the stone steps. Nearing the top, she hesitated for a moment, then a shrill voice boomed through the cistern.

“I shall not forget you!” she shrieked.

The sound of her footsteps fell away, and the car horn ceased honking. Pitt sat still in the cold water, listening to the eerie echo of the falling water droplets. Satisfied that the assailants were in fact gone, he climbed onto the ramp and made his way to the end, calling out Loren’s name along the way.

His freezing wife appeared from behind one of the columns and waded to the ramp, where Pitt hoisted her up. Though her hair was a mess, her dress soaked, and she shivered with cold, she still looked radiant to Pitt.

“You all right?”

“Yes,” she said. “Are they gone?”

Pitt nodded, holding her hand as they walked down the ramp.

“Nasty people,” she said. “I wonder how many they killed during the heist.”

Pitt could only speculate. “Did they hurt you?” he asked.

“No, but they clearly weren’t afraid to kill. They didn’t seem to care at all when I told them I was a U.S. Congresswoman.”

“They must have less regard for politicians here than in America.”

“Did you give her the bag?”

“No, I’m afraid she had to leave empty-handed. As you heard, she doesn’t intend to forget us.”

“Where did you hide it?”

Pitt stopped and pointed toward the crown of a marble column that rose from the water just a few feet away. Wrapped around a high-mounted light fixture atop the column, the twisted black bag hung dangling over the water.

“It’s not hidden,” he said with a slight grin. “It’s just a tad out of reach.”

A
NOTHER CUP OF TEA, SHEIKH?”

The guest nodded slightly as his host proceeded to refill his cup with black tea. Barely thirty, he was the youngest of five sons born to one of the ruling royal families of the United Arab Emirates. A slight man, he wore a perfectly pressed, bone-white headdress wrapped with a gold-threaded
agal
, which barely hinted at the multibillions of petrodollars that his family controlled.

“The Mufti’s movement appears to have a sound footing in Turkey,” he said, setting the teacup down. “I am pleased at the progress you have reported.”

“Mufti Battal has a devoted following,” the host replied, gazing toward a portrait of a wise-looking man in black robe and turban hanging on the far wall. “The times and conditions have been conducive to expanding the movement, and the Mufti’s personal popularity has enhanced its appeal. We have a real opportunity ahead to change Turkey and her role in the world. Achieving such change, however, requires considerable resources.”

“I am committed to the cause here, as I am committed to the Muslim Brotherhood in Egypt,” the Sheikh replied.

“Like our Egyptian brothers, we will unite in the way of Allah,” the host replied with a bow.

The Sheikh rose and crossed the high-rise office, which looked and felt like the interior of a mosque. Small kilim prayer rugs were aligned in an open space, facing a tiled
mihrab
aimed at Mecca. On the opposite wall, a high bookshelf was filled with antique copies of the Qur’an. Only a huge illuminating picture window warmed the otherwise austere and reverent interior.

The Sheikh moved to the window and admired the panorama before him. The office building was situated on the Asian bank of the Bosphorus and offered a breathtaking view of old Istanbul on the European shore, just across the slim waterway. The Sheikh stared at the towering minarets of the Süleymaniye Mosque in the distance.

“Istanbul has an earnest respect for its past, as it should,” he said. “One cannot attain greatness without building on the past.”

He turned to his host. “My brothers are all Western educated. They wear British-made suits and crave sleek automobiles,” he said with disdain.

“But you are not like them?”

“No,” the Sheikh replied thoughtfully. “I attended the Islamic University at Madinah. Since an early age, I have devoted myself to Allah. There is no greater purpose in life than to expound the words of the Prophet.” He turned slowly from the window with a distant look.

“The threats to our ways never cease,” he said. “In Cairo, the Zionists bomb al-Azhar, yet there is no global outrage.”

“Mufti Battal and I are outraged.”

“As am I. Such affronts cannot be ignored,” the Sheikh said.

“We must strengthen the foundation of our house to withstand all outside forces.”

The Sheikh nodded in agreement. “As you know, I have been blessed with a sizable fortune. I will continue to support the way of the Sunnah here. I share in the wisdom of Istanbul in venerating our past.”

“Upon it, we will build great blessings to Allah.”

The Sheikh eased toward the door. “I will arrange the transfer of funds shortly. Please pass my blessings to Mufti Battal.”

“He will be both grateful and delighted. Praise be to Allah.”

The Sheikh responded in kind, then joined an entourage waiting for him outside the door. When the Arab contingent had left the foyer, the host closed the door and returned to his desk, where he removed a key from the top drawer. Stepping to an inconspicuous side door, he turned the lock and entered an adjacent office nearly three times the size of the former. The room was not only large but also grand in appearance, and nearly the opposite in ambience. Brightly lit, it featured a stylish mix of contemporary art and classical oil paintings, unique tribal floor coverings, and nineteenth-century European furniture. Accented by overhead spotlights, the room’s prominent features were opposing banks of built-in shelves, which were loaded with expensive antiques and relics from the Ottoman era, including porcelain vases, detailed tapestries, and jeweled weaponry. In the center of one shelf was the collection’s show-piece, a gold-threaded tunic on a mannequin in a glass-enclosed case. A placard inside indicated that the tunic had been worn by Mehmed I, an Ottoman Sultan who ruled in the fifteenth century.

A petite woman with short black hair was seated on a divan, reading a newspaper. Her presence stirred a touch of annoyance in the man’s face, and he walked past her without saying a word. Reaching a carved desk near the window, he peeled off a
keffiyeh
and black robe, revealing a sport shirt and slacks underneath.

“Your meeting with the Sheikh was productive?” she asked, lowering her paper.

Ozden Aktan Celik nodded in reply.

“Yes, the nitwit runt of the royal litter has agreed to another infusion of cash. Twenty million, to be exact.”

“Twenty?” the woman replied, her eyes widening. “Your skills at persuasion are impressive indeed.”

“Simply a matter of playing one spoiled rich Arab off another. When our Kuwaiti benefactor learns of the Sheikh’s contribution, he will be forced to exceed it out of ego alone. Of course, your recent visit to Cairo helped up the ante.”