Nuray pulled away from her husband’s hold. “I’m going to my son,” she said. She identified herself to the nurse who escorted her into the unit.
“He’s awake but groggy. They have him doped up on morphine,” Charlotte told Metin.
“I understand. I’d like to see him now.”
Nuray held Atakan’s hand against her chest and stroked his hair with her other hand. He gave her a weak smile and told her not to cry, he’d be fine.
Charlotte sat on the foot of the bed next to Metin.
Tears ran down Nuray’s cheeks as she told Atakan he’d be able to rest better at home. Atakan scooted over a few inches and patted the mattress so she’d sit by him.
“I agree with your mother. You’ll come home,” Metin said.
“Not necessary. If we need to, we’ll hire someone in Istanbul to assist us,” Atakan said.
“Bah, I know how to treat such wounds. I’ve seen many in the army. But, I’ll bring in a physical therapist. You must start strengthening your arm and shoulder quickly.”
“There are many excellent therapists in Istanbul and Charlotte can help me with the dressings at the apartment,” Atakan argued.
“Charlotte is scheduled to work a shipwreck site in a few weeks, is she not?” Nuray asked. “Who will watch over you then?”
“We’re both sa-sassigned to the site,” Atakan replied, slurring under the effects of the strong pain killer. “I don’t have to dive to do my job. I’ll continue my therapy in Cyprus.”
“This is a bad idea,” his mother said in a firm tone. “Home is the best place for you.”
Nuray took a deep breath. She stood and turned. Stern eyes locked on Charlotte. Folding her hands in front of her, she took another deep breath.
Whatever came next wasn’t going to be good. Charlotte never went to parochial school. But she’d heard from those who had this was the posture the nuns took before someone got their knuckles rapped with a ruler.
“You seem a decent young woman, well bred, intelligent with a superior education. My son has always been drawn to clever women. I never approved of the two of you living together. I also understand this is not uncommon in your generation, although far more common in America than Turkey. I accepted your arrangement without complaint.”
“Mother—”
“But I thought much of your situation on the flight here. I can no longer consent to your continued living together.” Nuray ignored Atakan’s guttural groan. “I fear it may lead to marriage. This I cannot allow. Your presence in his life brings him danger. He’s my child, my only son. I wish you away from him.”
“Mother,” Atakan moaned.
“I will have my say, Atakan. Though her intentions are guiltless, this woman is bad for you. First there was that evil business in Sevastopol, where you had to rescue her,” she pointed a stiff finger toward Charlotte, “from the same man who tried to kill you today.” She aimed the same steely finger at her son.
“Sevastopol wasn’t her fault. She was absucted,” Atakan said, the morphine getting the better of his diction again.
“It does not matter. Either way, she was there both times. She’s the root of the problem.”
“Poppa,” Atakan turned to his father with pleading eyes.
“Nuray—” Metin moved next to Nuray and motioned for his wife to step into the corridor.
Stung by the attack, Charlotte sat mute. She didn’t know what to say in her defense.
The summer before, Atakan had led a team on a high risk assault on Tischenko’s Ukrainian compound to save Charlotte. Tischenko escaped through an underground passage, but all his men were killed in the confrontation. When she and Atakan visited his parents, Nuray never mentioned the rescue operation.
She acted genuinely happy for Charlotte and Atakan. She and Nuray spent a wonderful day together. They’d strolled through Nuray’s thriving orchards for awhile and afterward went to lunch. Nuray brought out family albums with photos of Atakan growing up. Charlotte’s favorite was Atakan at three curled up sleeping in the dog’s bed with the family’s big Shepherd. In another cute one, he was six riding on a neighbor’s donkey. He’d lost some baby teeth and gave the camera a picket-fence smile.
“Metin took these. He never missed one of Atti’s games whenever he was stationed near home.” She’d indicated a series of a skinny Atakan playing soccer at different ages. “Such a stick of a boy, he’s grown into manhood well,” she said with pride.
Charlotte smiled at hearing the nickname. Atakan never mentioned he’d had one.
Charlotte thought Nuray liked her. It made the sting of the accusation that much worse.
“Nuray—” Metin put his arm around his wife and motioned toward the door again.
Nuray’s eyes stayed locked on Charlotte for another long moment before she moved away from the hospital bed and left the room.
“Charlotte, ignore her. She’s upset and speaking nonsense,” Atakan said.
“She’s speaking from her heart.”
“Hand me a glass of water, please. I’m dying of thirst.”
Charlotte got up and poured him a glass, inserting a straw into the lid before handing it to him.
Atakan took a long swallow. “I’m good.” He gave the glass back to her and grasped her wrist as she turned to step away. “Sit.”
Charlotte sat in the same spot his mother had.
“We’ve never spoken of marriage. My lack of interest in the tradition is not a reflection of my feelings for you.”
“I didn’t bring up marriage. Your mother did.”
“Are you unhappy...” His eyelids started to droop. He blinked, but they began to droop again.
Charlotte stood to leave and let him sleep.
“Don’t go,” he said, patting the mattress.
“You’re falling asleep.”
“I’m fine.”
“Uh-huh, I see the morphine hasn’t dulled that stubborn streak.”
“Charlotte, are you unhappy with our living arrangement?”
“No, I love our life.”
“Good. I’m happy too.”
“But your mother is right about going home to heal. It would please your parents, and your father said he knows how to treat your wound. I don’t have any experience in that arena.”
“The doctors here will show you.”
“Go home.”
“Only if you come with me.”
“Are you nuts? Weren’t you listening? Your mother hates me.”
“Her emotions will settle. She’ll get to know you better and change how she feels.”
“No, they won’t. My being under foot twenty-four-seven only exacerbates her feelings.”
“Eggs in a basket—funny English word.”
“The drugs are making you silly.”
“Perhaps. Slide closer.”
Careful not to disturb the IV pole, Charlotte moved.
“How my mother feels about you doesn’t matter to me. She doesn’t rule my life.”
“I won’t go.”
“Fine, then we’ll stay in Istanbul until the wreck project starts.”
“You really think the Ministry will let you work a site in your condition?”
“I’m not an invalid. If a problem arises that I need help with, I’ll request someone from my unit to assist—probably Iskender.”
“All right, but I don’t want to be in the room when you tell your parents you’re not going home.”
“One thing will have to change when we get back to my...our place.” Atakan slid his hand over her blouse and gave her breast a light squeeze, “At least for a little while.” His sleepy eyes glittered with sexual innuendo for a split second.
“Yeah, you’ll have to play my stallion while I’ll ride you like an unbroken thoroughbred,” she said, reading the intent in his eyes. “At least until you work out your shoulder kinks.”
He pulled her down for a gentle kiss. “I’m sorry I didn’t believe you at the basilica this morning,” he said, breakin
g off the kiss but still caressing her breast.
“I’ll save the ‘I told you so’ for a better time.”
His parents returned. Charlotte subtly pushed his hand away, rose, and left the room.
Metin gave her a tight-lipped smile as she passed him.
Nuray kept her eyes on Atakan.
Chapter Six
Qandil Mountains, Iraq
“Look at this.” Darav Binici laid the front page of the Hurriyet newspaper down on the table.
“What is it, another article on how the government should deal with us?” Omar asked not looking up from his texting.
Turkey, the EU, and the CIA had labeled them a terrorist organization. Articles in European and Turkish papers appeared regularly offering different opinions on how to handle the PKK. Kurds and Kurdish groups spoke out with strong opinions too: some sympathetic to their methods, some condemning. Darav was aware of the critical rumblings from even other members of the PKK, the less militant, more political wing. More and more, they were turning against men like Darav, men who led the most dedicated of followers. Little by little they’d begun to disavow men and women who lived harsh lives in the Qandil Mountains for the cause. He had no use for such soft-bellied types.
Darav tapped the picture in the paper.
His friend and PKK compatriot, Omar, stopped texting. He dragged the kerosene lamp over to examine the picture in better light. Both men sat hunched in military field jackets. A biting wind whipped against the tent’s walls. The tent was old and offered scant protection from the brutal climate. Wind and snow seeped in through the entry flaps and under the bottom of the canvas sides. The comfort of warmth was impossible to obtain. The valley below showed signs of spring but not the barren mountain flanks where they camped. Patches of deep snow from the peaks to their location still covered the ground.
The numerous caves that dotted the slopes were large enough to accommodate many guerillas and fires could be built inside. Darav refused to use them and insisted on the tents. He and his group of fighters had holed up in caves two years earlier. Turkish jets struck in the night, bombing their hideout. The cave where he slept collapsed, burying him alive for hours. Terrified, he wet himself and cried like a child as he lay under the rubble. After they dug him out, he vowed to never sleep or operate out of a cave again.
“What am I looking at exactly? I see it’s some kind of survey photo of a shipwreck, but how does this concern me?” Omar asked.
“Read the caption below.”
“’The Byzantine shipwreck found off Cyprus is believed to contain a rich cargo of gold artifacts.’ So?”
“So?” Darav repeated, impatient with Omar’s inability to make the connection. “Does your stomach not growl every night when you go to bed? We survive on lentil soup and the meager vegetables local villagers can spare. Sad, half-rotted beans or cucumbers, or an eggplant on occasion is not enough for our camp.
“My boots are torn. Only tape keeps them on my feet. Ammunition is low and the commander at Zap denies my pleas for more, complaining their supplies are too low to help us.”
“Darav, you tell me what I already know. Explain what I don’t understand. What has this wreck to do with our troubles?”
“It is the answer to them.” Darav pulled the plastic chair close to his friend. He rested his arms on the table and leaned forward, smiling. “We steal the relics and sell them on the black market. Our people keep the money. We don’t need to rely on supplies from Zap or Hakurk or anyone else.”
“They will demand we share.”
“Not if we don’t tell them. We conduct the operation in secret. A small company of us attack the site after a sufficient amount of the artifacts have been excavated.”
Omar looked unconvinced. Not surprising to Darav. Omar lacked vision and spontaneity. He was an excellent fighter, good with bombs. He’d served with the PKK longer than Darav, but his poverty of imagination kept him from reaching a higher station. He resented Darav’s natural leadership abilities and rapid rise to become the commander of their group.
“How do you plan to accomplish this attack?” Omar asked. “I doubt the team working the site is without some manner of security. The Ministry of Culture will have a representative there. One call from him and the Turkish military stationed in Northern Cyprus responds. If by some miracle we survive a shoot out with them, afterward we must have a safe escape route. It’s not the same as our incursions into Turkey. We clash with them there knowing we can retreat to our camp here.”
“I’ve already sketched out a possible plan. I’ll prearrange for a private boat provided by the buyer for our goods to be in the area. We hide a small boat in a cove or some similar place close to the site. We use it to transport our payload to the buyer’s boat. The Turkish Navy cannot search every pleasure craft in the area.”
“I think this is a mad scheme.”
“Mad yes; but highly profitable if we succeed.”
More than profit motivated Darav. If his plan worked, they’d be fat with cash. The funds would buy rockets, plastic explosives, new Kalashnikov rifles and an endless supply of ammunition. Full bellies, good coats, new boots, radios, and satellite phones would boost the sagging morale of his fighters.
With better weapons, he’d orchestrate an intense reign of terror across Turkey. He’d target government facilities, the military and police, and their families, not just in the southeastern provinces, but all over the country. Then he’d strike the Ankara government where it hurt the most, financially. He’d attack historical sites and resorts. A bomb in Topkapi Palace or Ephesus would kill or injure hundreds and terrify tourists. Once Ankara was forced to bend to their demands, he’d be a hero to his people, to the cause.
“How do we know when to make this raid?” The wind kicked up again. Omar stuck his hands under his armpits for warmth.
“I only need to get myself on the team to discover the information necessary.”
“Simple as that, eh?” Omar mocked with a skeptical smirk.
“The Maritime Institute of Archaeology and Research is responsible for the project. Their newsletter with personnel assigned is posted on the Internet. Tomorrow I’ll go to a cyber cafe in Mosul, check their backgrounds, choose a suitable member and replace him.”
“Watch out. Mosul is crawling with Iraqi police and suspicious American military. You never know who’s looking over your shoulder while you surf the web. If they don’t like what they see or what they think they’re seeing, you’ll be interrogated or worse.”
“One Kurd is the same as another to the Americans.”
“To a regular soldier perhaps. But not if one of them contacts Military Intelligence.”
“A small risk. The Iraqi police are the worry, depending on who stops you. There’s a friendly cyber café upstairs from a coffee house on the eastern edge of the city.”
“Irbil is safer.”
“Too far.” Darav had another reason for Mosul over Irbil. He’d secretly siphoned off some of their precious funds for personal use. The owner of the café also kept cheap whores from Uzbekistan and Azerbaijan. Darav preferred the Azerbaijani girls. They had nicer teeth, not so crooked or yellow.
Omar shrugged. “Your choice. This MIAR team you’re researching, aren’t they all divers?”
“I suppose.”
“Do you dive?”
“The excavation doesn’t start for a few weeks, by then, I will,” Darav said. “I need only to apply myself.”
“I wonder who’ll replace you here.”
“Why would we need another leader?”
“This insane adventure is your death warrant.”
Chapter Seven
Istanbul
“The authorities are still searching, right?” Charlotte asked.
“Interpol has a man reviewing the security camera footage from the airports, train stations, and ports. The Paris police pulled the metro footage. They show Tischenko boarding the subway a few blocks from our hotel and exiting at the Etoil
e stop. Unfortunately, the camera lost sight of him when he disappeared in the large crowd of tourists,” Atakan said.
“They had to have missed him leaving the country. He didn’t vanish into thin air.” She wanted to hear he’d turned up somewhere. She wanted to hear the authorities had some clue where the killer was.
“No, I think he hid out in Paris or the suburbs. He probably waited until the Easter holiday when the search for him grew less intense, rented a car, and drove out of the country. It’s what I’d do,” Atakan said.
“Will Interpol review the digital images from the border crossings of surrounding non Eurozone countries?”
“I don’t know,” he said with a single shrug of his good shoulder.
His wound forced him to wear a sling on his other arm, which he hated. The inability to do little things without help, like tying his tie, or driving himself places because he couldn’t steer and shift, made him crazy. Iskender had to pick him up on his way to the office. He refused to go to restaurants, embarrassed that Charlotte or someone else at the table would have to cut his food for him.
There was the occasional pleasant upside to his infirmity. She timed her morning showers and fast towel-off to coincide with the point in his dressing when he needed help with his tie. A steamy room and her warm, naked body standing close sometimes led to a fun quickie against the sink counter.
“They’re taking the incident very seriously, but you’re talking a lot of man hours,” he added.
Charlotte understood resources were always limited even in agencies as big as Interpol.
“Nick’s offered to take vacation time and lend support here if you need a second set of eyes before we leave for Cyprus.”
Atakan stopped his bad, one-handed job of cubing eggplant for the patlicanli pilav and shot Charlotte a sour look. “He’ll do no such thing. My unit and I need no outside assistance. It was to my everlasting humiliation you hired that Moroccan private security man to watch over me in the hospital.”
Byzantine Gold Page 3
