Byzantine Gold

by Chris Karlsen

  “We’ve also alerted the military base here. He can bring in ten men or a hundred, doesn’t matter. He’s done,” Iskender added.

  Atakan took her hand in his and stroked her straight hair with his other hand. She’d taken time with her hair and used a curling iron just on the ends so they bent inward slightly.

  “I shouldn’t have told you this today, our day. Are you up to going to the casino and market?” Atakan asked.

  “Absolutely, I’m not letting this dress go to waste.”

  “I’ll bring the truck around. I’d have volunteered to let you sit on my lap, while Atakan drove...I didn’t want you to get squished in the middle.” Iskender grinned. “But he nixed it, the sour puss.”

  “We’re going to be gone most of the day. It’s better if we take a taxi and leave the truck in case cook needs it.”

  All three turned as Saska left the woman’s quarters and called to Nassor from outside the men’s quarters. A moment later, he joined her and they walked together toward Ada’s.

  Charlotte kept her eyes on Nassor, which she was determined to call him. She didn’t want to accidentally screw up and call him Darav and tip him off they’d learned his true identity. She watched him sifting through what she now knew about him, his weird questions, his preoccupation with the gold relics...all the pieces making sense. The more she watched him, thought about how she despised him, the easier her decision was.

  “Atakan, I have no doubt you and Iskender will keep me safe. I want to see him fall. I’ll stay partnered with him.”

  “You don’t have to decide right now. You have a brief window of time to consider if this is what you want.”

  “I don’t need a window. Count me in.”

  #

  On the knoll that looked down on the camp, Evgeniy lowered the binoculars and crushed his cigarette out. He returned to the rented panel truck that advertised an air-conditioning repair service. The signs were magnetic ones Evgeniy purchased in town and attached to the sides of the cargo area. He drove to the end of the road where it intersected with the highway.

  Evgeniy waited until the taxi turned onto the same highway. When it had gone about one hundred meters, he entered the road. He followed the taxi to the marketplace in Famagusta where Atakan and Charlotte got out as he proceeded past and parked. He cut the engine, stepped out, and took a seat at a sidewalk café with a view of the market’s main entrance. From there, he called Maksym.

  “They are at the market now. Want me to stay with them?” he asked.

  “Does it look like they’re just running an errand for camp?”

  “I don’t think so. The woman is dressed nicely. I’d say they plan on going elsewhere when they’re finished here.” Evgeniy saw a flash of the tangerine sundress Charlotte wore as she stopped at a vendor’s stall. “The woman cleans up well,” he said and lit a cigarette. “She looked rather worn when I saw her at Ada’s.”

  “If she’s fixed up, I’d say you’re right. They have other plans. Follow them. Let’s see where they go. Maybe it will give me an idea where to kill him,” Maksym said and disconnected.

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  “I thought we were going to the casino first,” Charlotte said as they strolled past a spice merchant’s booth.

  “We’ll go in a bit. I’m hungry and thought we’d have a light meal here. Besides, in another hour or two it will be sweltering outside. I’d rather be in the air-conditioned casino then.”

  “Good idea.”

  Around the MIAR camp, Atakan wore military style utility pants and his gun in a shoulder holster. Charlotte asked him why he chose the utility pants rather than cargo shorts, something cooler to wear. He’d told her he thought wearing a shoulder holster and shorts looked unprofessional. Whenever he left the camp, he couldn’t wear his gun showing in public and had to wear jeans with a belt to accommodate the inside-the-belt holster for his gun. Although he didn’t complain very often, she knew the jeans were uncomfortably warm in the hot weather. She ran around in shorts and a bathing suit most of the time and withered some days in the blistering heat.

  She stopped at a booth where a woman sold hand beaded and hand embroidered silk scarves. She sorted through the tidy layers the woman had arranged on a front table. Charlotte found one almost the exact color of her dress. The woman had embroidered tiny seahorses in gold thread on the hem of the scarf’s ends.

  The woman hurried to Charlotte’s side and told her to disregard the fifty Turkish Lira price on the sign. “I sell to you for Twenty-five.”

  At fifty Lira, it was only about thirty U.S. Dollars, a reasonable price in Charlotte’s opinion for the beautiful silk scarf. Twenty-five Lira was a bargain.

  “I’ll take it, thank you.”

  The woman smiled and scurried back to the register.

  “Do you like this?” Atakan held up a white scarf with pink and purple orchids embroidered along the edge.

  The orchids Cyprus was known for were different from the Asiatic ones, spikier. Charlotte had admired them and occasionally plucked the ones growing wild in the fields across from camp.

  “It’s pretty. I’m not too crazy for the color. I prefer the brighter, jewel tones scarves.”

  Atakan selected six scarves, in ruby red, sapphire blue, emerald green, coppery-orange, deep red, and gold. “I’ll take these,” he said and handed his stack to the woman who gave him a glowing smile.

  “Are those gifts for your family?” Charlotte asked.

  “No, they’re for you.”

  “I bought one already and don’t need six more,” she whispered to him so the woman wouldn’t hear.

  Out of the corner of her eye, Charlotte saw the woman’s smile fade and she pressed closer listening.

  “Oh, I believe you’ll find a use for them.”

  A curious statement but Charlotte didn’t pursue it. The scarves were lovely.

  A broad smile lit up the woman’s face as he asked her the total and pulled money from his wallet.

  Taking the bag with the scarves, Charlotte said, “Let’s go into that music booth,” and pointed to a covered stand playing Lady Ga Ga’s, Born This Way.

  “You can download this song,” Atakan said when she went deeper into the booth, squeezing between plywood stands with boxes of CDs.

  “I know, but I want some CDs. Rachel brought a portable player and a few CDs. We need more variety. Charlotte rifled through one of the boxes labeled World Music. “These are two good ones,” she said and pulled out Loreena McKennitt’s The Book of Secrets, and Delerium’s Karma.

  Atakan took two from the second box. “You have her music at home and on your iPod.” He handed her two Natacha Atlas CD’s, Diaspora and Ayeshtemi.

  “I do like her. I’ll take those.”

  “I like her too,” he said with a single lift of his brows.

  #

  “How are you doing?” Atakan asked as she placed her chips on various numbers. She’d been at the roulette table for an hour and her number had come up five times.

  “I’m doing great.” She pointed to her stash of chips. “The wheel’s been very good to me.”

  “Dude, your girlfriend is on a wicked hot streak,” a man well past surfer boy age sitting next to Charlotte chimed in with a Southern drawl.

  Atakan tipped his chin once and gave him a twitchy smile, then bent low by her ear. “That American fellow called me ‘dude,’” he said with a mild distaste that made her chuckle. With a little shake of his head, he changed the subject. “Back to what I wanted to say. I see you’re indeed on a hot streak, but if you’re interested, I’ve obtained a room for the afternoon.”

  Charlotte quickly gathered her chips and tipped the croupier. “I foresee an even hotter streak than the one I was on,” she said and headed for the cashier’s window.

  #

  “Someone left their laptop,” she said as they entered the room.

  “No. I borrowed this from reception.”

  “What for?” She’d assumed they wer
e going to fool around with each other, not the internet. She glanced from the computer to the door and back, half regretting she’d left the roulette table.

  Atakan peeled the wrappers from the Natacha Atlas CD’s and slid one into the laptop’s CD player. Then, he emptied the scarves from the bag onto the bed. “Dance for me.”

  Charlotte gave him a big smile. This was more like it. In Istanbul, she’d been taking belly dance lessons twice a week. Natacha Atlas was a popular choice among her teachers. She was nowhere near the ability of her instructors and probably never would be, she conceded.

  They’d been friends before they were lovers. The previous summer, after hearing one of his playlists with what she termed deserty music, she’d teased him. She’d jokingly asked if the songs were musical background for when he played Sultan and Harem Girl with his dates. He’d refused to answer at the time. By the end of summer, they’d become lovers. What had started as a joke became a private game between them. Her talent’s limitations didn’t seem to bother him and that’s what was important.

  She laid the scarves out trying to think how best to utilize them. Four were oblong and the other three were square. Huh, what to do?

  She had an idea and took all the scarves with her into the bathroom. In the bathroom, she debated whether to keep her sandals on or dance barefoot. The sandals were sexy, strappy things with fake jewels. Adorable as they were, she took them off. Going barefoot had a certain earthy appeal. Then, she stripped down to her lacy, French-cut bikini panties.

  Charlotte took her time making a costume of the scarves. Tall and thin, a college girlfriend described her as reedy. At the time, she wasn’t thrilled with the description. She’d have preferred willowy. Today, reedy was to her advantage. The four long scarves would be adequate cover. She tucked one end of each into the waistband of her panties, overlapping and draping them around her narrow hips so they’d ripple and swirl at her ankles during the dance. The squares she tied together at the nape of her neck and in the back, halter style. She tugged gently on the knots, testing whether they’d hold while she moved but give when she wanted.

  She saved the gold scarf with glittery beading on the border for last. She made what her dance instructors called an envelope. The wearer folded the scarf in such a way that when slipped over the head with the sides drawn back only the eyes showed. The envelope took the longest to arrange so the beaded hem framed her eyes. There was no way to tie a knot in this scarf and have it stay. She’d have to hold the back to keep it in place until she was ready to let it fall.

  She examined the effect in the mirror wanting to be the most mysterious, sensual creature Atakan could imagine. Behind the sheer silk, she grinned, pleased with what she saw. The lustrous veil hung to her shoulders like a sunlit mist around her head, the beading throwing impossibly tiny sparkles of light.

  When she returned to the bedroom, Atakan had drawn the draperies closed. His gun and holster were on the table next to him. He sat in a fan-backed wicker chair, legs stretched out and a flute of champagne in his hand.

  Charlotte fast-forwarded the CD to one of her favorite Natacha Atlas songs, I Put a Spell On You. Atlas’s version had a dark and sensual energy to it, and Charlotte had often practiced to the song.

  She started with a body roll, a slow ripple that traveled from her chest, down her torso and to the abdomen. Then, repeated in the reverse. On the second downward roll, she eased the undulating movement into an erotic umi, rolling her hips to the right and then left, painting an imaginary figure eight with her body. Atakan always loved the umi whenever she danced for him. Holding her veil with one hand, she flicked the fingers of her other hand toward Atakan. Then, she drew her hand back in a gesture of pulling him in under her spell.

  Atakan slowly sipped at his champagne, his eyes never leaving her.

  She whirled once, twice, the scarves flying out in a kaleidoscope of color. On the third spin, she released the veil, tossing it high. The silk fluttered to the floor behind her as she slowly turned, adding a sexy hip drop and saucy kick. All the time moving just out of arms reach of him.

  The song finished and she changed CD’s. She played Fun Does Not Exist. The other scarves were for this song. Charlotte had listened to the song dozens of times. It took her to another world, a world of cloudless starry skies over a desert oasis, and a caravan campfire. Tribal and passionate, she loved the evocative nature. Loved the beginning with its heavy, rhythmic drumbeat, and how like raindrops on their tight skins, lighter drums built onto the heavy one. The driving beat of the instruments a compelling background to Atlas’s haunting chant.

  This was her Dance of the Seven Veils.

  As she began to move, Atakan’s eyes leisurely traveled up and down her, lingering long enough in places his gaze felt like a touch.

  Sultry and seductive, the taqsim was another of his favorite moves. Scooping, gliding, she swayed in a fluid, mirror image of the sex act. He set the flute down and unbuttoned and removed his shirt. She added snake arms. Like serpents in the wind she painted the air with graceful hands. Then, she brought them close in and tugged on the hems of the chest scarves and flung the silk away. She pivoted in a lazy circle, freeing one scarf of her skirt with the first measured turn.

  As the chant faded, more stringed instruments she didn’t know the names of joined the drums, adding texture to the strong drumbeat.

  After the second turn, he stood and stripped off his jeans and underwear. He sat again, naked, his gaze dark and intense on her.

  With the music as her co-conspirator, she danced close, her knees nearly touching his, wanting to make him crazy.

  His hair brushed her stomach as he bent and lowered his head. He split the two remaining scarves and hooked her leg with one hand and his palm caressing her calf and knee with the other. Skilled fingertips grazed her flesh as they traveled up.

  She continued to undulate her hips as he kissed the front of her thigh, then along the inside. He tore away the scarf that clung to the front of her and brought his mouth between her legs. A thick lock of his hair fell forward to tease her skin as his lips danced over her, driving her mad with desire. Then, he released her leg, lifted his head and leaned back.

  In spite of the air conditioning, a thin layer of sweat dotted the hollow at the base of her spine. A rivulet of moisture trickled down, tickling as it did.

  She yanked at the seventh veil, and tossed it out from her where it floated like a sapphire island on her hand before drifting away. His stomach muscles tightened, his nostrils flared infinitesimally when she dragged the silk over the tip of his raging erection.

  The song was coming to an end. She danced away giving herself the space she needed. She’d saved one special move for the finish, the dramatic Turkish Drop, a step she’d practiced at home while he was at work. She began to sink to the floor. When her knees touched, she bent backwards until her head almost touched the carpet, moving only her shoulders in a controlled shimmy.

  Atakan rose and stood over her, the veil she’d flung onto him falling at his feet. He lifted her by her wrists to a standing position, then stripped her panties off. He said nothing as he backed her against the wall. His warm palms skimmed her sides, slid over her ribcage and roamed down her spine to the top of her buttocks. Stroking, caressing, his hands milked her flesh, lingered briefly on the curve of her hips before he wrapped her legs around his hips and took her in fierce silence.

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  “I’ve never been so bored,” Evgeniy said and poured himself a vodka. “After the Dashiell woman left the roulette table, she and Vadim went upstairs. They spent the whole afternoon in the room.”

  “I wonder if they’ll go there again,” Maksym said.

  “I’d say yes. I’d say their stay was pleasantly eventful. She was stuck like glue to him when they left.”

  “They didn’t come down to eat?”

  “No, probably got room service. Another couple got on the elevator with them when they went to their room. The ele
vator stopped twice and I watched to see which floors. I waited for awhile, and then strolled through the corridors of those floors. The one didn’t have any carts. The second had three and one cart looked like a possible. There was an empty champagne bottle and the remains of a meze platter.”

  “Room service, that’s an interesting thought, a perfect way to get face-to-face with Vadim.”

  Maksym took a bottle of cold water from the bar refrigerator and went to the open sliding doors of the boat’s salon. He stared out at the casino thinking how he could accomplish that type of one on one. The opportunity to use the room service ruse tempted him. Nothing else had the same possibility for success.

  “I wonder if any of the staff can be bribed?” he asked but more in speaking his thoughts aloud than for an answer from Evgeniy.

  “If so, then great, but I think you should make any plan in that direction based on not being able to bribe someone. I do agree though, the room service idea is probably your best option. The problem is: you don’t know if they’re going to go there again. She has the same day off every week. In the past, they’ve either gone for lunch and a walk to one of the local villages or to a historical site. This may be the only trip to the casino.”

  “If they had as nice a time as you say,” Maksym said, turning to his friend, “I’m betting they return.”

  “How will you know if they do?”

  “I’m sending Dashiell’s new friend, Rana, to start watching her on the days off we know she has. If they go to the casino, Rana will follow and pretend to casually run into Dashiell and start a conversation with her.”

  “I like it. She can chat up Vadim’s woman. Women are such talkative creatures. No telling what good information Rana will gather.”

  Chapter Fifty