“And my dog, Valkyrie,” added Sinclair.
“Kyrie, get in the back,” said Malik.
The Norwegian elkhound looked at him and back at Cordelia.
“Kyrie, in the back,” commanded Sinclair, but the dog shot out the door. Sinclair tried to get a hand on her collar without success. The dog was running circles around him. He heaved the bags into the car, raising a cloud of dust.
“Malik, do you ever clean this thing?”
“No sir.”
Sinclair climbed into the backseat, dusting off his pants. The dog followed and sat on his lap, and tried to lick his ear. Cordelia watched from the front seat, laughing.
“She missed you.”
Malik turned and gave Sinclair a wink, clearly referring to Cordelia.
“Let’s get going,” said Sinclair pointedly, pushing the dog off again.
“Yes sir.”
The van lurched forward and they bounced around on the cobblestones of the dock. Cordelia put her arm over the seat back to talk to Sinclair, the wind from the open window blowing her hair.
“Why do you think they returned the journal, John? Do you think there was any chance the cabin steward took it by accident and was too embarrassed to admit it?”
The dog was now panting into Sinclair’s face. Sinclair gave up trying to clear himself of the animal and rested his arms on her back.
“I don’t think so, Delia. I think someone else traveling on the ship stole the journal. And didn’t find what they were looking for.”
The air was getting more arid, and the roads were steeper now, winding up into the hills. Dust wafted in the open windows of the van. Cordelia started coughing, but waved her hand at Sinclair to let him know she was OK.
“Malik, do we have any bottled water?”
“No sir.”
“The dust is bad,” Sinclair apologized. “I think I’m used to it. You can rinse off when we get there.”
“How long will we stay?”
“A few days. It’s so remote nobody will look for you here. I want to get you out of sight.”
He reached forward and put his hand over hers.
“We’ll stay in Ephesus while we go through the journal, word by word.”
“I have it right here,” said Cordelia, opening the flap of her shoulder bag to show him. “I just wish I knew what we were looking for.”
“I don’t know,” he said. “But clearly someone thinks the information about the deed is in there.”
The battered truck followed Sinclair’s van at a distance. There was no need to push it. Thaddeus Frost knew where Sinclair was headed; they had spoken earlier. After about twenty minutes, Sinclair’s vehicle turned off the main highway and started up the laborious winding road to the summit, where the house was located. Frost followed. The road trailed up through the olive groves, with little else in sight. Frost kept his eyes on the rearview mirror as he drove, and there was no one following. He continued up the mountain behind Sinclair. At the summit, Sinclair’s vehicle turned into a courtyard. As Frost drove by, he glimpsed a small house behind the stone wall. Good, that place would be easy to patrol. Frost drove past and took the next left to head back down the mountain. His surveillance would start this evening.
“Malik, would you please wait here a moment,” Sinclair said as he got out of the van. The dog bounded ahead and pushed the door of the house open with her nose.
Sinclair walked Cordelia to the door and stood looking into the room. Kyrie was already nosing in the corners, searching for new scents. Now that Cordelia was here, Sinclair saw his bachelor quarters with new eyes. The large room was furnished with only the most rudimentary things. He hadn’t thought of that when he invited her.
“It’s not much, but it’s more comfortable than you might think,” he apologized.
“It’s just this one big room?” she asked, looking at the bed pushed against the wall.
“That’s pretty much it. I’ll sleep on the couch. You can have the bed,” he said, just to make things clear. “There’s a bathroom through that door. Why don’t you rinse off the dust, and I’ll be right back after I get the bags.”
Sinclair went back out to the van.
Malik had brought the two suitcases to the veranda. He now handed Sinclair a bag of groceries.
“Sir, it seems you have a problem.”
“What kind of problem?”
“People coming after you. I heard much of what the lady says.”
“Malik, who in hell is going to find us up here?”
“I am still worried,” Malik said, shifting from foot to foot and looking around. Sinclair also surveyed the courtyard of the isolated house.
“There isn’t anyone for miles. Besides, we are only staying for a few days.”
Malik went to the van, opened the passenger door, and started digging around in the glove compartment.
“Sir, please take this.”
He handed him a gun. Sinclair recognized it as a Glock 19. Solid and serviceable, it was used in most countries by law-enforcement officers. Its small size also made it perfect for concealed carry.
Sinclair, still holding the groceries, weighed the gun in his free hand and then gave it back.
“Thanks, Malik, I appreciate it—I really do—but I don’t think we’ll need it.”
Malik looked uncertain.
“Sir, you need to protect your woman.”
“I will protect her with this,” he said, touching his temple.
“With all respect, sir, you are very clever, but you cannot outsmart a gun.”
“Malik, if anyone touches that woman, I won’t need a gun. I’ll tear him to pieces with my bare hands.”
The Udachny
Vlad, Anna, Bob, and Marlene all sat on the white leather couches and Evgeny was pacing the floor of the yacht. The Udachny was now anchored at Kuşadas1, near the Queen Victoria.
“How could you let her get off the ship without noticing! I have never seen such a bunch of idiots in my whole life. Did you think you were on vacation? You were there to do a job.”
Evgeny was red in the face and breathing hard. He inhaled deeply through his nostrils, with his eyes shut. He appeared to be gathering his thoughts.
“This is what we are going to do,” he said, in a low menacing tone, opening his eyes.
“Bob, you go to London. Cordelia Stapleton has got to turn up there soon to check on her town house.”
“Yes sir,” said Bob.
“You can take her with you,” Evgeny said, gesturing with disgust at Marlene. “And I want you reachable on that phone at all times.”
“Yes sir,” Bob repeated.
“Vlad,” Evgeny said, pointing at him. “You will go to Ephesus and see if you can pick up her trail. Sinclair lives nearby and you can start nosing around and find out where.”
“OK,” Vlad said.
“And another thing, dress like you live there. Is that understood? I don’t want to hear you wore some gold Rolex and blew your cover.”
“Yes sir.”
“And you,” he said to Anna. “You are staying here with me.”
There was a long pause as Vlad stared at Evgeny.
“If you think she can blend in in Turkey, you are out of your mind,” Evgeny added. “She’s going to sit here and wait for you to come back.”
Vlad just nodded curtly.
“Now get going—and don’t screw this up or you will all answer to me.”
As they filed out of the salon of the yacht, Anna looked after them with a hint of trepidation. When they had gone, Evgeny turned to her, his fleshy mouth contorted into a sadistic smile.
“Your husband is a highly incompetent man, and I am thinking of killing him. Unless you persuade me not to. Do you think you know how to persuade me not to kill your husband?”
Cordelia stepped out of the shower. The stone floor was cool to her feet. The bathroom in Sinclair’s house had a large window that looked out over the hillside, and brilliant sunlight was pour
ing in. A carved wooden table held a stack of white towels, olive oil soaps, and bottles of herbal shampoos and conditioner. There was aftershave in an unmarked bottle. She picked it up, uncapped it, and smelled deeply, remembering Sinclair’s distinctive scent. She wondered who made it, putting it back quietly, feeling a bit guilty to be snooping in his things.
Then she pulled on a pair of jeans and a light blue sweater, and walked barefoot into the other room. Puccini’s “O mio babbino caro” was playing at full volume. The dog trotted over and pressed against her legs, her tail whipping the air.
The house had an appealing simplicity—open plan with a high peaked ceiling. The kitchen stood at the back of the main room, with a counter and stools for eating. Near the front window, a couch and two armchairs were grouped around a low table. The large bed was pushed against the far wall, covered with a silk woven fabric in rust and ocher. Sinclair’s writing desk stood before the other window, with a view into the valley below.
The scent of food wafted through the room. Cordelia walked over to Sinclair and looked over his shoulder as he stood at the stove, preparing lunch. It was some kind of grilled fish and braised chopped eggplant, peppers, tomatoes, and onions. A round of crisp peasant bread was sliced on a wooden cutting board. He took no notice of her, totally engrossed in what he was doing.
Cordelia took a slice of bread and chewed it as she walked around the room. The rug from the market in Kuşadas1 was now on the floor, and the persimmon-and-beige tones suited the room perfectly.
“You weren’t kidding when you said you hadn’t decorated.”
He looked up from the stove.
“I don’t require much. I’m just here by myself,” he said.
“It’s lovely,” she said, curling up on the couch.
“Really?” he asked. “I thought you liked getting dressed up for dinner, and all that. Where has my princess gone?”
“She jumped ship with an archaeologist, I hear.”
“Good for her,” he said, smiling to himself, and turned back to his cooking.
“Voilà,” he said a few moments later. He turned around, holding two plates of food, and joined her on the couch. He put the plates down on the low table and smiled at her with his intense blue eyes.
“Would you like a little wine?”
Ephesus, Turkey
Sinclair drained his glass and leaned forward.
“Can I tempt you to come with me to the site this afternoon?”
His eyes were shining with anticipation. Cordelia nodded. How could she refuse? By her count this was his sixth invitation to visit Ephesus since the day she met him.
Within moments the BMW Adventure was speeding down the hillside road, taking the curves at an angle. Cordelia clung to Sinclair’s back and looked farther out, over the valley below.
It was a good, warm day, and the silver olive trees were shimmering in the afternoon sun. The landscape was timeless, with nothing to distinguish it from the way it would have looked centuries ago—lots of rock, scrubby vegetation, and sky. After a while, they were riding through more populated areas, and passing little farms and houses with chickens in the garden.
“Look there,” Sinclair said above the motorcycle’s roar, and pointed off to the left.
“It’s the Temple of Artemis, one of the Seven Wonders of the World.”
“It’s just a few broken fragments and a pillar,” she said in disappointment.
“I know, there’s not much left. But wait until you see the dig at Ephesus.”
Sinclair had explained that the structure of the ancient city was still there, its beauty very visible, just a little blurred by time. It had been one of the most important cities in Roman antiquity, and a major trading port for the civilized world. As Sinclair put it, Ephesus was the New York City of the ancient world.
Sinclair pulled the bike into his usual parking spot under a tree and unsnapped his helmet. Cordelia had already climbed down.
There were only a few tourists, and she could easily picture how grand it had once been. The archaeological site was overwhelming—the size of a real city. Walking down the marble street was like stepping back into ancient Roman times. Painstakingly excavated over the past few decades, the streets were nearly intact. Along the side of the main thoroughfare was a jumble of enormous marble fragments, the remains of buildings that had once been there. But much of the city was almost untouched: shops, houses, baths, and fountains. It was possible to pass through original columns, archways, doorways, and sections of the various temples. Neither of them spoke. He held her hand and walked with her as she took it all in.
The wide avenue wound down between two hills into several large spaces. There was the old marketplace square and, at the bottom of the hill, the colossal edifice of the famous library, one of the most celebrated of its time. Ancient steps remained there, and the façade with large columns stood about four stories high. They climbed the steps and surveyed the broad plaza in front of them. It was the central meeting place of the city. Next to the square was the huge amphitheater—so well preserved it could have been used for a gladiator match that very afternoon. When they stood at the center of the amphitheater, Sinclair finally spoke.
“This arena could hold almost three thousand people.”
“Oh my goodness, it probably looked exactly the same when he was here. I remember Saint Paul’s Letter to the Ephesians, from the Bible.”
“Exactly. Saint Paul preached here in Ephesus,” said Sinclair, sweeping his arm across the stands of the amphitheater as if it were full of people. “And these are the Ephesians.”
Sinclair led her back out onto the marble street.
“Look at this,” he said, bending down over an irregular piece of paving. There, carved in the marble, was a circle the size of a manhole cover, divided by lines that made it look exactly like a pie sliced into eight pieces.
“This is the ancient secret symbol of the Christians who were persecuted in Ephesus,” said Sinclair, tracing the circle with his hand.
“I remember you were drawing this when we were talking to Thaddeus Frost,” said Cordelia. “You were doodling it.”
“I often sketch it. Its symmetry appeals to me.”
“So this symbol was carved back in Roman times?” Cordelia knelt down and traced her finger around the circle.
“Yes, you have probably seen the fish symbol the Christians used as an underground way to identify other followers. Well, this was a secret signal for the Christians in Ephesus. It’s called an ichthus wheel. The Greek letters make up the word fish: IXOΨΣ, which forms the acronym for Iesous Christos Theou Uios Soter. It’s translated as ‘Jesus Christ God’s Son, Savior.’ If you superimpose the letters inside a circle, you get this symbol.”
“How interesting.”
Sinclair knelt down and studied it with her. He was so close, she could feel his body heat. The scent of the sun and the rocks and the vegetation all around them mirrored the scent he wore. She enjoyed being so close to him, and listening to his voice.
“At first glance it looks pretty innocuous, like a cartwheel, or some kind of design. We believe the Romans were unaware of its symbolism.”
Cordelia continued to trace the circle with her finger. The white marble was warm in the sun.
“It is astonishing that it’s still here.”
Sinclair looked pleased. He stood up, holding out his hand to pull her to her feet.
“Incredible, isn’t it? Now, I want to show you my gladiators.”
A short distance away, the ground had been subdivided into plots. He swept his arm to encompass the entire area.
“We’ve found sixty-seven gladiators so far. As you can see, they’re near the amphitheater, for ease of burial after the games.”
“It makes sense that it’s close by the amphitheater, but how can you be sure it’s a graveyard for gladiators?”
Sinclair led her along a dusty lane lined with shallow pits on both sides.
“We found two gravestones
depicting gladiators, like this one here.” He pointed out the stone. There were two carved figures clearly engaged in armed combat. “But the bones also tell us a lot. The men who were buried here were all between the ages of twenty and thirty. Many of the bones show evidence of multiple healed wounds.”
“That could also be soldiers,” suggested Cordelia.
“Yes, multiple wounds could be military,” Sinclair agreed. “But the fact that they had healed wounds suggests they were prized individuals, treated with very elaborate medical attention. Common soldiers were allowed to die.”
“Did they all die in the arena?”
“Yes, some died during the contests, and some were slain after the combat. We found a stone relief showing gladiators being killed. According to the rules of the game, if they didn’t fight well or revealed some kind of cowardice, the crowd would yell ‘Iugula!’ which is roughly translated as ‘Lance him through!’ ”
“How horrible.”
“It was a ritualistic slaying,” said Sinclair. “The gladiator was expected to remain motionless and die ‘like a man.’ The bones actually show evidence of how they were killed. Many of the bones have nicks in the vertebrae. A sword would be rammed through the throat and down into the heart.”
“Really!” Cordelia was horrified.
“We also see a lot of caved-in skulls. We think the wounded might have been killed with a mercy blow, hitting them in the head with a hammer.”
“Which is the most interesting gladiator you’ve found?” asked Cordelia, changing the subject away from death.
“I like this retiarius,” admitted Sinclair. “He was lightly armed, wore no helmet, and carried a net that he would throw over his opponent to tangle him up. Then he would attack with a sword.”
“I see.”
“See the three holes right here in the skull? He was killed with a trident. A trident was one of the standard weapons of gladiators. It was used as often as a sword. Marine archaeologists found a trident in the harbor that matches this wound exactly.”
Sinclair pointed out the three clear holes through the forehead section. As he did it, Cordelia felt a deep shiver, even though the warm sun was shining.
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