by Rob Preece
"Maybe we're supposed to find the nails from the Cross,” Zack guessed. “Supposedly Saint Helena brought them to Constantinople after she recovered the True Cross. One was put into the Emperor's crown and another into his horse's bridle. I'm not sure what happened to the other, or others. Anyway, later they were supposed to have been brought to Western Europe. I suppose those relics could have been forgeries, though. I mean, how would you know you had the right nail?"
How would you know you had the right Cross? By what it did, of course. Same with the nails. Ivy didn't know if the nails were still hidden somewhere in the city that had once been the second Rome, but even if they were, that didn't seem quite right.
The sense of time, of urgency, pressed down ever-harder. With so many sources of power all around them, she wouldn't have time to investigate each. And if whatever they were looking for were hidden and disguised inside one of the many churches or mosques, they could look forever.
"Maybe you could douse,” Zack suggested. “Like Smith did with his cross."
Ivy shook her head. “Bad idea. First, there aren't many people around, but there are some. Even here, if I start waving a cross around, it'd probably start a riot. Turkey is supposed to be secular, but that doesn't mean that most of its population isn't Moslem. Second, I'd still need to know what I was looking for. Otherwise, I wouldn't be able to orient the douse and I'd find anything ever associated with any religion at all. And third, there have to be Foundation agents around. They'd pick it up in a second if I pulled out a cross and started dousing."
Zack wouldn't give up. “The priestess must have given you some hint."
She shook her head. “I think we're supposed to figure it out on our own."
"Great. Someone up there thinks we're on a heroic quest. So of course we have to be tested. It would be too easy to just give us the information we need. I got enough of that in the military. You'd think surviving the past couple of weeks would have been enough test."
He wasn't attacking her, but it almost felt that way and she got defensive. “Yeah? Well, if I was in charge, I'd say just give it to us. Since that isn't going to happen, we'll have to keep on working at it."
Zack grunted. No help there.
"Okay, Nesip,” she said. “You can help with this too. What kind of religious artifacts would there have been in Istanbul?"
Nesip considered, then shrugged. “The Ottoman Sultans became Caliphs many hundreds of years ago. Surely they bring important artifacts here. But why would they have become lost? All are in the Topkapi Museum."
"Great. We're only being chased by the CIA, the Foundation, the Turkish Army, and the US Navy now. Let's break into a museum and add the local police and Interpol,” Zack said.
Ivy considered. “It's nothing Islamic. That doesn't feel right. Remember, this was a priestess. I'm thinking something female."
Nesip made another of his evil-eye gestures.
"What's the matter? Don't Moslems have female saints?"
"Mohammed, peace be upon him, was the last prophet. Islam has no need for saints of any kind, male or female."
Ivy wasn't sure what that made her. Unnecessary, or not a saint at all. “I still think it's something related to a woman. Didn't an Empress find the Cross? Maybe that's related."
"Yes, Saint Helena. She was the Emperor Constantine's mother."
"So she's the saint. Maybe there is some artifact of hers. Something related to the Cross."
The call for evening prayer went out and Nesip knelt in worship leaving Ivy standing there like a heathen.
What possible artifact of some long-dead Empress could remain more than fifteen hundred years after her death?
"Documents,” suggested Zack, when Nesip finished his evening worship. “Saint Helena had the Cross for years. She might have figured out how to use it, left directions behind. Constantine supposedly used the Cross as his emblem in battle, and never lost. Maybe they learned the magic. I mean, it's pretty obvious it didn't work for the Crusaders, so there's more to it than just waving the Cross around."
Ivy started to answer, then froze. “Full tourist mode, Nesip. Go."
"Although the Blues and Greens were affiliated with chariot teams,” Nesip lectured, “they also had political, social, and religious aspects. Thus, the greens believed in the wholly divine nature of Christ, the so-called Monophysite heresy, while—"
"A little late to be out touristing, aren't you?"
Ivy pretended she hadn't noticed the half-dozen sailors approaching.
Each wore an ‘SP’ armband, signifying that they made up a Shore Patrol, supposedly keeping U.S. sailors from offending the host country.
They had no legal authority in Turkey, of course. No right to arrest anyone who wasn't part of the military.
She didn't think they'd care about that if they were under orders from the Foundation, though. Of course, if they found out she and Zack were AWOL from Iraq, they would haul them in for desertion.
"Please to join the tour,” Nesip offered. “Only twenty Euros, for the each of you. I will share with you such stories of the ancient Greeks with their famous orgies and the decadent Ottomans with their harems and thousands of beautiful concubines."
"We are happy to have this company,” Ivy agreed. She was doing her best to adopt a Latin accent, whatever that was. Since she didn't know any Romanians, she figured that was as close as she could get. “Especially as you are Americans, are you not. My husband and I have discussing move to America of the future but it is difficult to receive the papers. Are you knowing how to file such?"
The SP sergeant stared at her, then at the blue-eyed, surfer-haired Zack. “No, we don't want to listen to some wog tell us about dead Greeks. And we don't want more wogs coming to America. Get lost."
"Perhaps I will be showing you the famous and quite antique Blue Mosque,” Nesip offered. “So named for the handsome blue tiles that decorate it throughout. Your shoes will have to remove first, out of respect."
"Blow off,” the sergeant said. “We've got work to do."
"Perhaps we should go home to bed,” Ivy said. Around the hippodrome, other black-clad SP units seemed to be setting up a loose perimeter. “Before we're completely cut off,” she whispered to Zack."
* * * *
"We need an English-speaking priest,” Ivy decided. “Someone who knows about the city and what might be here."
They'd gotten outside the informal boundary the SP was establishing, but not before they'd spotted some black-suited spook types. More guys who sent shivers through Ivy and reminded her of Smith. Like the Cross and the Islamic mosques, these men glowed with the red color of their faith, but that faith didn't comfort Ivy at all. The kind of Christianity that would slaughter a soldier just because she witnessed the Cross was different from anything she thought deserved the name.
A few of the black-suited Foundation-men even had crosses out and were dousing. Apparently they didn't care about the feelings of the local Moslem population. Which shouldn't have been a big surprise to Ivy. After all, they'd bombed an ancient mosque in Mosul just to get to the Cross.
"Looks like we missed our chance,” Zack said. “Even if we knew what we were looking for, we'd be outnumbered. And they seem to know what they're after. At least you were right about it being an object, not a person."
He could be right. Certainly rummaging around the ancient quarter of the city while the Foundation men were in control bordered on foolishness. But Ivy couldn't dismiss the Priestess's charge. Until she knew they'd missed their chance completely, she needed to do what she could to discover the object.
"These Christian men would cause arguments,” Nesip suggested. “If word spread among the young and fervent, they could be forced from the city with much violence."
Ivy shook her head slowly. Tempting though it would be, she didn't want a bunch of banged up sailors on her conscience. They were just doing their jobs, after all. Worse, she wasn't going to let a bunch of Nesip's friends get hurt. Because if
the Foundation really was in control, they wouldn't hesitate to order the SPs to fire.
Provoking a diplomatic incident between her country and one of its oldest allies, getting a bunch of kids killed, and still not finding whatever she was looking for seemed the most likely outcome.
"Let's just see if we can find a priest,” she repeated.
"You do remember what happened the last time we ran into Orthodox priests,” Zack said. “They might have sent word here. After all, Constantinople still is the official center of the Orthodox Church."
Ivy wasn't going to forget the monastery and the monks’ attempt to steal the Cross, but she needed help and couldn't see any alternative than taking a chance.
"There's got to be someone. Some scholar. Someone who would know what might have been hidden. If we knew what we were looking for, we'd have a chance."
Nesip brightened. “We can visit this coffee shop. Quite nearby, truly. Plenty of young people come there."
"Are any of them priests?"
"No priests, I suspect."
"Then—"
"But it is an Internet connection. I ask my friends. On-line chat. Someone will know some priest, perhaps."
It wasn't a great idea, but Ivy couldn't think of anything better.
The coffee shop sat on the boundary of the famous Istanbul bazaar—a square mile of tiny shops selling everything from cheap tourist trinkets, to pre-Roman artworks, to the occasional assassination.
No lights shone from the coffee shop's windows and no sound penetrated over the rumble of traffic and the whisper of voices as shopkeepers replenished their stocks and prepared for the next day's shopping.
"Looks closed,” Zack said.
"Of course,” Nesip said. “How could it look otherwise when the police are anxious?"
He knocked on the heavy iron-bound door, waited, then knocked again.
After perhaps a minute, a tiny peephole opened and someone inside shouted something in Turkish.
Nesip answered, ignored the obviously negative response, and rattled something. “I am telling them of your troubles and of your fame with the imam,” he explained.
Finally, the door swung open for mere seconds and they were rushed into the shop.
Despite outside appearances, it was open and doing a fair business. Black crepe paper taped to the windows gave the large room a wartime look, and a couple of old men wearing fez and smoking bongs looked like they could have stepped in from the nineteenth century.
The scents of strong coffee mingled with the sweet smell of hashish.
"Internet,” Nesip told the shirtless bouncer who'd finally opened the door for them.
The bouncer flexed his muscles, then finally gestured toward the back.
"I will contact my friends,” Nesip promised. “You may order some coffee. If you wish drugs, the men with the pipes could possibly help you."
As he turned toward the computer, someone grasped Ivy by the shoulder.
* * * *
She didn't have her AK-47, but she spun, ready for a fight.
"Miss Ivy, how wonderful to find you here."
Cejno looked cool. He'd abandoned the baggy pants and hand sewn off-white shirt he'd worn when he'd been driving with them and wore a thin-lapelled black suit and dark sunglasses.
"I have found my business contacts, as anticipated, and done considerable trading."
"What are you doing here, Cejno?"
"I have been making deals,” he proudly proclaimed. “My friends were right about Istanbul. These rich Europeans visit here and pay more than even American soldiers in Iraq. They have nice Euros, so much more better than the dollar."
Ivy suspected she should be glad. The more dope sent toward Europe, the less that would flow to the troops in Iraq, and the fewer would be stoned out of their brains when insurgents attacked. Still, her involvement with a drug-smuggler continued to trouble her.
If Cejno noticed her concerns, he didn't let on. “You are continuing your quest, is it?"
"We're looking for a priest,” she said. “Know any?"
He wouldn't, of course. He'd only arrived that day, as they had.
To her shock, he grinned. “A priest? I know a most excellent priest. Oh, yes. You want him here?"
Did she? Suspecting he was pulling her leg, she decided to put him to the test. “Sure."
He pulled out his cell, dialed a number, then spoke a few words—in Greek.
"He say he come here to meet with you,” Cejno reported as he closed his cell and refastened it to his belt. “He think maybe I cut him a better price if he does me mighty favors."
"Wonderful. I'm sure a hashish-abusing priest is exactly what we need."
Zack managed to get the attention of a male waiter and ordered four coffees and Ivy took the opportunity to look around.
Like everything in this part of Istanbul, the coffee shop looked as if it had been there forever.
Wooden pillars held up a wooden ceiling, both of which had blackened from centuries of smoke.
Intricate carvings decorated the pillars and the walls. Many were in Arabic calligraphy, almost certainly going back to the pre-Ataturk days. Greek script might have been left during the Greek occupation—but might, perhaps signify that this building had once been a Byzantine wine-shop. The few notes in the modern Roman-Turkish script were almost apologetic by comparison.
Ivy guessed that all the inscriptions, whichever the language, proclaimed either subversive political messages or prayers to various gods.
In darkened corners of the shop, Turks, Arabs, and Europeans sipped coffee and read flimsy newspapers that proclaimed the coming revolution. In this crowd, atheistic Communist revolution mingled easily with theistic Islamic revolution. From time to time, oddly matched pairs would join, whisper dark conspiracies to one another, then separate again, like lovers exchanging secrets under the watchful eyes of jealous spouses.
Nesip emerged from his computer-daze just as Zack finally persuaded the waiter to bring his coffee paraphernalia to their table.
Ivy had thought Starbucks went overboard in their presentation of a simple beverage. Compared to what she saw in the Turkish coffee house, the Starbucks ritual was nothing.
First, the waiter measured out a dose of beans, which he proceeded to hammer into a powder. Once the coffee was pulverized to his satisfaction, he poured the dustlike grains into a tiny pot he called an ibrik. He held the long-handled ibrik over a flame, then added what looked like enough sugar to clog arteries just as it neared a boil. Each time the coffee foamed, he poured off the foam into tiny coffee cups, then returned the ibrik and the remainder of the coffee to the flame.
"This had better be good after all this production,” Ivy whispered to Zack.
"This will be the best coffee you have ever tasted, Madam,” the waiter assured her in perfect English. He carefully poured four tiny demitasse cups of the blackest coffee Ivy had ever seen, then stepped back from the table, crossed his arms across his chest and watched.
"He's waiting for your approval,” Zack said.
Feeling suddenly large and clumsy, she picked up the small paper-thin porcelain coffee cup and sipped.
Hot and strong, the coffee's bitterness cut by the sweetness of sugar, she could almost feel the caffeine entering directly into her bloodstream. No wonder the Turks, whose religion forbid alcohol, made such a ritual about their coffee. This was powerful stuff.
"Good,” she managed.
The waiter nodded, mollified, then vanished.
"I don't think little bitty cups like this are going to catch on at home, though,” she told Zack. “People in America like to super-size."
"Speaking of super-sized.” He gestured at the door where an enormous man was entering.
"Father Galen.” Cejno was on his feet, shaking the massive priest's hand. “Come meet my friends."
Father Galen eyed the chairs at their table suspiciously until the waiter appeared with something reinforced. Then he sat down heavily at the head
of the table, looking, for all the world, like a put-upon king in his black robes. “I understand you need a priest. You wish to be married, is that it?"
If his mother ever found out she'd spent weeks on the road with Zack, she would be horrified they weren't married. But Ivy didn't have time to think about that.
"Bad guess, father,” she said. “Have you ever heard of something called ‘The Foundation?’”
"There was a famous Science Fiction novel by that name. By the Russian author Dr. Isaac Asimov. Quite excellent, really. I suspect he must be Orthodox, as are most Russians."
"I'm thinking about something a little more here and now. This particular Foundation appears to be a U.S.-based group with considerable authority even over the armed forces. We don't even know if it's a governmental organization or a private group."
Father Galen made a major production of a shrug. As he raised, then lowered his shoulders, waves of fat rippled down his torso, then rippled up again. “America is home to thousands of religious beliefs. Recently they have become more involved in the political process. As I understand it, many have influence in your government. This is not new. In Europe, religion has long been involved with politics. In Germany, there are the Christian Democrats. Here in Turkey, the Welfare Party has a Moslem agenda. Of course, in Greece, the Church is central to our political life. Even the Greek Communist Party has great respect for the Church."
All very interesting, but not especially helpful. “So you've never heard of a Foundation?"
He shrugged. “I confess that my memory is imperfect.” Father Galen had the good grace to look a bit embarrassed. “Many of my fellow priests are more diligent than I. My faith is strong, but I'm not good at spending long hours at study."
Since he was an acquaintance of Cejno, Ivy had a pretty good idea how he did spend his long hours—and what gave him the munchies that had led to his massive size.
"I don't suppose you'd have a guess about what kind of religious artifact might have been lost in ancient Constantinople, then?” She didn't hold out much hope. He'd already let them know he wasn't the studious type.
