Crescent Dawn

by Clive Cussler

  Though Sophie had few doubts that half the artifacts in Brandy’s store were acquired from illegal excavations, she knew that he was right. The quality of the best dealers’ inventories was based on secret, shadowy deal making that entailed trust by both parties. There was too much potential exposure to trade with the wrong elements. Killing for artifacts just seemed far beyond the realm for the dealers that Sophie knew.

  “I believe that no smart dealer would knowingly involve himself with such butchers,” she said. “Have you heard of any attempts to sell Roman papyrus scrolls from the fourth century?”

  “So, that is what they stole from Caesarea,” he replied with a comprehending nod. “No, I am not aware of any effort to pawn such articles.”

  “If the goods are not on the market, then it must have been a job for a private collector.”

  “That’s how I would see it,” Brandy agreed.

  Sophie stepped to the counter and picked up the small clay figurine. It was in the crude shape of an ox with a gilded yoke. She studied the shape and design closely.

  “First Temple period?” she asked.

  “You have a keen eye,” he replied.

  “Who’s it for?”

  Brandy stammered a bit. “A banker in Haifa. He specializes in early Israelite earthenware. He has a small but quite impressive collection, actually.”

  “Any papyrus scrolls in his possession?”

  “No, not his area of interest. He’s more of a hobbyist than a dire fanatic. The few collectors I know that are into papyrus are focused on particular texts or content. None are what you’d call a high roller.”

  “Then tell me, Sol, who would be passionate about these scrolls and also have the means to go to this extreme?”

  Brandy gazed at the ceiling in thought.

  “Who’s to say? I know wealthy collectors in Europe and the U.S. who are willing to go to great lengths to acquire a specific artifact. But there are certainly dozens of other collectors in the same league that I’ve never even heard of.”

  “Knowledge of the Caesarea scrolls was but a day old,” Sophie said. “It doesn’t seem likely to me that a Western collector could have responded so quickly. No, Solomon, I think that this was instigated by a regional source. Any local names fit the profile?”

  Brandy shrugged and shook his head. Sophie expected little else. She knew that the high-dollar collectors were the gravy train for dealers like Brandy. He probably had no clue who was behind the Caesarea attack, but he certainly wasn’t going to raise suspicions about any of his major clients.

  “If you hear anything, anything at all, you let me know,” she said. She started to leave, then turned and faced him with an admonishing glare.

  “When I find these murderers—and I will—I won’t treat kindly any accomplices, whether it’s by act or knowledge,” she stated.

  “You have my word, Miss Elkin,” Brandy replied impassively.

  The buzzer sounded as the front door was opened, and a lean man with a stiff upright posture walked in. He had a square handsome face, sandy combed-back hair, and roving blue eyes that glistened in recognition of Sophie. Dressed in worn khakis and a Panama hat, he cut a dashing figure laced with just a hint of snake oil.

  “Well, if it isn’t the lovely Sophie Elkin,” he said with an upper-crust British accent. “Is the Antiquities Authority here to expand its biblical artifact collection beyond those acquired by confiscation?”

  “Hello, Ridley,” she replied coolly. “And, no, the Antiquities Authority is not in the artifact-collection business. We prefer that they remain where they are, in proper cultural context.”

  She glided over to the case of Jericho pots. “I’m just here to admire Mr. Brandy’s latest batch of forgeries. Something you should know a thing or two about.”

  It was a stinging rebuke to Ridley Bannister. A classically trained archaeologist from Oxford, he had become a high-profile authority on biblical history in print and on television. Though many of his fellow archaeologists viewed him as a showman rather than an academic, no one denied that he had a remarkable understanding of the region’s history. On top of that, he seemed perpetually blessed with good luck. His peers marveled at his uncanny ability to produce exciting discoveries from even the most obscure digs, locating royal graves, important stone carvings, and dazzling jewelry from overlooked sites. Equally savvy at promotion, he exploited book and film deals on his discoveries to attain a comfortable wealth.

  His luck had run thin, however, when an underling brought him a small stone slab with an Aramaic inscription that dated to 1000 B.C. Bannister authenticated the marker as a possible cornerstone from Solomon’s Temple, never suspecting that the carved stone was a forgery designed to earn the digger a fat bonus. Bannister took the fall, however, in a crushing embarrassment that his professional colleagues happily fostered. His reputation tainted, he quickly fell out of the limelight and soon found himself working limited excavations and even hosting guided tourist trips through the Holy Land.

  “Sophie, you know as well as I that Solomon here is the most reputable antiquities dealer in all of Israel,” he said, redirecting the conversation.

  Sophie rolled her eyes. “Be that as it may, it’s probably not a wise move for a reputable archaeologist to be seen hanging around a dealer’s shop,” she said, then stepped toward the door.

  “Ditto, Miss Elkin. It was lovely seeing you again. Let’s do have a drink together sometime.”

  Sophie gave him an icy smile, then turned and walked out of the shop. Bannister watched her through the window as she made her way down the street.

  “A beautiful lass,” he muttered. “I’ve always wanted to cultivate that relationship.”

  “That one?” Brandy said, shaking his head. “She’d sooner throw you behind bars.”

  “She might be worth the trip,” Bannister agreed with a laugh. “What was she doing here?”

  “Investigating the theft and shooting at Caesarea.”

  “An ugly incident, indeed.” He looked at Brandy closely. “You didn’t have anything to do with that, did you?”

  “Of course not,” he replied, angry that Bannister would even insinuate his involvement.

  “Do you know what was stolen?”

  “Elkin mentioned some papyrus scrolls, fourth-century Roman.”

  The description seized Bannister’s attention, but he fought to maintain a disinterested demeanor.

  “Any idea of their content?”

  Brandy shook his head. “No. I can’t imagine they’d contain anything astounding from that time period.”

  “You’re probably right. I wonder who financed the theft?”

  “Now you are starting to sound like Miss Elkin,” Brandy said. “I really haven’t heard anything about it. Maybe you should ask the Fat Man?”

  “Ah yes. The very reason for my visit. You received the amulets from my associate Josh?”

  “Yes, with a message that I was to hold them until we talked.” Brandy stepped to the back room, then returned with a small box. He opened it up and laid out two green stone pendants, each featuring a carved ram motif.

  “A nice matched pair of amulets from the Canaanite period,” Brandy said. “Did these come from Tel Arad?”

  “Yes. A former student of mine is leading a dig there for an American university.”

  “That boy could get himself into trouble for looting an antiquities dig.”

  “He’s quite aware of that, but it’s an exceptional case. The boy is actually straight as an arrow. He inadvertently trenched into a grave site and came away with some sterling artifacts. They actually dug up four identical amulets. One went to the university and one was donated to the Israel Museum. Josh sent me the other two as gifts for helping him in his career over the years.”

  Brandy raised his brow while asking, “You want me to sell them?”

  Bannister smiled. “No, my friend. While I realize they would garner a pretty penny, I don’t really need the cash. Take one for you
rself and do with it what you wish.”

  Brandy’s eyes lit up. “That is a very generous gift.”

  “You’ve been a valuable friend over the years, and I may need your help in the future. Take it with my blessings.”

  “Shalom, my friend,” Brandy replied, shaking Bannister’s hand. “May I ask what you are going to do with the other amulet?”

  Bannister scooped it up and eyeballed it for a second, then slipped it into his pocket as he headed toward the door.

  “I’m taking it to the Fat Man,” he said.

  “Wise idea,” Brandy replied. “He’ll pay you top dollar for it.”

  Bannister waved good-bye and stepped into the street smiling to himself. He was banking that the Fat Man would pay him for the amulet all right, but in something much more valuable than cash.

  21

  JULIE GOODYEAR STROLLED PAST A MONSTROUS PAIR OF long-silenced fifteen-inch naval guns pointed toward the Thames, then walked up the steps to the entrance of the Imperial War Museum. The venerated national institution in the London borough of Southwark was housed in a nineteenth-century brick edifice originally constructed as a hospital for the mentally ill. Known for its extensive collection of photographs, art, and military artifacts from World Wars I and II, the museum also contained a large archive of war documents and private letters.

  Julie checked in at the information desk in the main atrium, where she was escorted up two floors in a phone-booth-sized elevator, then climbed an additional flight of stairs until reaching her destination. The museum’s reading room was an impressive circular library constructed in the building’s high central dome.

  A bookish woman in a brown dress smiled in recognition as she approached the help desk.

  “Good morning, Miss Goodyear. Back for another visit with Lord Kitchener?” she asked.

  “Hello again, Beatrice. Yes, I’m afraid the field marshal’s enduring mysteries have drawn me back once more. I phoned a few days ago with a request for some specific materials.”

  “Let me see if they have been pulled,” Beatrice replied, retreating into the private archives depository. She returned a minute later with a thick stack of files under her arm.

  “I have an Admiralty White Paper inquiry on the sinking of the HMS Hampshire and First Earl Kitchener’s official war correspondence in the year 1916,” the librarian said as she had Julie sign out the documents. “Your request appears to be complete.”

  “Thanks, Beatrice. I should just be a short while.”

  Julie took the documents to a quiet corner table and began reading the Admiralty report on the Hampshire. There was little information to be had. She had seen earlier accusations against the Royal Navy by residents of the Orkneys, who claimed the Navy dithered in sending help to the stricken ship after its loss had been reported. The official report clearly covered up any wrongdoings by the Navy and brushed aside rumors that the ship sank by means other than a mine.

  Kitchener’s correspondence proved only slightly more illuminating. She had read his war correspondence before and had found it mostly mundane. Kitchener held the post of Secretary of State for War in 1916, and most of his official writings reflected his preoccupation with manpower and recruiting needs of the British Army. A typical letter complained to the Prime Minister about pulling men from the Army to work in munition factories on the home front.

  Julie skimmed rapidly through the pages until nearing June fifth, the date of Kitchener’s death on the Hampshire. The discovery that the Hampshire had sunk from an internal explosion compelled her to consider the possibility that someone may have actually wanted him dead. The notion led her to an odd letter that she had seen months before. Thumbing through the bottom of the file, her fingers suddenly froze on the document.

  Unlike the aged yellowing military correspondence, this letter was still bright white, typed on heavy cotton paper. At the top of the page was embossed “Lambeth Palace.” Slowly, Julie read the letter.

  Sir,

  At behest of God and Country, I implore you a final time to relinquish the document. The very sanctity of our Church depends upon it. For while you may be waging a temporal war with the enemies of England, we are waging an eternal crusade for the salvation of all mankind. Our enemies are wicked and cunning. Should they seize the Manifest, it could spell the demise of our very faith. I strongly submit there is no choice but for you to accede to the Church. I await your submittal,

  —Randall Davidson

  Julie recognized the author as the Archbishop of Canterbury. In the margins, she noticed a handwritten notation that said “Never!” It was written in a script that she recognized as Kitchener’s.

  The letter struck her as perplexing on several levels. Kitchener, she knew, had been a churchgoing religious man. Her research had never revealed any conflicts with the Church of England, let alone the head of the Church himself, the Archbishop of Canterbury. Then there was the reference to the document or Manifest. What could that possibly be?

  Though the letter seemed to have no possible bearing on the Hampshire, it was intriguing enough to stir her interest. She made a photocopy of the letter, then worked her way through the rest of the folder. Near the bottom, she found several documents related to Kitchener’s trip to Russia, including a formal invitation from the Russian Consulate and an itinerary while in Petrograd. She copied these as well, then returned the folder to Beatrice.

  “Find what you were looking for?” the librarian asked.

  “No, just an odd kernel here and there.”

  “I’ve found that the key to discovering historical treasures is to just keep on kicking over the stones. Eventually, you’ll get there.”

  “Thank you for your assistance, Beatrice.”

  As she left the museum and made her way to her car, Julie reread the letter several times, finally staring at the Archbishop’s signature.

  “Beatrice is right,” she finally muttered to herself. “I need to kick over some more stones.”

  She didn’t have far to go. Barely a half mile down the road sat historic Lambeth Palace. A collection of ancient brick buildings towering over the banks of the Thames River, it served as the historical London residence of the Archbishop of Canterbury. Of particular interest to Julie was the presence on the grounds of the Lambeth Palace Library.

  Julie knew that the palace was not typically open to the public, so she parked on a nearby street and walked to the main gate. Passing a security checkpoint, she was allowed to proceed to the Great Hall, a Gothic-style red brick building accented with white trim. Contained inside the historic structure was one of the oldest libraries in Britain, and the principal repository for the Church of England’s archives, dating back to the ninth century.

  She stepped to the entrance door and rang a bell, then was escorted by a teenage boy to a small but modern reading room. Approaching the reference desk, she filled out two document request cards and handed them to a girl with short red hair.

  “The papers of Archbishop Randall Davidson, for the period of January through July 1916,” the girl read with interest, “and any files regarding First Earl Horatio Herbert Kitchener.”

  “I realize the latter request may be a bit unlikely, but I wish to at least attempt an inquiry,” Julie said.

  “We can perform a computerized search of our archives database,” the girl replied without enthusiasm. “And what is the nature of your request?”

  “Research for a biography of Lord Kitchener,” Julie replied.

  “May I please see your reader ticket?”

  Julie fished through her purse and handed over a library card, having utilized the Lambeth archives on several occasions. The girl copied her name and contact information, then peered at a clock on the wall.

  “I’m afraid we’ll be unable to retrieve these documents before closing time. The data should be available for your review when the library reopens on Monday.”

  Julie looked at the girl with disappointment, knowing that the library would still
be open for another hour.

  “Very well. I will return on Monday. Thank you.”

  The red-haired girl clutched the document request cards tightly in her hand until Julie left the building. Then she waved the teenage boy to the counter.

  “Douglas, can you please watch the desk for a minute?” she asked in an urgent tone. “I need to place a rather important phone call.”

  22

  OSCAR GUTZMAN WAS HIS REAL NAME, BUT EVERYONE called him the Fat Man. The origin of the moniker was evident at first sight. Carrying well over three hundred pounds on a five-foot frame, he appeared nearly as wide as he was tall. With a clean-shaven head and unusually large ears, he resembled an escapee from a traveling carnival. Yet his appearance belied the fact that Gutzman was one of the richest men in Israel.

  He grew up a ragtag urchin in the streets of Jerusalem, digging up coins from the hillside tombs with orphaned Arab boys or bumming free meals from Christian soup kitchens. His exposure to Jerusalem’s diverse religions and culture, along with a hustler’s ability to survive the streets, served him well as an adult businessman. Building a tiny construction firm into the largest hotel developer in the Middle East, he became a self-made man of huge riches who floated freely with the power brokers of the entire region. His personal drive for wealth and success was surpassed, however, by his passion for antiquities.

  It was the death of his younger sister at an early age, in a traffic accident outside a synagogue, that had altered his life. Like others who suffer a tragic personal loss, he began a private search for God. Only his quest migrated from the spiritual to the tangible as he sought to prove the truth of the Bible through physical evidence. A small collection of biblical-era antiquities had grown exponentially with his accumulated wealth, turning an early hobby into a lifelong passion. His artifacts, numbering in the hundreds of thousands, were now stored in warehouses spread over three countries. In his late sixties, Gutzman now devoted his full time and resources to his personal quest.