The final confirmation of the Celiks’ guilt was confirmed when divers were sent to the bottom of the Golden Horn. The mangled remains of the Sultana were located not far from the shattered hull of the tanker. A salvage team brought the wreck to the surface, where it was left to a police forensics team to remove the crushed body of Maria Celik from the flattened deck of the yacht.
His name in ruin, his assets seized, and his dead sister’s body held in the Istanbul city morgue, there was nothing left of Ozden Celik’s empire but the man himself.
Yet he had apparently vanished into nothingness.
84
THE FRIDAY NOON PRAYER, CALLED KHUTBAH, WAS TYPICALLY the highest-attended Muslim service of the week. It was the time when the resident mosque Imam would offer a separate, faith-inspiring sermon before leading the assemblage in prayer.
At Istanbul’s Fatih Mosque, the prayer hall remained oddly empty, despite the muezzin’s recent call to prayer. The khutbah was normally packed to the gills, with dozens of people spilling out of the prayer hall and into the courtyard, hoping to catch a glimpse of Mufti Battal while listening to his words of hope. But that was not the case today.
Barely fifty ardent followers stood in the open hall as Mufti Battal entered and stepped to a raised platform near the mihrab. The once-mighty Mufti looked like he had aged twenty years in the past week. His eyes were sunken and cold, his skin pale and lifeless. The swagger and conceit that had fueled his rise to power was completely absent. Gazing at the sparse crowd, he trembled slightly, suppressing the single emotion of rage.
Speaking in a subdued voice, he began his homily railing against the dangerous, unchecked powers of the establishment. In uncharacteristic fashion, he was soon rambling incoherently, targeting a litany of perceived ills and threats. The somber faces staring back at him in disillusionment finally checked his diatribe. Ending his sermon abruptly, he recited a short passage from the Qur’an dealing with redemption, then led the small audience in prayer.
Not wishing to mingle with his brethren, Battal quickly stepped to the side of the prayer hall and entered an anteroom where he kept a small office. He was surprised to find a bearded man in the room seated in front of his desk. He was dressed in the faded white shirt and trousers of a laborer, and wore a wide-brimmed hat that partially covered his face.
“Who let you in here?” Battal thundered at the man.
The stranger stood and raised his head to look Battal in the eye, then tugged on his fake beard.
“I let myself in, Altan,” replied the haggard voice of Ozden Celik.
Beneath his commoner’s disguise, his appearance was not far removed from that of Battal’s. He had the same drawn, gaunt face and pasty skin. Only his eyes burned with a greater, somewhat crazed intensity.
“You have endangered me by coming here,” Battal hissed. He quickly stepped to the back door and opened it cautiously, sticking his head out in surveillance.
“Come, follow me,” he said to Celik, then slipped out the door.
He led him down a corridor, then entered a seldom-used storage room at the rear of the mosque. A washing machine was wedged into one corner, fronted by a cluster of old towels left to dry on a wire clothesline. As Celik followed him in, Battal closed the door behind him and locked it.
“Why have you come here?” he asked impatiently.
“I need your help to get out of the country.”
“Yes, your life is finished in Turkey. As nearly is mine.”
“I have sacrificed everything for you, Altan. My wealth, my property. Even my sister,” he added, his voice quivering. “It was all done for the aim of making you President.”
Battal stared at Celik with nothing but contempt.
“You have destroyed me, Ozden,” he said, his face flush with anger. “I was crushed in the election. My benefactors have disappeared. My congregation has abandoned me. All because you have tainted my reputation. And now this.”
He pulled a letter out of his pocket and winged it at Celik. The Turk ignored it, simply shaking his head as it fell to the floor.
“It is from the Diyanet. I have been relieved as Mufti of Istanbul.” Battal’s eyes flared as he sneered at Celik. “You have utterly destroyed me.”
“It was all done to achieve our destiny,” Celik replied quietly.
Battal could control his emotions no longer. He grabbed Celik by his shirt and flung him across the room. Celik fell against the hanging laundry, snapping the line as he dropped to the ground covered in towels. He struggled to get to his feet, but Battal was already on him. Grabbing a loose end of the clothesline, Battal quickly wrapped it around Celik’s throat and drew it tight. Celik fought back fiercely, punching and flailing at the Mufti. But Battal was too big and powerful, and too bent on vengeance. Surging with pent-up rage, he ignored Celik’s blows and yanked the line tighter.
The horror of being strangled was not lost on Celik. Struggling to breathe, he saw a parade of his own garroted victims flash before his eyes as the life was slowly choked from his body. Failing in a last desperate attempt to break free, he stared at the Mufti with a combination of fear and defiance before his eyes rolled back and his body fell limp. Battal kept his death grip on Celik for another five minutes, less out of assurance than psychotic fury. Finally letting go, he stepped slowly from the dead man, staggering out of the storage room with trembling hands and a permanently disabled mind.
It was late the next morning when Celik’s body was discovered by a Bosphorus fisherman. Surreptitiously dumped into the harbor, it had floated about the Golden Horn for most of the night before drifting ashore at Seraglio Point.
The expired body of Ozden Celik, the world’s last Ottoman, was found just a few steps from the walls of Topkapi, in the shadow of the glory of his legendary ancestors.
85
PITT AND GIORDINO FOUND LAZLO ON THE THIRD FLOOR of the Istanbul Hospital, situated in a pleasant but heavily guarded room overlooking the Bosphorus. The commando was lying in bed, reading a three-day-old copy of Haaretz , an Israeli daily newspaper, when the two men were allowed to enter.
“Don’t tell me you are still front-page news back home?” Pitt asked as he entered and shook hands.
“It is good to see you, my friends,” Lazlo replied, sheepishly putting the paper aside. “Yes, we are still big news in Israel. However, I am sad to report that I seem to be getting all of the credit. It was you who disabled the tanker,” he said to Pitt. “And none of it would have been possible without the Bullet,” he added to Giordino.
“I think it’s safe to say it was a team effort,” Pitt replied.
“Among other things, the three of us have improved my country’s relationship with Turkey tenfold,” Lazlo boasted.
“Not to mention helping keep Atatürk’s vision of a secular Turkish government in play for a few more years,” Pitt noted.
“I think somebody should put us in for a Nobel Prize,” Giordino said with a smirk.
“I heard they found the body of Celik this morning,” Lazlo said.
“Yes, he was apparently strangled, then pitched into the Golden Horn,” Pitt said.
“Did you beat me to the task?”
Pitt smiled. “Not this time. A police detective told us they are pretty certain Mufti Battal is responsible. An undercover cop at Battal’s mosque reported seeing a man matching Celik’s description and dress in the building about the time of his estimated death.”
“A pair of devils, in my book,” Lazlo said.
An attractive nurse came into the room momentarily to check Lazlo’s medication, then left under his watchful gaze.
“Anxious to get home, Lieutenant?” Giordino asked.
“Not particularly,” Lazlo replied with a grin. “And by the way, it is now Commander Lazlo. I’ve received word of my promotion.”
“Let me be the first to congratulate you,” Giordino said, slipping him a bottle of whisky he had smuggled into the hospital. “Perhaps you can find someone around here
to share it with,” he added with a wink.
“You Americans are all right,” Lazlo replied with a wide smile.
“How is the prognosis?” Pitt asked.
“I’m scheduled for surgery in Tel Aviv in another week, then will be subject to several weeks of therapy. But the recovery should be full, and I hope to report back to duty before the end of the year.”
They were interrupted by the entrance of a man in a wheelchair, who rolled in with his leg in a cast.
“Abel, there you are,” Lazlo greeted. “It’s time you meet the men who helped save your life.”
“Abel Hammet, master of the Dayan. Or ex-master, I should say,” he said, greeting Pitt and Giordino warmly. “Lazlo here has told me everything you did. You really put yourself out on a limb, and my crew and I can’t thank you enough.”
“I’m sorry your tanker was still lost in the end,” Pitt replied.
“The Dayan was a good ship,” Hammet said wistfully. “But the good news is that we’re getting a brand-new vessel. The Turkish government has committed to building us a replacement, apparently using the appropriated assets of one Ozden Celik to pay for it.”
“Who says there’s no justice in the world?” Giordino quipped.
As the men laughed, Pitt glanced at his watch.
“Well, the Aegean Explorer is due to shove off in about an hour,” he said. “I’m afraid we’re going to have to be on our way.”
He shook hands with Hammet, then turned to Lazlo.
“Commander, I’d be glad to have you by my side any day,” he said.
“It would be my honor,” Lazlo replied.
As Pitt and Giordino moved toward the door, Lazlo called out to them.
“Where are you headed? Back to your shipwreck?”
“No,” Pitt replied. “We’re sailing to Cyprus.”
“Cyprus? What’s waiting for you there?”
Pitt gave the commander a cryptic grin.
“A divine revelation, I hope.”
PART IV
MANIFEST DESTINY
86
ST. JULIEN PERLMUTTER HAD JUST SETTLED INTO AN OVER size leather armchair when the phone rang. His favorite reading post was custom-built, as it had to be to accommodate his nearly four-hundred-pound frame. He glanced at a nearby grandfather clock, noting it was nearly midnight. Reaching past a tall glass of port parked on a side table, he answered the phone.
“Julien, how are you?” came a familiar voice over the line.
“Well, if it isn’t the savior of Constantinople,” Perlmutter replied in a booming voice. “I’ve read with glee about your exploits in the Golden Horn, Dirk. I hope you weren’t injured in the affair?”
“No, I’m fine,” Pitt replied. “And by the way, they call it Istanbul these days.”
“Bilgewater. It was Constantinople for sixteen hundred years. Ridiculous to change it now.”
Pitt had to laugh at his old friend, who spent most of his waking hours living in the past. “I hope I didn’t catch you in bed?” he asked.
“No, not at all. I was just sitting down with a copy of Captain Cook’s papers from his first voyage to the Pacific.”
“One of these days, we’ll have to go find what’s left of the Endeavor,” Pitt said.
“Aye, a noble mission that would be,” Perlmutter replied. “So where are you, Dirk, and why the late call?”
“We just docked at Limassol, Cyprus, and I have a mystery I could use your help with.”
The large bearded man’s eyes twinkled at hearing the words. As one of the world’s foremost marine historians, Perlmutter had a hunger for nautical enigmas that exceeded his appetite for food and drink. Having associated with Pitt for years, he knew that when his friend called he usually had something beguiling.
“Pray tell,” Perlmutter said in his deep bassoon voice.
Pitt proceeded to tell him about the Ottoman wreck and its Roman-era artifacts, then he sprang the story of the Manifest and its list of contents.
“My word, that’s an epic cargo,” Perlmutter said. “A pity that little, if any of it, would survive after two millennia under the sea.”
“Yes, the ossuary might be the best that could be hoped for.”
“You would surely stir a hornet’s nest with that,” Perlmutter said.
“If any of it still exists, it deserves to be found,” Pitt replied.
“Absolutely. Even without the cargo, an intact Roman galley would be a gem to discover. Do you have a starting point to conduct the search?”
“The purpose of my call,” Pitt said. “I’m hoping that you might know of some unidentified ancient wrecks off the southern Cyprus coast. Any data on the historic trade routes around the island would probably be helpful, too.”
Perlmutter thought for a moment. “I have a few resources on the shelf that might be of assistance. Give me a couple of hours, and I’ll see what I can do.”
“Thanks, Julien.”
“Say, Dirk,” Perlmutter added, before hanging up. “Were you aware that Cyprus was known to produce the best wines in the Roman Empire?”
“You don’t say.”
“A glass of Commandaria, I’ve heard, tastes as it did two thousand years ago.”
“I’ll be sure and find you a bottle, Julien.”
“You’re a good man, Dirk. So long.”
Hanging up the phone, Perlmutter took a long sip of his port wine, savoring its deep, sweet flavor. Then propelling his huge frame to his feet, he stepped to a ceiling-high shelf overflowing with nautical books and began humming to himself as he rifled through the titles.
IT WAS LESS THAN two hours later when the satellite phone on the Aegean Explorer rang with a return call from Perlmutter.
“Dirk, I’ve found just a morsel so far, but it might be a start,” the historian said.
“Every little bit helps,” Pitt replied.
“It’s a shipwreck, from the fourth century. It was discovered by sport divers back in the nineteen sixties.”
“Roman?”
“I’m not sure. The archaeological report I have is quite dated, but it indicates that some Roman weaponry was among the artifacts recovered. As you know, Cyprus was never deemed of much military importance to the Romans but rather as a trading source for copper and grain. And, of course, wine. So the existence of weapons on this wreck might be of significance.”
“Long shot or not, it sounds worth a look. Where is the wreck located?”
“She was found off of a town called Pissouri, which is near you on the southern coast. The wreck was located about a quarter mile off the public beach there. I found a later reference that the site was partially excavated in the nineties, however, and the artifacts put on display at the Limassol District Archaeological Museum.”
“That’s convenient,” Pitt said. “Does the location hold up to the Roman trading routes?”
“Actually, the merchant ships of the day sailing from Judaea would have typically followed along the Levant coast en route to Constantinople. Same goes for the Roman galleys, which would generally hug the coastline to stay in calmer waters. But our knowledge of maritime practices in those days is limited.”
“It may well be that they never intended to sail to Cyprus,” Pitt replied. “Thanks, Julien, we’ll look into the wreck.”
“I’ll keep nosing about for more. In the meantime, happy hunting.”
As Pitt hung up the phone, his two children stepped onto the bridge with small travel bags slung over their shoulders.
“Jumping ship before we start our survey?” Pitt asked.
“You’ve got a starting point?” Summer asked.
“The good Mr. Perlmutter just helped me lay out a search grid.”
“I talked Dirk into helping me attack the local archives,” she replied. “I thought I’d see if we could find some local references to the Manifest, or perhaps a history of local piracy. You don’t mind if we catch up with you in a day or two?”
“No, that sounds like a good
idea. Where’s your first stop?”
Summer gave her father a blank look. “To be honest, we haven’t identified the local resources to visit. You wouldn’t have any suggestions, would you?”
Pitt couldn’t help but grin at the request while he glanced at a page of notes he had written while talking to Perlmutter.
“It just so happens,” he said with a wink, “that I know exactly where you should go.”
87
SUMMER AND DIRK FOUND THE LIMASSOL DISTRICT AR chaeological Museum in a modern building east of the city center, not far from the town’s scenic municipal garden. A variety of pottery and artifacts from Cyprus’s rich history, some dating to 2000 B.C., were displayed in simple glass cases throughout the three wings of the building. Summer admired a display of terra-cotta animal figures from the Archaic Age while waiting for the museum’s curator.
“I am Giorgos Danellis. May I help you?” asked a round-faced man with a Greek accent.
Summer introduced herself and her brother. “We are interested in a fourth-century shipwreck that was discovered near Pissouri,” she explained.
“Yes, the Pissouri wreck,” Danellis replied with a nod. “The display is in room three.”
As he escorted them to the other room, he asked, “Are you with the British Museum?”
“No, we work for the National Underwater and Marine Agency,” Dirk replied.
“Oh, sorry,” the curator replied. “There was a fellow in here a few days ago inquiring about the same exhibit. I thought you might be related.”
He stepped to a large glass case that was filled with dozens of artifacts. Summer noted that most were ceramic containers, along with some deteriorated wood fragments with rusty iron fittings.
“What can you tell us about the ship?” she asked.
“She dates to the first half of the fourth century,” he said, pointing to a corroded silver coin on the lower display shelf. “This Roman denarius found on the wreck depicts Emperor Constantine with laurels, which indicates that the vessel was sunk around 330 A.D.”
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