The man delivered food from the villagers daily to the team. With no beautiful beach and no remarkable historical sites, tourists scarcely visited the area. Most families survived on the sale of what their individual plots of land produced, predominantly olives, figs and apricots. Small herds of goats and sheep roamed in fields or on the hillsides. The camp bought all the homemade sheep and goat cheese, jam and produce the locals brought them.
On shore, Charlotte left for the camp’s photo lab. Afterward, she’d report to Refik’s assistant, Talat, and describe the changes they observed. He’d update the survey charts for the divers assigned the tagging.
Atakan stayed with the boat, going on to the dock used by the villagers. The Ministry recently issued his unit Thuraya SG-2520 satellite phones. It worked fine in camp, but he wasn’t sure of the reception in the village. Thuraya guaranteed their users they’d never encounter “dead zones.” He didn’t trust the sales rhetoric and asked the boatman for a reliable cell site. The man told him there was a café at the top of the hill where service was good.
When they arrived at the inlet, Atakan pressed several coins in the man’s hand.
“Wait for me.”
A two-lane unlined paved road ran through the center of the village and had no traffic control signs or bordering sidewalks. Atakan kept to the far edge of the asphalt as he walked. It was best to stay well out of the way of his countrymen driving anything more than a slow cart.
The village was an assortment of squat wooden buildings laid out in no particular pattern. He found what he’d describe in the loosest of terms a café at the end of an unmarked dirt road. The tin-roofed patio was attached to a bakery and consisted of a few mismatched tables and chairs. On the hill, a stone’s throw away, sat a cell tower. Poor as the villagers were, they owned enough phones to require a tower. Atakan smiled, amused by the paradox.
The men seated there looked up briefly as he entered and then returned to their conversations. He sat at the farthest table with his back to them and ordered a glass of tea. The female proprietor brought it along with a fresh baked Cevizli. She urged him to try a piece of the tart and swore to its deliciousness. She made it herself, which he knew without her telling him.
“No thanks,” he said and waited for her to go. When she left, he called the Director.
“Savas Firat.”
“It’s Atakan. Did the Americans discover any useful information for us on Charlotte Dashiell?”
“Not much. She’s in a doctoral program, which we knew from MIAR. Her parents are divorced. The father is a retired policeman and she has a brother, who’s a Chicago policeman.”
The information didn’t fit with what they knew about her and how she was accepted on the project. “A policeman has a business with the financial ability to make such a large donation to MIAR?” Atakan never met a rich policeman, not an honest one anyway.
“The money isn’t from the natural father.”
Atakan had forgotten she mentioned a stepfather.
“Her mother is Patricia Snow and remarried, to a Frank Snow. The stepfather is interesting. Wealthy, he’s involved in several corporations in addition to Sun Bear.”
“What about her personally?”
“Nothing suspicious,” the Director said.
Atakan could hear him flipping pages as he spoke.
“Setting aside her presence on the gulet, her Waterman affiliation remains. His penchant for collecting artifacts with questionable provenance is well known.”
Atakan sipped his tea, analyzing the situation. “The stepfather’s role in the company muddies everything.” Most smuggling cases were clear cut. He hadn’t dealt with this type of complication before. “Frank Snow makes the gift defense logical.”
The Director snorted.
“I know,” Atakan conceded. “It’s also a clever cover for an agreement with Waterman. A donation from a corporation shields him.”
“Find out which it is, Vadim.”
Why the Director constantly offered the obvious as though he was divulging insightful guidance irritated Atakan more than all Firat’s other annoying habits together. A dozen sharp retorts hung on the tip of his tongue, he knew better than to say.
“She worked a wreck off the coast of Israel last year. Any problems occur, or do we know?” Atakan asked.
“I reread Ekrem’s report from the short time he was there. He had nothing derogatory to say regarding her. I also checked our other sources. They say nothing went wrong. She was enthusiastic, a good worker and well liked.”
“Sun Bear get her the position?”
“No. Her name was put forth by the university.”
“Of various wrecks MIAR is working, she only applied for a spot on this recovery operation. From our conversation in Santorini, I gathered there’s something specific to this project for her.”
“Obviously Vadim,” he said. “Which points back to a deal with Waterman.”
Rather than lose his temper and probably his job, Atakan took a deep breath and changed the subject. “What news on the boat that attacked Ekrem’s?”
“The Greeks recovered large sections of the hull. It was a custom built trawler. The bow and keel were constructed of exceptionally thick steel encapsulated in fiberglass. The fiberglass was laid in the direction most vulnerable to the stress of the strike for damage control.”
“Impressive. Anything else?”
“They discovered the registry-Sevastopol.”
“Tischenko.”
“Yes.”
“Who hired him and why now?” Atakan had gone through Ekrem’s past cases, looking for clues. Nothing stood out.
“Unknown, we questioned Heather Hilliard in depth. He rarely discussed his cases with her.”
“Can we connect Waterman to Tischenko?”
“No, not yet.”
“I’ll call again in a couple of days.” Atakan hung up and went inside to pay for the tea. Three golden Cevizli rounds sat on the counter behind the woman who served him.
“Are all those fresh?”
She hesitated, before turning to the counter. “Two, one day old. This,” she pointed to the third, “today, fresh.”
Atakan grinned to himself. In village speak, one day old really meant more like two or three days old. The allegedly fresh one might actually be fresh.
He never met a diver on one of these projects who was particular about food. They’d devour the walnut and marmalade treats regardless of age. “I’ll take all three.”
The woman’s face lit with delight. She straightened out three sheets of wrinkled, pre-used foil with surprising speed. Afraid I’ll change my mind, which he considered when he saw the used foil. What if she stored fish in it or something else stinky? She stacked the rounds into a net bag and handed them to him.
Atakan carried the desserts outside. Out of her eyesight, he opened the packages and smelled the foil around each. Satisfied, he rewrapped the cakes.
His thoughts returned to Charlotte as he walked back to the boat. Americans often mentioned the old movie, Midnight Express, both curious and shocked at the conditions portrayed in the picture. Smuggling stolen artifacts from Turkey was a minimum seven-year prison sentence. What American then, especially a woman, would risk going to a Turkish prison? If Charlotte was involved in Ekrem’s murder, she’d receive a life sentence.
Chapter Ten
Charlotte reread the professor’s email.
Keep me in the loop. I want status reports. You know the committee’s reluctance to approve your choice of subject for your dissertation. I told you when you came to me that the far-fetched nature of your theory strains logic. My feelings have not changed. After we receive your reports, the committee will decide whether or not to withdraw our tentative approval. I sincerely hope you do find the necessary proof.
Best regards,
Dr. Jergen Mortensen
“Didn’t need the reminder, professor.”
She sent the message to her trash bin and closed her l
aptop. Instead of savoring the chocolate and coconut as usual, She wolfed the Bounty Bar in four bites. Her email to Mortensen was a courteous update on the team’s work. It was not an invite to cast aspersions on her theory...again.
Chapter Eleven
Charlotte pulled her earphones out and turned the iPod off. She rolled her head around on her shoulders, hoping for relief in a small neck crack. Nothing happened and she tried again. Still nothing. She gave a long sigh and lifted another artifact from the desalination tank.
“Bored?” Atakan asked.
“No. I’m in awe as I work on pieces three thousand years old. Everything I touch was touched by someone in the Bronze Age. That’s incredible.” She set the fragile piece on the table in front of her and began to draw. As the recovery progressed, hand-sketched pictures and photos of their finds were sent to experts around the world.
“You sighed like you were bored.”
“Impatient is more accurate.”
“Impatient?”
“What we’ve uncovered is remarkable, but I’m anxious to see
what’s in the hold behind the Rhodian amphoras. You saw the flash of gold.”
“So,” Atakan said. “It could be anything, part of a
necklace, the rim of a chalice, or a gold clad statue. Any of those is a priceless find.”
“Yeah, I know.”
“You sound disappointed. You have something more special in mind.” He leaned closer to her. “What?”
Uma looked up from across the table. She stopped her work to listen.
Charlotte glanced over at her and then returned to drawing. “Doesn’t matter, it’s probably a necklace like you said.”
Atakan took the sketch pad and pencil from her and set both on the table. He hooked his hand under her arm. “I’m thirsty. Come have coffee with me.”
“I’ll listen to your music for awhile.” Uma reached for Charlotte’s iPod. “You don’t care, do you?”
She did because it was Uma asking. Everyone on the team shared iPods and MP-3 players all the time. Charlotte let others borrow hers. It’d look pissy if she said no to Uma.
“Knock yourself out.”
She and Atakan left the conservation tent and walked in silence to the kitchen. He filled a thermos with black coffee and took two cups from the shelf.
“Come.”
“Where are we going?”
“Someplace private. Do you have a preference?”
“Yeah.”
They hiked up a nearby hill where she led him to a cliff with a straight drop-off above a small cove. Smooth, flat rocks covered the ledge that overlooked the estuary.
Below, in the camp, Uma stood outside the tent watching them. Her white blonde hair made her easy to spot. Uma bugged her. The compound was small. Everyone saw a lot of everyone else. But she saw Uma all the time. The woman was forever underfoot, blocking doorways, taking excessively long showers, or listening to private conversations. Uma’s habit of inserting herself into those conversations often offering unsolicited opinions fueled Charlotte’s aversion.
She never made a negative comment about Uma to the others and kept her feelings to herself. She slipped only once, after being on the receiving end of Uma’s advice. Irritated, she told Atakan, “the woman’s like a Nazi Field Marshall...Rommel with bigger breasts.” He didn’t disagree.
“I’ve seen you sitting up here a few times,” Atakan said.
She turned, Uma forgotten. He’d filled their cups and sat relaxed with an arm draped over his raised knee.
“I come here when I want to be alone.”
“What do you think on, here in your aloneness? We’ve worked together for three weeks, and yet I know little about you.”
“I could say the same.”
“But, I asked first,” he said, in a teasing tone and smiled.
He had a nice smile. Genial and warm, she liked it although he didn’t do it often, not with her anyway. He laughed and joked with some of the others. Once in awhile, she’d catch him watching her and it wasn’t with humor or warmth. Just the opposite, he looked cold and somber. He reminded her of a pissed off angel in some Renaissance painting. She figured he associated her with Ekrem’s death, and that colored his feelings toward her. Take away the brooding expression and he was an attractive man. When he first arrived, his hair was well trimmed and combed back off this face. It was longer and shaggier now which probably contributed to her Baroque image of him. She liked the fact he stayed clean shaven instead of growing a beard like many men on the team.
“Where should I start?”
“Tell me about your great interest in this wreck.”
Charlotte sipped the coffee, stalling, contemplating how much to say. The Doctoral Committee made their lack of enthusiasm for her theory clear. Refik and the MIAR administration appeared skeptical but made no comment. Considering Atakan’s dedication to his country’s history and the fact Troy was in Turkey, maybe he’d see the fundamental logic of her theory.
“All right. On one condition. You can laugh, but you can’t blab about it to the rest of the team. It’s my personal theory. I don’t want the others to badger me.”
“Blab? What is this, blab?”
“Gossip with the team about what I share.”
He nodded his understanding. “I promise.”
“I think the ship contains the treasure of Troy, of the King of Troy specifically.”
He stared at her with an odd look of bewilderment.
She gave herself a mental kick in the ass for opening her big mouth. The statement was out there now, and she was standing by it.
“Do you mean, Trojan War Troy, as in Priam’s Gold?”
“Yes. The real Priam’s Gold, not Schliemann’s obviously.”
His eyes widened. “Priam...The Homeric king?”
“No, Priam the goat herder. Of course, Priam, the king.”
“He doesn’t exist.”
“That’s my point. My theory is he did.”
“Your theory is wrong. Outside of the Iliad, there’s no written record of such a man.”
“Because we haven’t discovered proof, doesn’t mean he didn’t live.”
“Impossible,” he said, shaking his head. “I agree the war occurred. The rest...Priam, Hektor, Achilles, etc., is fiction. They’re part of Homer’s well told fantasy, nothing more.”
She took a deep, indulgent breath. She’d prepared and rehearsed her argument for days before she met with Mortensen and the committee. She’d repeat it for Atakan the way she told them.
“Why not? A lot of the Iliad is accurate. The attackers, the Achaioi, are mentioned in historical documents. Linguists can connect Ilios, his title for the besieged kingdom to the Hittite vassal kingdom, Wilusa. Wilusa is the same location as the place we call Troy, which makes it geographically correct. His depiction of the political system in Mycenae is to our knowledge correct. That’s significant, since in Homer’s time, he didn’t have access to the written information we have. He--”
He stuck his hand up. “Stop. Like many bards, Homer’s story was probably a tale handed down over the generations. A tale which happened to include a few accurate details.”
“I agree,” Charlotte said. “The story of Troy and the war was in all likelihood retold through the centuries. I’m saying it wasn’t a mere war story. It had to be more. War---“
“No. The bones of the story were given to him. He filled it with people from his imagination.”
“Let me finish. Wars between kingdoms were common as fleas. There’s no reason for the invasion of Troy, if it was a simple war story, to become part of oral tradition. Something made this war story unique. I say, it’s the people.”
“You forget Homer’s audience. He wanted to capture their imagination. He took bits of old tales of terrible attacks on various wealthy cities. He might’ve had a vague idea of Wilusa’s location and surmised it was a prosperous kingdom and chose it for that reason. Then, he injects the legend with heroes and villa
ins for entertainment purposes. Why do you dispute the logical?”
Everything Atakan said was true according to many experts. At least he didn’t laugh, hearing her hypothesis like most people would. He offered honest debate, but his skepticism didn’t dissuade her.
His brows notched up a fraction, waiting for her answer.
Charlotte struggled over whether or not to reveal the personal experience that inspired her idea and decided why not. She’d come this far.
“When I visited the ruins at Troy, I stood on top of one of the great sloping walls. A cold wind blew off the Dardanelles. I tried to imagine the wind bringing in an enemy fleet. Sails on ships of war as far as the eye could see.”
“’Thick as autumn leaves, or driving sand, the moving squadrons blacken all the strand,’” Atakan said in a soft voice, quoting Homer.
“Yes,” Charlotte said, encouraged by his Iliad reference. “As I stood there, a tour guide came by with his group. He pointed to a mound not far away and said, ‘We call that Hektor’s grave.’ Hektor. Troy’s true hero. I looked at the desolate, grassy rise, then up to where the citadel stood, and this powerful intuition came over me. Maybe the outcome of the war played out the way Homer portrayed, but maybe not. I can’t explain it. In my heart, I believe there’s another truth. ”
“Hektor’s Grave? You can’t be serious. This is tour guide talk. They like to add local folklore to their descriptions.”
“If I prove those people existed, I bet I can prove the end wasn’t the triumph Homer describes. It changes history and everything we’ve believed about the war since his time.”
“They’re fictional. If you think differently, then you are either mad, or a romantic, or a mad-romantic.”
The arrogant dismissal infuriated her. “I’m not a romantic school girl. Don’t treat me like one. I’m a scientist. Science makes fiction a fact all the time. Verne’s From Earth to Moon, or his 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea, for example.”
“The concepts came to fruition, not the characters.” Atakan looked at her like she was nuts and asked, “If you believe these are real people then you believe Achilles is the son of a goddess and a mortal man. You think a man like that existed?”
Golden Chariot Page 4
