Golden Chariot

by Chris Karlsen

  Charlotte complimented her on her bright copper head scarf. The rich color flattered the woman’s olive complexion, giving it a healthy tint that softened the age lines. Charlotte favored the color for the same reason. She didn’t have age lines, but she shared the woman’s Mediterranean skin tone. She also thought it brought out her brown eyes.

  The woman took their order and left. She hurried back with a wine and a beer and an unsolicited plate of goat cheese slices, tomatoes, bread and dried figs. She gestured to the plate, urging them to eat.

  “I think we’re her best customers of the day,” Charlotte said after the woman had gone.

  “Of the week.” Atakan slid the thin file he’d brought with him to the side.

  “I’m hungry. I’m eating.”

  Charlotte stacked a slice of bread with multiple layers of tomato and cheese. Since the Ministry was a topic of discussion, she decided to ask a question she’d wanted to ask for weeks.

  “What was Ekrem’s real job?”

  “Real job?”

  “You can tell me. It’ll remain between us.”

  Atakan nibbled on the figs while Charlotte bit into her mini sandwich. “Ekrem was an agent, like myself, and an archaeologist. There’s no confidence to be kept.”

  Swallowing she said, “Give me a break. There’s a spy-versus-spy undercurrent to the murder investigation. The obvious aspects I understand. I get Petalas questioning the timing of my arrival. I get that Interpol is in the loop. Ekrem was a government employee murdered in a foreign country.”

  Charlotte held onto Atakan’s wrist, preventing him from finishing the figs in his palm. “It was you and Nick who tipped me off there was more involved.”

  “Given your imagination, I can’t wait to hear this tale.” He dumped the figs into his other hand and began eating again. “Please enlighten me.”

  “When we talked in Santorini, the nature of your questions shifted from basic information gathering to a borderline interrogation.”

  Atakan showed no reaction.

  She ticked the questions off. “You asked if I saw who was on the deck of the trawler. Then you asked if I saw anyone loitering at the marina or had contact with anyone I didn’t know. Individually, those questions are general if taken at face value. Factor in emphasis, intonation, and the equation changes. It’s what prompted me to ask why you were pressing me for information I’d already given to the investigators. You blew me off with the excuse of trying to get the chain of events right.”

  “Blew you off? You say the strangest things sometimes. I was trying to ascertain the way the events unfolded.”

  Charlotte ate another small bite of sandwich and washed it down with wine then went on. “In regards to Nick, I know my brother better than he thinks. I can always tell when he’s up to something or in this case covering up something.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “First of all, he stationed Jeff at the door. Like I wouldn’t make him for a lookout,” she said. “Nick wanted to talk to you and he didn’t want me to know what it was about.”

  Atakan wiped his hands on a paper napkin and moved the file to the middle of the table. “Your brother asked me about a contract killer who might be responsible for Ekrem’s murder. A man named Tischenko.”

  “You both know of this guy on some level and neither of you thought to tell me? I’m a witness to a possible contract murder, yet I’m left in the dark like a mushroom. Thanks a lot.”

  “Calm down. Your brother had only minimal information on Tischenko. He didn’t say anything to you because he didn’t want to scare you. He asked me to keep our conversation confidential. There’s not much point to secrecy now. I understand Petalas plans to ask you about Tischenko.”

  Atakan opened the file and laid several eight by ten photos out in front of her. “These are our surveillance photos of him. Tell me if he looks at all familiar.”

  Charlotte set the remains of her sandwich on the table. She lost her appetite as she looked at the face of the handsome blonde man who helped her with her luggage at the Santorini airport. He had striking blue eyes, a broad Slavic face, and deep dimples.

  “Tischenko...Russian?”

  She had pegged him for Russian from his accent. At the time, she remembered thinking how much he reminded her of a famous Soviet Olympic figure skater.

  “Ukrainian,” Atakan clarified.

  She expected poor quality from surveillance photos. But the two headshots captured the man rather well. He was smiling in the first, and the camera picked up those dimples. In the other, his sunglasses were pushed up onto his head, like that day at the airport. The color shot didn’t show the ruddiness of his complexion. His blue eyes came through. Both pictures showed the bone structure of his Eastern European lineage.

  Charlotte kept her head down as she studied the photos, afraid if she looked up Atakan would see the truth. She moved the order of the pictures around, buying time as she tried to analyze her situation.

  What could she tell Atakan? She forgot about the man, even after Atakan asked her directly if someone approached her at the airport. The exchange with Tischenko was so short, a few pleasantries. The encounter slipped her mind.

  How was she supposed to explain? Oh, you mean did I see this man. Yeah, I did. Sorry, I guess we did sort of chat.

  If she now admits to meeting Tischenko, albeit briefly, Atakan’s bound to ask what else she’s forgotten to mention. It’s the logical next question. It’s what she’d ask. Any answers she gives will result in, “Are you sure? Are you certain you haven’t forgotten something else?” No matter how positive she responds, there’ll be a cloud of doubt tainting the answer.

  It would be worse once Petalas found out she’d met Tischenko. He too had asked if someone spoke to her prior to boarding the gulet. She’d sworn to him no one had. Even if she convinced Atakan the mistake was innocent, Petalas would rain all kinds of accusations down on her.

  “Well?”

  Her head snapped up.

  “Do you recognize him?”

  She wanted to be honest, if only with him. Ironically, honesty at this point appeared like duplicity. The few minutes at the airport with Tischenko weren’t worth the risk. The only two people who knew of the fleeting contact were her and Tischenko. The Greeks obviously hadn’t found out. According to Atakan they only wanted to show her the pictures too. She’d keep their short, innocuous encounter secret. That was the smart play.

  “No, I’ve never seen him before.”

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Thankfully, Atakan believed her. Charlotte worried she had given the lie away somehow, either in voice or gesture. Lying wasn’t her forte. After she denied any knowledge, he took the photos back and replaced them in the file. They ordered another round of drinks and enjoyed the rest of the meal talking about EU politics. When they stood to leave, the bakery woman encouraged them to come inside and see her other fresh goods.

  The woman’s arthritic fingers worked with a younger woman’s speed as she wrapped the rest of the walnut rolls. There was enough for everyone in camp if they halved them. She beamed as she handed the bag to Atakan. He nudged Charlotte with his elbow and gave a slight jerk of head toward the small baskets of vegetables. Charlotte stared back at him not understanding and mouthed “what” before she caught the hint. She bought all the gauze wrapped cheese logs, a dozen whole tomatoes and a Bounty bar from the candy rack. The woman patted Charlotte’s hand like a mother does a child when she passed another bag to her.

  Atakan’s cell phone rang. “Hold this, please.” He gave Charlotte his bag and stepped outside.

  “Did you show her the pictures?” the Director asked.

  “Yes. She’s never seen him.”

  “Think she’s telling the truth?”

  “I do.”

  “You need to settle the Waterman issue.”

  “I will. She trusts me. If she knows of his past, she’ll tell me. Anything of interest on the Schweigers?”

  “Nothing
negative. This is the first time the sisters have worked together. Ursula’s spent all her time on projects in Greece and Italy. She became Kryianos’s lover earlier this year. Yasar said she’s a decade past his age preference. She must be skilled in ways that have nothing to do with archaeology,” Firat said, chuckling. “What’s she like?”

  “Pretty and knows it, ambitious, definitely an elitist, but pleasant when she wants to be.”

  “Yet, you asked me to look into her background.”

  “I can’t give you specifics. She’s...”

  “Sly?”

  “Yes.”

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Athens

  Stevan pulled a soft cotton handkerchief from his pocket and wiped the fingerprints from the glass. The protective case held a cherished sarcophagus obtained from an Egyptian black marketer. Its exotic design bore the scars of careless looters. A Swiss business associate provided the false letters of provenance indicating legal acquisition. Stevan doubted there’d be a problem. The pharaonic coffin of a late dynasty lesser royal wouldn’t generate high interest among academics. But with the increased worldwide publicity over stolen artifacts ending up in private collections, he preferred the comfort of documentation.

  He inspected the case again in the light for more smudges and didn’t see any. Folding the handkerchief, he tucked it back into his jacket, making a mental note to chastise the cleaning crew.

  His thoughts wandered to Ursula’s project and the potential for a royal cylinder seal. There was a good chance more than one seal existed in the wreck. Royal or not, a seal couldn’t be accounted for with forged paperwork. Their provenance was certain. Luckily, the lack of documentation didn’t affect their value. Mere possession would satisfy any collector.

  If the team found two, he’d keep one. If they only discovered one, he’d sell it. He resented the painful necessity. Sacrifice didn’t suit him. He was long out of the habit. The fact a vulgarian like Aaron Waterman was the purchaser outraged him. Waterman bought treasures not because he loved their history or their beauty, but just to say he had them.

  “Philistine,” Stevan said aloud.

  Unfortunately, he needed the money. He’d burned through Elena’s estate. Elena. Memories of his late wife came to mind. He never expected to miss her, and at first, he didn’t. But the past few years, he thought of Elena with increasing frequency, feeling the sense of loss more and more.

  His feelings didn’t stem from great love, not on his part, although by the time she died, he’d grown deeply fond of her. She loved him and had for three decades. She’d introduced him to a different world, her world. As a young architect without the necessary political or social contacts, he couldn’t find employment. No one cared he had talent or a vision for modernizing Athens, making it another London.

  He found work as a waiter at the café across the street from Elena’s father’s office. They met when he served her lunch one day. The not so pretty, in truth, the term plain would be a kindness, but wealthy Elena fell in love with him. Stevan encouraged her infatuation, returning her affection with calculated effort. Her father had the connections he needed. But the doors of opportunity he fantasized opening, didn’t. After they married, she wanted him with her all the time. The unalluring Elena wanted to show off her prize. He packed away his sketches and became the dutiful husband. In time, the whispers of “gigolo” stopped.

  They never spoke of his mistresses. She knew and never complained. Unable to have children herself, she accepted with grace his deep attachment to his illegitimate daughter, a child born to the one mistress he loved. In his eyes, she was the most beautiful baby in the world. He called her Aphrodite.

  With his dream of architecture dead, he turned his creative passion to the world of artifacts. Elena indulged his hunger. At first, he acquired pieces through legitimate dealers and auction houses. After awhile he wanted more than the meager offerings of those sources. He learned through other private collectors of the reliable black market providers.

  Elena stayed blissfully ignorant to the costs of his dealings. He stayed blissfully ignorant to the state of their finances, leaving the details to accountants. The dismal news of their near bankrupt status shocked him when her estate was settled.

  He’d live well for years on the sale money from a seal. The leased yacht was for show and his biggest expense. It impressed fools like Ursula. Once their arrangement was terminated, he’d eliminate both luxuries.

  The phone on his desk rang. He turned from the sarcophagus, checked the caller I.D. It was Aaron Waterman and he picked up.

  “I’m glad you called,” Stevan said, switching the phone to speaker.

  He moved to the closed window. Air pollution and the stink of exhaust fumes compelled him to keep the windows shut. Stevan watched the stream of vehicles wending their way up to the Acropolis where a layer of smog hovered above the monuments. Across the street, a Grayline Bus unloaded Chinese passengers in front of the Athens Gate Hotel. The tourists gathered around a prim, non-Asian woman, their guide no doubt from her attire. She wore a simple sleeveless white blouse, a knee length dark skirt, and unattractive but sensible shoes.

  “I’ll bite. Why?” Aaron asked.

  “I had an interesting conversation with Ursula last week.”

  The guide stood on her toes. She waved a bright green sign with a picture of the Parthenon painted on it high in the air. She had her other hand to her mouth trying to be heard above the street noise. The passengers who’d strayed returned and she led the group up the stairs and into the hotel lobby.

  “About Charlotte?” Aaron asked.

  “Yes. It seems a personal relationship between her and the Ministry rep. may be developing.”

  “So?”

  “So, if they’re having an affair, it’s natural she’ll turn to him for help when the seal disappears. He’ll believe she used him and be that much more determined to see her punished.”

  “What if he has a completely different agenda?”

  Stevan moved back to his desk. “What do you mean?”

  He removed a pencil and an artist’s sketch pad from the middle drawer and flipped to a clean page. Stevan doodled as he spoke, redrawing the façade of the hotel. In his opinion, the popular place needed a facelift. He’d redo the nondescript building to a style that blended a sleek, modern look with touches from the Greek Classical Period.

  “Maybe he’s getting close to her as part of the murder investigation. My partner, Frank, says she remains a person of interest. I’m concerned she’ll be removed from the project.”

  “I wouldn’t worry. If that was the case, they’d have done it already,” Stevan said, using a different soft lead pencil to shade the roofline of his drawing.

  He stopped sketching. “I wonder if Vadim is more than a mere representative. It makes setting her up more difficult logistically but not impossible.”

  “Tell Ursula to try and find out.”

  “Not advisable. Our purpose is better served if she remains in the background,” Stevan said. “Unusual interest in him might raise his suspicions. We don’t want his focus on her rather than Dashiell.”

  Who could they use? He thought for a moment and Tischenko came to mind.

  “I’ll tell my other associate the situation. He’ll insert one of his contacts with no known ties to him. The camp receives daily supplies from the village. No one notices when different locals handle the delivery runs.”

  “If this Vadim becomes a problem, then what?”

  “He’ll join his friend, Ekrem.”

  Stevan had another plan Waterman might like. “What if we make Dashiell disappear at the same time as the theft? There’s no emotional appeal to color Vadim’s thinking. The appearance of guilt is absolute.”

  “Clever,” Aaron said. “Arrange it.”

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Bozburun

  Hundreds of bubbles surged toward the surface from Charlotte’s mouthpiece. She blew out her frustration a second
time and hundreds more followed as her brush disappeared. Twice, in as many days, her small brush was sucked up the tube of the airlift mouth.

  Long exposure to the water and currents left many of the artifacts vulnerable to extreme corrosion. A layer of sand and silt offered some protection from the elements but not the ravages of time. The delicate condition of the pieces wouldn’t tolerate even the easy strokes of hand-fanning. A combination of soft artist style brushes and the airlift were meticulously employed to dispel the sand and silt.

  The origins of the dagger and sword recovered and documented by Charlotte and Atakan remained unknown. Among the team, Mycenaean provenance had the greatest support, followed by Hittite. She was the lone voice for Troy.

  Today, they prepared the next piece from the small cache of weapons, another dagger for transportation. Atakan glanced over when she stopped the silt removal. She flipped her hands back and forth, showing him they were empty and pointed to the airlift. He waved her over. She took control of his vacuum while he used the brush.

  A small octopus squirted past. The aerobic push and pull of its tentacles stirred up a cloud of sand that followed in the creature’s wake. Charlotte let the miniature whirlwind settle before taking the vacuum to Atakan’s artifact.

  Finished, she moved the tube aside and took his brush while he carefully laid the dagger in the wire basket. They knelt together on the seabed. For a better sense of feel, they worked without gloves as they sifted through the sand. Buried relics were often discovered by bare-fingered touch. The previous team found another concealed dagger in its entirety using this system.

  Atakan paused and pointed. She concentrated the airlift hose where he indicated as he dug down further. As the sand cleared, drops of purple sparkled through. He lifted the object out and held the magnificent sculpture with two hands. The amethyst covered lion filled one of his palms. The jewels ended at the animal’s neck. The lion’s head and mane were hammered gold with obsidian eyes. The piece went into a special plastic box for small, high value artifacts.