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On deck, everyone gathered around Refik as he performed a cursory exam of the statuette. The gold and obsidian undamaged, the jeweled body had no visible corrosion. He turned it over in the strong sunlight, tipped it up, checking the piece closer. Refik pressed a spot on the golden throat. A couple of tablespoons of seawater spilled out as the head of the animal sprung open. Inside the cat’s belly was a miniature horse of gold, rearing up on its hind legs.
Comments of, “incredible,” “beautiful,” and “amazing,” traveled through the group.
“A Faberge egg from the ancient world,” Charlotte said.
Atakan bent and whispered, “Actually, it’s a lion.”
Charlotte eyed him hard, wondering if irritation was an affirmative defense in Turkey for choking someone.
The boat arrived to shuttle her and Atakan to camp where they proceeded with the cleaning of the weapons from the earlier dive. Charlotte continued the laborious process with the dagger’s hilt. A silver dollar size cabochon of ebony set in a cradle of gold formed the pommel. In tiny increments, each day, thin bands of gold and ivory were revealed completing the hilt piece. Not an ordinary design for a warrior’s weapon.
Atakan’s artifact, a sword, presented more problems, some severe. The design was typical of the age in construction and form. But the combination of silver and gold flanges on the hilt required special handling. The decorative gold was as pristine as the day the ship sank. Not so with the silver. Saltwater corrosion had badly damaged the metal, turning it into black mush in places. He used the finest tipped air drill to clean the crevices around the gold and avoid the deteriorated silver.
“What a remarkable weapon,” he said, looking up from his work. “I wish I could’ve seen the piece new.”
The comment made her smile. It was an archeologist’s common lament. I’d love to have seen this when it was first carved---first woven---first built...Thank God, that wishful thinking would never come true. They’d all wind up enslaved, or burned as witches, or have nasty holes drilled into their heads to release the science demons. All ugly scenarios.
“Times being what they were, as in brutal and bloody, it might not have been a good thing to see it in its rightful era,” Charlotte said. “Now will you admit this cargo could be a king’s treasure? Be objective, look at the evidence, a jeweled lion with a horse. The Trojans were renowned horse breeders, in addition to these ceremonial weapons.” She hoped Atakan might concede a little but expected him to shoot down the possibility, as usual.
“There’s the remote chance. However, the likelihood is stronger they are gifts, part of a diplomatic gesture.”
“You’re not going to give an inch, are you?”
“Not a millimeter. You know what I think of your hypothesis,” he said in the airy tone.
She grunted her acknowledgment.
They worked for awhile in silence. Her thoughts drifted from the relics and Troy to the status of the murder investigation. The matter preyed on her mind. How worried should she be? She needed another opinion. They were alone in the lab. Atakan’s opinion wasn’t as unbiased as she’d like, but she trusted him to be honest.
“Why do you think the Greeks haven’t re-interviewed me? Both you and Nick said to expect another contact. He emailed me and asked if they had. He was surprised when I said no. I’m surprised too.”
Atakan was looking beyond the work stations. “I think the answer to your question is standing in the doorway.”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Sevastopol
Tischenko squatted in front of the slumped beggar and fingered the Russian Army insignia on the sleeve of the man’s field jacket. “This your coat or did you steal it?” he asked, prodding the man with a knuckle in the chest until he sat straight.
The man turned toward the sound of Maksym’s voice. Cloudy eyes fixed not on his face but on a spot over Maksym’s left shoulder.
“It is mine,” he said. “I was with the CMTA...an artillery regiment.”
“Where?”
“Chechnya. I lost my eyesight during the battle of Grozny.”
“I was there too,” Maksym said and sat back on his heels.
“Bloody business.”
“Yes.” He eyed the veteran’s filthy clothes. The day was hot, too hot for such a warm coat. “Are you not burning up in that jacket?”
The man nodded weakly. “It is the only coat I have. I can’t risk it being stolen and then I am left with nothing in the winter.”
Bony fingers held out a paper cup exposing his pink, puckered, burn scarred wrist under the jacket’s sleeve. “Perhaps you could spare some change for a fellow soldier.”
The cup contained a paltry few Hryvnia coins, too little to buy a cheap bowl of soup in the worst of Sevastopol’s cafes.
“Can you tell the denomination of paper currency?” Maksym removed a five hundred Euro from his money clip.
“Yes, I can judge Hryvnia bills from Euros and their amount by the size and edge patterns.”
“What bill is this?” Maksym pressed the banknote into the soldier’s hand.
He ran his finger tips around the border. There was a quick intake of breath. “Five hundred Euros.”
“Get some food and buy yourself a better coat.”
“Thank you.” The man patted the air feeling for Maksym’s face.
He pulled away before the man could touch him.
“Thank you,” the man said again. “God bless you.”
Maksym laughed. “I make my own blessings. Your god works too slow for my taste. Good day.” Standing, he left as the man scrambled to his feet, clutching the money tight in his hand.
Behind Cazal sunglasses, Tischenko scanned the customers on the patio of the Barkas restaurant. Tourists on summer holiday occupied the front tables nearest the beach promenade. A lone male sat in the corner reading the menu on his lap. He took a swig from a bottle of beer then set the bottle on the table next to him. In spite of the thick beard and hair to his shoulders, Tischenko recognized Garabed Abassian.
Tischenko pulled the wrought iron chair out and sat opposite, lighting a Gitanes. The pungent smelling smoke from the French cigarette hung over the table as he exhaled.
“Try the pelengas. It’s decent, locally caught.”
“I’ll trust your judgment. Although, I’ve never been fond of Black Sea fish,” Abassian said and set the menu down. “Nice watch, Breitling?”
“Girard-Perregaux.”
“Business must be good.”
“I stay busy. Unfortunately, I can’t be seen on this new job. I need someone who’s been off the radar for awhile. You came to mind. I was actually surprised to find you available. Last I heard you were in Tajikistan running fresh supplies of women to Moscow and Dubai. Enjoy yourself?”
“It’s not unpleasant work. Sex was good. Resistance on a woman’s part is a delicious aphrodisiac.” Abassian signaled the waiter and ordered the fish plate. “Drugs paid better,” he added after the waiter left. “The Moscow market for Afghan opiates is very lucrative.”
“Why aren’t you still there?”
“Fucking CIA is everywhere.” His Armenian accent hit the vowels so the word came out foo-king. “Fucking Americans,” he said, disgustedly. “I had to bribe the local tribal chiefs to use the lousy goat paths along the border to avoid them. It doesn’t matter—Afghan or Tajikistan, they’re all thieves. My profit margin dropped too much.”
“You look pretty tribal yourself with that black fur blanket on your face, not to mention your hair and odor. When did you wash last?”
Abassian peered over the rim of the bottle. “You want to kiss me or give me a job?”
Tischenko ignored the taunt. He eyed a buxom brunette in the tiniest of bikinis with mild interest. She spread oil on her legs and arms then across her chest as she talked with another young woman. The two rested on beach loungers across from the restaurant and promenade. The brunette’s breasts threatened to pop out of her top as she tucked a
towel between the slats of the lounger. Slick with oil, her skin had a slight sheen in the sun. Tischenko wondered how much money she’d want to let him tit fuck her.
“You going to talk business or take the woman in the alley?”
“It’s in Bozburun.” Tischenko turned, leaning forward, he lowered his voice. “I expect you’ll be there a couple of weeks at least. How’s your Turkish?”
Abassian shrugged. “Passable.”
Tischenko removed a photo of Atakan from his shirt pocket and handed it to Abassian with the few details he needed. “You’ll stay with a local farmer under the name, Basri Damla.”
“You have a way for me to go in and out of the camp at will, I assume?”
“Yes, your contact there is a woman named Ursula. She’s handling the theft.”
“You say the Ministry man is friendly with the other woman,” Abassian said.
“Yes.”
“If he’s a problem do I kill him?”
“If necessary. Call first.”
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Bozburun
“Miss Dashiell, you need to come with us,” Petalas said.
“Where?”
“Our boat, we require privacy.”
“Your boat?” She looked to Atakan for guidance.
“If you don’t mind, I will accompany her.” He wasn’t asking Petalas’s permission in the polite statement.
“We prefer to speak to her alone.”
Charlotte was relieved by Atakan’s suggestion. She didn’t trust them. She worried they’d double team her and try to spin her answers to fit their purpose. Atakan wasn’t an independent witness. He and the Ministry had a vested interest in Petalas’s investigation. But he was the closest she had to one. She trusted him to watch out for her.
“I have nothing to hide. Either he stays and you talk to me here, or we go to your boat and he comes along,” she said.
“Are you afraid to meet us alone?”
“No,” she lied. “Why are you afraid of a witness accompanying me? Unless you fear your insinuations will lose their impact.”
“Be careful with your insults, Miss Dashiell.”
Atakan gave her elbow a squeeze. “Don’t antagonize him. This isn’t the States.”
He was right. Provoking Petalas didn’t accomplish anything.
“Fine, let’s go,” she said.
Charlotte and Atakan put the artifacts they’d been working on away and followed Petalas and his aide to the Greek ship. Their request to speak onboard the ship rather than at camp initially made her uncomfortable. She grew more uneasy when they reached the gangplank. She had a bad vibe about the interview and wished she hadn’t agreed to come. Once on deck, they had complete control of the situation. If they spoke in camp or even at the café in the village, she had the option of leaving. At least Atakan was with her.
Petalas left her dockside with his aide and requested to speak to Atakan in private. The two men walked several yards away, out of earshot. Petalas did all the talking. Atakan listened with his hands casually in the pockets of his shorts.
As Petalas spoke, Atakan’s change in demeanor alarmed her. His hands went to his hips. He stared at the ground as Petalas continued to speak. He spit out a phrase she didn’t hear but thought he swore.
She made eye contact with Atakan once which was met with unexpected antipathy. What the devil had Petalas told him? Worried by the reaction, she considered her options. There weren’t many. She could refuse to cooperate and return to camp for the present or stay. What would her father and Nick advise? They’d tell her to proceed. With a homicide case the investigators aren’t going to leave her in peace. Sooner or later, she had to submit to the second interview. She might as well get the questioning over. Later she’d take Atakan aside and ask about his conversation with Petalas.
Atakan and Petalas returned. Petalas took the lead going up the ramp. The aide indicated for Charlotte to go next, he filed in behind her and Atakan brought up the rear.
When they were all on deck, Petalas turned to her. “You’re under arrest.”
“Under arrest? You said you wanted to talk to me. I’d never have agreed to come otherwise.” She shook her head unable to wrap her mind around the situation. “This is insane. What are the charges?”
“That depends on your answers to our questions.”
She spun around and brushed past the aide as she tried to escape back to the gangplank. Atakan blocked her path. She looked from him to Petalas then back. “Atakan?”
“I’m afraid you either answer their questions here or in a jail cell in Athens,” Atakan said, flatly.
Petalas and the aide led her to a lower deck. They hustled her along a narrow passageway to another staircase and down to yet another deck deep in the bowels of the ship. Atakan followed.
Petalas stopped mid-ship and opened a cabin door. The aide held onto her arm as she stepped over the high threshold and into a windowless white room. Inside was a metal table bolted to the floor with two chairs across from each other. A single pan light from the ceiling hung over the table. Nick had shown her an interrogation room at his station. This was almost identical except there was no two-way mirror.
“Sit,” Petalas ordered and pointed to a chrome chair with a metal seat.
She sat where he directed and discovered a Medieval looking solid iron ring attached to the rim of the table. She didn’t recall a ring like that at Nick’s station. Maybe it was a Greek practice to cuff prisoners to it during questioning. Did they intend on cuffing her? She’d put nothing past Petalas.
“Where’s Atakan? He’s my witness.”
Petalas ignored her.
“Atakan,” Charlotte called out. She stood and stepped toward the door.
“Quiet.” Petalas pressed a firm hand against her chest. “Sit down.”
After she did, he and his aide joined Atakan in the passageway, closing the door behind them.
She began to pace. The walls were bare, except for the security camera wedged into the corner of the ceiling. They’d monitor the interrogation from a remote location. They’d probably video or at least tape record her answers. American detectives would. The lack of windows or clocks she assumed was to skew the suspect’s sense of time. She was onto their disorienting little tricks. They forgot to take her watch. She checked the time and then continued pacing the boundaries of the box shaped room.
The room smelled of ammonia. Sharp, strong chemical odors irritated her sinuses. She’d wind up with a sore throat if subjected to them over an extended period. Her nose began to run as she walked in circles. No tissue was handy and she resorted to dabbing at her nose with the shirttail of her blouse.
Five minutes passed. She spent them trying to put her thoughts in order and make some semblance of logic out of the situation. They were obviously going to try and connect her to Ekrem’s death. She had nothing to worry about there. She was in the wrong place at the wrong time. What else was there? Anything they accused her of was circumstantial...circumstantial in America, she reminded herself. As Atakan said earlier, “this isn’t the States.”
How could she get word to her family? At least, they’d get the ambassador involved, if he’d agree to help. But considering the seriousness of the charges, what could he do? She didn’t even know what the Greek criminal procedures were. How much evidence did they need to file a case against her? Whatever they had was way too flimsy to get filed in the States.
Worse case scenario, it gets filed. What was their version of due process, right to speedy trial, innocent until proven guilty? American prisons were horribly violent places. She didn’t think foreign prisons were less so. If convicted she might get life in prison. Life. Better dead.
She sat and buried her head in her hands. Even if she wasn’t convicted, she faced professional ruin. Automatic termination from the team was a given. She’d be blackballed within the small archaeological community, her reputation permanently tainted. Somebody would always believe her guilty, always.
Never truly trusted, no project would risk placing her on a team. Without field experience her thesis, her credibility, her doctorate were jeopardized. If she did manage to obtain her doctorate, the disgrace of arrest, let alone a trial, would keep the better universities from allowing her to teach.
She checked her watch. They’d been gone ten minutes now.
What evidence could they have? Maybe she’d be okay. The only possible negative was seeing Tischenko at the airport. They had no idea about that one incident. They couldn’t.
They couldn’t.
Hateful to me as the gates of Hades is that man who hides one thing in his heart and speaks another.
The Iliad
Chapter Thirty
At fifteen minutes, Atakan came into the interrogation room alone carrying a folder.
“Did you talk to Petalas? What’s going on?”
Atakan set the folder on the table without answering and sat opposite Charlotte.
“Atakan? Talk to me.”
Opening the file, he withdrew several black and white photos and tossed them across the table in front of her.
“Want to explain these?”
Without looking, she knew what the pictures were. Atakan stared at her with cold, emotionless eyes. How he must hate her at this moment. Somewhere onboard the Greeks also watched her with equal contempt. She took a deep breath and laid the photos out in a row. One-by-one, she went through the incriminating proof of contact with Tischenko.
The series of still shots showed him inside the Santorini Airport alone. The camera tracked him as he approached and spoke to her and then yanked her bag from the carousel. Their brief verbal exchange following his courteous assist looked friendly, which it was. More shots showed smiles from both of them and another quick exchange before they separated. The truth was simple and innocent and not nearly as persuasive as the pictures were of guilty association.
She couldn’t blame Atakan for being angry and disgusted. From his point of view, he must think she played him for a fool. It was a stupid, small lie, a matter of self-protection. If anyone was the fool, she was. Lying had never worked out well for her. She screwed herself royally with this one. How could she possibly recover Atakan’s trust, let alone convince the Greeks the encounter was innocent?
Golden Chariot Page 12
