rudely interrupted.
The alarm sounded and the lights went out. He momentarily lost sight of the thief. But Aristo’s eyes adjusted quickly to the gloom and with a stroke of luck he saw the thief disappear down a secret passage.
The thief certainly knew his way around the palace. His intimate knowledge of the secret passages seemed to match Aristo’s. Aristo’s lead over the other pursuers was considerable. He had to get to the thief before the thief reached the colonnaded hall and disappeared into the ether. Aristo had to retrieve the icon before it was spirited out. They had to know whether it was the real one.
The Topkapi was neutral territory for both the Order of Vlachernae and the Ruinands and any unusual powers had no effect here whatsoever. Manual combat would have to be the order of the day. Aristo went down a shortcut hoping to intercept the thief. But he reached a dead end, which strangely was not supposed to be there.
The icon was smuggled out through secret passages under the palace known only to the Order of Vlachernae. Aristo was surprised that the thief was privy to those secret passages too. Now there was no doubt that there was a traitor inside the Order, and that Aristo had been beaten by that traitor.
The traitor’s stamp was all over the theft. The thief had been thoroughly briefed. The whole act had been planned meticulously, its execution a masterclass in merciless precision.
The Ducesa could feel shaking, as if it was an earth-quake. She panicked. It was not a good sign, especially after what happened only a few minutes ago. She was shocked. How could someone fool her like that, her, the master of her craft, the undeniable pinnacle of female power, beauty, charm, craftiness and deviousness?
She then realised that there was no tremor. It was her phone that was set on vibrating alert. She rummaged through her bag and found it. She saw the caller’s identity. Elli. A violent shudder ran the entire length of her body and clogged her brain with no way out, almost giving her a stroke.
‘Hello.’
She was frightfully posh and normally flaunted it. But not now, not to this person. Her arrogance deserted her. Her tone was one of submission to a power greater than hers.
‘I hear you have failed me.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘Sorry’s not good enough. I only asked you to do one simple thing; bid to drive up the price to see who’s desperate enough for that item and you could not even do that. I said I wouldn’t mind if you ended up with the icon yourself. That’s the occupational hazard of taking part in a bid with specific instructions like that. You were going really well and then you suddenly stopped. Why? Did you get distracted somehow? And as if that was not enough, you suddenly sprang back to life with a killer bid.
‘Haven’t I taught you about the virtue of patience? An auction is like poker in some respects. You need to keep your cool and your nerve and an inscrutable face and keep others guessing about your true intentions and interest, whether genuine or not. You have to learn when appropriate to control this obsession of yours to win at all costs.’ Elli paused. ‘But never mind. It’s done now. Just get out of there.’
‘But my cover has not been blown.’
‘No, but it may not be safe.
‘You know who did it, don’t you?’
‘I have my suspicions.’
‘Was it someone on your orders? Covering both eventualities, aren’t you?’
‘No. I have to go. We will talk soon.’
‘You never cease to amaze me, Elli.’ But Elli had already hung up.
CHAPTER 32
Present day
The unfortunate journalist’s actions had unintended consequences. The extraordinary story he created from the titbits of information that he gathered at the auction inspired all sorts of conspiracy theories.
Bodies purporting to be those of the last Emperor began to crop up everywhere. The media went into a frenzy. Archaeologists in digs everywhere, attempting to outdo each other, made outrageous claims to grasp the limelight, their fifteen minutes of fame.
Bodies were found from Cappadocia and Athens to Trapezounta or Trabson in Northern Asia Minor (modern- day Turkey) and Macedonia (Northern Greece). And the number kept rising.
Which was the real body of the last Emperor? Which was the genuine article? Was it all part of an elaborate hoax or a deliberate attempt to hide the truth? And if it was a hoax, who had it been perpetrated by? Was it by the Greeks, the Ottomans or someone else?
The obscure journalist followed up the story with a series of articles, commissioned by his paper, that became a wildly successful, albeit short-lived and without-legs, franchise and certainly a temporary and rare godsend for the selling of newspapers as the story was picked up by more and more papers, and then reached the nationals.
Other journalists claimed of observations or accidental overhearing of conversations at the Topkapi auction. This clouded even further the already murky and severely stirred waters of not only the archaeological world, but also the wider world beyond it, as all this hype travelled around the globe at lightning speed. Only someone living in a cave, cut out from the big mean world outside, would not have been aware of these stories.
The reports went that there were sinister forces at hand and strange events afoot ready to strike at the stroke of every hour of every day from hereon. Some weird names and stories were dropped in the big pan on the fire and mixed, and craftily and ruthlessly spiked and generously seasoned; “Vlachernae”, “Ruinand”, a cube, body parts, icons, talking statues, powerful artefacts, an irresistible combination. That’s why for a while the story played to the gallery of emotions hovering above with bated breath, to people’s escapism, curiosity and love for the belief in the unreal, the extraordinary and the magical.
The various publications, blogs, websites and television channels were on fire, too hot to touch. The rumour-mill became accustomed to its new clothes and grew into a publicity blitz. The downside was that all this speculation and fabrication threw a spanner in the works and ground the clogs of serious archaeological endeavour to a halt.
Then, as if having gone perilously close to the sun in courting glory and with nothing to show for it, apart from selling lots of papers, with no proof accompanying it on its journey, oiling its wheels, providing the tasty dressing for the secret recipe of lasting success, if anything could be that, the story died a premature death, or had simply run its course, its light extinguished on the steps of the demand for the next big thing. Pity the story’s lack of lasting appeal did not allow journalists to get lucrative book deals, although some were noticed for their fiction writing abilities.
The matter became a joke, the discoveries considered bogus claims. Gradually, even the media lost interest and it became yesterday’s news. Only the conspiracy theorists were left obsessed with seeing clues where none existed.
CHAPTER 33
Sydney, Australia
Present day
Dawn was breaking over the harbour and the buzz of activity was heating up. The CBD (Central Business District) never slept, its army following developments in world markets around the clock.
It was here that the Fanari Tower stood, almost on the water’s edge, hungry to lick the waves, dying to dive in and conquer the world, as hungry as the company it housed, as ravenous as its captain and his ambition. The Tower was the headquarters of the billionaire Andrew Le Charos’ flagship company, Fanari Enterprises Limited.
