Crescent Dawn

Pitt lay prone on the bubble, spreading his arms wide for support. Beneath him, he could see Giordino looking up at him with a relieved smile, then motioning to inquire if he was okay. Pitt pressed his thumb and forefinger together and held it against the acrylic, then pointed toward the center of the cove. Giordino nodded in reply, then gestured for him to hang on.

Hugging the acrylic with his arms and legs, Pitt held tight as the submersible began moving forward. Giordino eased the thrusters ahead slowly until they were creeping along at just a few knots. Pitt felt like he was waterskiing on his belly. The small waves sloshed around his face, and he had to strain his neck skyward every few seconds to grab a breath of fresh air. When the dock lights receded to a safe distance, Pitt rapped his knuckles as hard as he could on the acrylic. The forward movement halted immediately, and a few seconds later the submersible rose fully to the surface amid a small surge of bubbles.

Pitt slid off the acrylic nose and onto the Bullet ’s frame, then stepped to the rear hatch. He hesitated a moment, turning a last gaze toward shore. In the distance, he could just make out the workboat alongside the pier, sinking heavily by its bow. Nearby, some men in a Zodiac were trying to run a line from the pier to the yacht before it drifted aground. With some measure of relief, Pitt could see that hunting for the submersible appeared low on the shore crew’s priorities. The hatch then popped open beside him, and Giordino welcomed him inside.

“Thanks for coming back to get me,” Pitt said with a sideways grin.

“King Al leaves no man behind,” Giordino puffed. “I trust you kept our shore hosts duly occupied?”

“Put a nasty scratch in their yacht, which should keep them out of commission for the moment,” he replied. “Nevertheless, since you have already retrieved the good Dr. Zeibig I see no point in loitering.”

He followed Giordino to the pilot seats, where they quickly submerged the vessel. Silently, they crept out of the cove at a safe depth, ascending again once they were a half mile offshore. Giordino reconfigured the Bullet for surface running, and to Zeibig’s astonishment they were soon charging across the black sea at better than thirty knots.

A quick radio call to the Aegean Explorer confirmed that she was standing off the southeast tip of Gokceada. Thirty minutes later, the lights of the research vessel came into clear view upon the horizon. As they drew closer, Pitt and Giordino saw that a second, larger vessel was positioned on the opposite side of the Explorer . Giordino slowly eased back the Bullet ’s throttles as it approached, guiding it alongside the starboard flank of the NUMA ship and an overhanging crane. Pitt recognized the second vessel as a Turkish Coast Guard frigate, which held station a short distance off the Explorer ’s port beam.

“Looks like the cavalry has finally arrived,” Pitt said.

“I’ll gladly point the way to the guys in the black hats,” Zeibig replied.

A pair of divers appeared in a Zodiac and attached a lift cable to the Bullet , then the sleek submersible was hoisted aboard. Rudi Gunn stood on the stern deck and helped secure the sub before stepping to the rear hatch. His downturned face brightened when he saw Zeibig climb out ahead of Pitt and Giordino.

“Rod, are you all right?” he asked, helping the archaeologist step to the deck.

“Yes, thanks to Dirk and Al. I could use a bit of help in losing these, however,” he added, holding up his handcuffed wrists.

“The shipboard machine shop should be able to manage that,” Gunn replied.

“Al’s got the location of the yacht and its crew,” Pitt said. “A little base of operations up the coast. We can pass the coordinates to the Turkish Coast Guard or run up there with them in the Explorer .”

“I’m afraid that’s not in the cards,” Gunn replied, shaking his head. “We’ve been ordered to proceed to Canakkale, a port town on the Dardanelles, as soon as we got you safely aboard.”

He motioned toward the Turkish frigate, which had inched closer when the submersible appeared. Pitt gazed over and noticed for the first time that a row of armed sailors lined the frigate’s rail, their weapons pointed at the NUMA research ship.

“What’s with the threatening posture?” he asked. “We’ve had two crewmen murdered and another kidnapped. Didn’t you radio the Coast Guard earlier?”

“I did,” Gunn replied testily. “But that’s not why they’re here. It seems somebody else called them first.”

“Then why the show of arms?”

“Because,” Gunn said, his eyes red with anger, “we are under arrest for looting a submerged cultural resource.”

41

Dusk had arrived in the Eastern Mediterranean, casting a pale rosy tint to the sky as the Ottoman Star broached the entrance to the Port of Beirut, just north of the Lebanese capital. The old frigate had made a swift voyage from the Aegean, reaching the port city in less than forty-eight hours. Circling past a modern new containership terminal, the freighter turned west through the port complex, steaming in slowly to dock at an older general-cargo quay.

Despite the late hour, many of the local dockworkers stopped and stared as the freighter was berthed, smiling at the odd spectacle on her deck. Carefully wedged beside the forward hatch and resting on a hastily constructed wooden cradle sat the damaged Italian yacht. A pair of workmen in coveralls was busy cutting and patching the large gash in its hull inflicted by the now sunken workboat.

Maria sat quietly on one side of the ship’s bridge, silently watching the captain deal with the small parade of port, customs, and trade representatives who filed aboard in search of paperwork and money. Only when the local textile distributor complained about his short shipment did she intervene.

“We were forced to accelerate our departure,” she said bluntly. “You’ll receive the difference with the next shipment.”

The browbeaten distributor nodded, then left quietly, not wishing to tangle with the fiery woman who owned the ship.

The dockyard cranes were quickly engaged, and soon metal containers filled with Turkish textiles and produce were being rapidly unloaded from the ship. Maria stuck to her perch on the bridge, watching the work with disinterested eyes. Only when she spotted a dilapidated Toyota truck pull up and park alongside the gangway did she sit upright and stiffen. She turned to one of the Janissary guards that her brother had sent to accompany her on the voyage.

“A man I am to meet has just pulled up on the dock. Please search him carefully, then escort him to my cabin,” she ordered.

The Janissary nodded, then stepped briskly off the bridge. He was mildly surprised to find the driver of the truck was an Arab attired in scruffy peasant clothes and wearing a ragged keffiyeh wrapped around his head. His dark eyes glared with intensity, however, deflecting attention from the long scar on the right side of his jaw, which he had acquired in a knife fight while a teen. The guard duly searched him, then showed him aboard, escorting him to Maria’s large and stylishly appointed cabin.

The Turkish woman sized him up quickly as she offered him a seat, then dismissed the Janissary from her cabin.

“Thank you for coming here to meet me, Zakkar. If that is indeed your name,” she added.

The Arab smiled thinly. “You may call me Zakkar. Or any other name, if it so pleases you.”

“Your talents have come highly recommended.”

“Perhaps that is why so few can afford me,” he replied, removing the dirty keffiyeh and tossing it onto an adjacent chair. Seeing that his hair was trimmed in a neat Western cut, Maria realized that the grubby outfit was simply a disguise. Given a shave and a suit, he could easily pass as a successful businessman, she thought, not knowing that he often did.

“You have the initial payment?” he asked.