“I’m afraid I don’t recognize it.”
Gutzman smiled in minor triumph. “It is the bronze ram from an imperial galley ship. Based on its size, it likely came from a Liburnian
“Yes, I see it now. The business end has been flattened by contact. Where on earth did you find this?”
“It was lodged in the hull of another vessel, a fourth-century Cypriot raider, if the story is to be believed. The damaged vessel ran aground and sank in a protected area of soft silt. A number of the artifacts were remarkably preserved. It wasn’t long before the wreck was picked over by local divers, well before the state archaeologists arrived on the scene. A wealthy collector snatched up most of the items before the authorities knew what had been removed.”
“Let me guess who the wealthy collector was,” Bannister said with a smirk.
Gutzman let out a gurgled laugh. “A fortunate tip that came my way, in this particular instance,” he said, grinning.
“They are extremely nice pieces, Oscar. But why are you showing them to me?”
“I purchased these artifacts many years ago. And for many years, I have thought about the rumor of the Manifest. Is it true? Could the cargo possibly exist? Then, one night, I had a dream. I dreamt that I was holding the Manifest in my hands, much like I held your copy today. And, in my mind, I see Roman weapons and artifacts around me. But not just any artifacts. I see these artifacts,” he said, pointing to the pictures.
“We often dream the reality we seek,” Bannister said. “You really think there is a connection between the Manifest and these Roman relics? Couldn’t they have come from any sea engagement?”
“Not just any sea engagement would involve the
“Does the vessel itself date to the proper era?”
Gutzman smiled again. “The vessel, as well as the armaments and artifacts, all consistently date to approximately 330 A.D. Then there is this,” he said, pointing to a weathered Roman shield in one of the photographs.
Bannister had missed it in his first viewing, but now noticed the shield beside the spear tips, featuring a faded Chi-Rho cross across its center.
“The cross of Constantine,” Bannister muttered.
“Not only that but the papyrus from Caesarea adds weight to the theory,” Gutzman said. “The dream is real, Ridley. If your Manifest is true, then I have already heard the voice of Helena through my own artifacts.”
Bannister’s eyes lit up with intrigue at the possibility of it all.
“Tell me, Oscar,” he asked pointedly, “where was the shipwreck discovered?”
“The vessel was found near the village of Pissouri, on the southern coast of Cyprus. Perhaps it is not impossible that the actual cargo of the Manifest is buried in the vicinity?” he speculated with raised brows. “Now,
“Indeed,” the archaeologist said, the wheels turning in his head. “It would be a discovery for the ages.”
“But, alas, we are jumping the gun. I must examine the Manifest first and see if it is indeed authentic. You tell your London friend I’m willing to pay a hundred thousand pounds for it. But I will require the carbon dating and a personal examination first,” he said, rising to his feet.
“A hundred thousand pounds?” Bannister replied, his voice the one now rasping.
“Yes, and not a penny more.”
The old collector patted Bannister on the shoulder. “Thank you for coming to me first, Ridley. I believe that we are on the path to glorious things here.”
Bannister could only nod in disappointment as he walked to the door. After he was safely down the elevator, Gutzman walked back to the living area and approached Alfar.
“You listened to our conversation?” the Fat Man asked.
“Yes, Mr. Oscar. Every word,” the Arab replied in a course accent. “But I do not understand why you do not buy this Manifest.”
“Very simple, Alfar. I am quite certain that it is Bannister who possesses the Manifest, not some London broker. He is trying to bilk me mightily for it and he yet might succeed.”
“Then why tell him about your Roman artifacts?”
“To plant the seed. You see, he has a gift for discovery. He now leaves here disillusioned about selling the Manifest but also bewildered, as am I, about the possibility that the artifacts actually exist. I am certain that his ego will drive him there immediately. It may be a fool’s gamble, but why not try? Bannister is resourceful and lucky. If it can be found, then he is the man to do it. So why not let him find it for us?”
“You are a smart man, Mr. Oscar. But how will you control Bannister?”
“I want you to contact Zakkar. Tell him I have a simple surveillance job for him, one that will pay very well.”
“He left word that he does not want to set foot in Israel for several months, if possible.”
“Feeling the heat, is he?” Gutzman said with a chuckle. “No matter. You tell him not to worry, the job won’t be in Israel. It’s Cyprus where he’ll have to earn his pay.”
55
Hammet winced under the glare of the bright fluorescent lights that welcomed his first efforts at opening his eyes. The discomfort was nothing in comparison to the searing pain that throbbed from the back of his head. Forcing his lids open once more, he fought to identify where he was. The first answer was: Flat on his back, staring into a bank of overhead lights.
“Captain, how are you feeling?” came the familiar voice of the
“Like I was leveled by a locomotive,” Hammet replied, raising his head to take in his surroundings.
As his vision cleared, he could see he was lying on a dining table in the ship’s mess, a stack of linen napkins serving as a makeshift pillow beneath his head. Members of his crew circled around him, concern and fear evident in their faces. Suddenly feeling self-conscious at his position, he raised himself to his elbows and slid off the table, the executive officer helping him slump into a chair. Overcoming a wave of nausea, he peered at the exec and nodded in thanks.
For the first time, he noticed that the executive officer wore a bloodied bandage around his head and that his skin was two shades paler than normal.
“I feared you were dead,” Hammet said.
“Lost a bit of blood, but I’ll manage. You had us more worried, as you slept the night away.”
The tanker captain gazed toward a nearby porthole, seeing the rays of the early-morning sun streaming in. He suddenly realized that the ship’s engine was silent and that the ship was obviously moored in place. A few feet along the bulkhead, he was startled to see a pair of black-clad men sitting on either side of the entry door. They cradled automatic rifles on their laps while staring back at him with menacing glares.
“How’d they get aboard?” Hammet asked quietly.
“Not sure,” the exec replied. “Must have been by small boat from that freighter. A group of armed men burst onto the bridge before we knew what was happening.”
“Did you get off a distress call?”
The exec shook his head grimly. “No time.”
Hammet took a headcount of his crew seated around him, noticing his third officer was absent.
“Where’s Cook?”
“He was taken to the bridge early on. My guess is, they had him piloting the ship.”
A short time later, the door to the mess was thrown open, and the third officer brusquely shoved inside by another gunman. Sporting a large bruise on his cheek, the young officer stepped to the table and approached Hammet.
