Clive Cussler - Crescent Dawn

“Do not antagonize yourself over the failings of men long dead,” she said.

“The land was still ours when Suleiman ruled. It was the great Atatürk who sacrificed our empire,” he said in a sarcastic tone.

Maria ignored the comment, having heard her brother rail against the founder of modern-day Turkey many times before. Celik turned to his sister, his eyes ablaze with intensity. “Our heritage cannot be forgotten nor our rightful destiny denied.”

Maria nodded quietly. “The Sheikh’s wire transfer has cleared,” she said, holding up a bank transmittal.

“Twenty million euros?” he asked.

“Yes. How much did you promise the Mufti?”

“I told him to expect twelve million, so let’s give him fourteen, and we’ll keep the remainder as before.”

“Why so generous?” she asked.

“It’s important to maintain his trust. Plus, it will allow me greater influence as to where the money is spent.”

“I assume you have a strategy for that?”

“Of course. Attorneys and judicial bribes will absorb a large portion, to ensure that the Felicity Party, with Mufti Battal atop the ticket, appears on the ballot come Election Day. The remaining funds will be used for traditional political expenses; organized rallies, promotion and advertising, and additional fund-raising.”

“His coffers must be filling fast, given the squeeze he’s putting on his mosques, not to mention his general rising popularity.”

“All of which we can take credit for,” Celik replied smugly.

It had taken Celik several years to find and cultivate the right Islamic leader to front his goals. Mufti Battal had just the right mix of ego and charisma to lead the movement while still being malleable to Celik’s designs. Under Celik’s carefully choreographed campaign of bribes and threats, Battal had consolidated pockets of fundamentalist Islamic support throughout Turkey and gradually built it into a national movement. Working behind the scenes, Celik was about to turn the religious movement into a political one. Smart enough to realize his own aspirations would meet public resistance in some quarters, he hitched his wagon to the populist Mufti.

“It appears from the media reports that public outrage is still high over the Topkapi theft,” Maria said. “It is being viewed as a very visible affront to the Muslim faithful. I would be surprised if it didn’t raise the Mufti’s popularity a percentage point or two.”

“Exactly the intent,” Celik replied. “I must ensure that he releases a public statement strongly condemning the heinous thieves,” he added with a wry smile.

He stepped over to the desk, noting an array of coins in a felt box beside a stack of research journals and a nautical chart. They were the objects stolen from Dr. Ruppé, taken by Maria when she ransacked the archaeologist’s office while visiting the museum dressed as a tourist.

“A bit risky, returning to the scene of the crime?” he asked.

“It wasn’t exactly the Topkapi Privy Chamber,” she replied. “I thought there was an outside chance our second bag of Muhammad relics might have ended up there, until I heard otherwise from the police. It was a quick and easy job to access his office.”

“Anything of interest beyond the coins?” he asked, admiring one of the gold pieces he pulled from the container.

“An Iznik ceramic box. There’s a note by the archaeologist that says it dates to the Age of Suleiman, along with the coins. They apparently all came from the shipwreck discovered by the American.”

Celik’s brow rose in interest. “So it is a Suleiman shipwreck? I wish to know more.”

There was a knock on the office door, which opened a second later to reveal a large man in a dark suit. He had a light complexion and gray, hardened eyes that had clearly witnessed the darker side of life.

“Your visitors have arrived,” he said in a coarse voice.

“Show them in,” Celik ordered, “and return with another Janissary.”

The term Janissary dated back many centuries and referred to the personal guards and elite troops of the Ottoman sultans. In an odd twist of loyalty, the original Janissaries who served the Islamic palace typically were not Muslim themselves but Christians from the Balkans area. Conscripted as young boys, they were schooled and groomed as servants, bodyguards, and even Army commanders in service to the Sultan’s empire.

In a similar fashion, Celik’s Janissaries were Christian recruits from Serbia and Croatia, mostly former military commandos. In Celik’s case, however, they were hired strictly as bodyguards and mercenaries.

The Janissary disappeared for a moment, then returned with a companion, who escorted three men into the room. They were the assassins who had chased Pitt and Loren up the Bosphorus. They shuffled in with a noticeable hint of apprehension, all avoiding direct eye contact with Celik.

“Did you eliminate the intruders?” Celik asked without greeting.

The tallest of the three, who had worn the mirrored sunglasses, spoke for the group.

“The man named Pitt and his wife apparently detected our presence and fled on a ferryboat to Sariyer. We established contact with them, but they escaped.”

“So you failed,” Celik said, letting the words hang in the air like an executioner’s sword. “Where are they now, Farzad?”

The man shook his head. “They checked out of their hotel. We don’t know if they are still in the city.”

“The police?” he asked, turning to Maria.

She shook her head. “Nothing has been reported.”

“This man Pitt. He must be lucky, if not resourceful.”

Celik walked over to the desk and picked up the gold coin from Ruppé’s office.

“He will no doubt return to his shipwreck. An Ottoman shipwreck,” he added with emphasis. He walked close to Farzad and looked him in the eye. “You have failed once. I will not tolerate a second failure.”

He stepped back and addressed all three men. “You will be paid in full for your work. You can collect your wages on the way out. Each of you is to remain underground until called for the next project. Is that clear?”

All three men nodded quietly. One of the Janissaries opened the door, and the men made a quick retreat for the exit.

“Wait,” Celik’s voice suddenly boomed. “Atwar, another word with you. The others may go.”

The man who had worn the blue shirt stood where he was while Farzad and the Persian left the room. The first Janissary stayed in the room, closing the door then moving behind Atwar. Celik stepped close to the Iraqi.

“Atwar, you let this man Pitt subdue you during the Topkapi theft. As a result, we lost the Holy Mantle of the Prophet that was in our hands. Now yesterday, you let him elude you again?”

“He caught us all by surprise,” Atwar stammered, looking to Maria for support.

She said nothing as Celik pulled open a desk drawer and retrieved a three-foot-long bowstring. As with his Ottoman ancestors, it was his favored tool for execution.

“Unlike Farzad, you have failed me twice,” Celik said, nodding at the Janissary.

The guard stepped up and grabbed Atwar in a bear hug from behind, pinning the man’s arms to his side. The Iraqi tried to struggle, but the Janissary was too powerful to break the grip.

“It was her fault,” he cried, motioning his head toward Maria. “She ordered us to abduct the woman. None of this would have happened if we had let her go.”

Celik ignored the words, slowly stepping closer until he was inches from the struggling man’s face.

“You will not fail me again,” Celik whispered in his ear. Then he flung the cord around Atwar’s neck and tightened it with a lacquered wooden cylinder.