Byzantine Gold (3 page)

Chapter Five

Atakan was in surgery when Charlotte arrived at the hospital. The emergency room staff offered no information on his condition. She’d be updated by the doctors once he was in recovery.

Cell phone use wasn’t allowed in the building so she stepped outside to the hospital gardens to make her calls. She had to notify his parents fast but made one other call first, to her mother. She explained what happened, leaving out some details for the sake of expediency.

“Mom, I need a favor from Frank.”

Charlotte and her wealthy stepfather argued about almost everything from religion to politics to the environment, but he never fought her when she wanted his help. Whatever she asked for, he gave her.

“Anything,” her mother said.

“Atakan’s parents live hours from Istanbul and Ataturk Airport. I need a private jet sent to Izmir Airport to bring them here as soon as possible.”

“Not a problem. I’ll call you after the arrangements are made.”

Charlotte sat on an old fashioned wood and wrought iron bench by a bed of tulips to wait. The soft pink and cream buds had begun to blossom into fat double-leafed blooms resembling peonies. She leaned over the short garden fence and cupped a flower. She’d never seen this variety of tulip. What other types and colors had the gardeners planted? Red, yellow, and purple bell-shaped ones were favored in Istanbul.

She buttoned her coat against the breeze and walked around the other flower beds, her thoughts circling back to Tischenko. Would he try to finish the job and come after Atakan in the hospital? If they put Atakan in ICU, he’d be safe. Security was tighter there than on the floors where patients had unlimited visitors. She’d contact the detectives on his case and ask who they’d recommend as private security. She’d hire around the clock protection.

After her mother called with the information on the private jet, Charlotte made the call she dreaded, to Metin and Nuray Vadim.

Nuray sobbed and handed the phone to Atakan’s father. They’d be at Izmir in an hour and arrive in Paris three-and-a-half hours later. Charlotte hoped Atakan would be out of surgery and in recovery by then. She pushed worse possibilities from her mind.

Charlotte met Nuray and Metin months earlier. She and Atakan had spent Christmas with her two families in Chicago and then gone to visit the Vadims for the New Year’s celebration.

Metin and Nuray met her in the waiting room outside ICU. Metin kissed her on each cheek. A puffy-eyed Nuray gave her a brief hug.

Atakan had his mother’s high cheekbones and long nose. His height came from his father who was shorter than Atakan but taller than average. Charlotte never saw Nuray without the traditional head scarf. She couldn’t tell what her hair was like, but assumed Atakan inherited her hair, since his was straight and coal black. Metin’s was dark brown and wavy, although shot with gray now.

“Please thank your stepfather for the use of the plane. I will repay him, of course,” Metin said.

“He wouldn’t want that, not under the circumstances. He was happy to assist.”

“His generosity is greatly appreciated.”

“I want to see my son,” Nuray said.

“A moment.” Metin held her by the elbow. “How is he?” he asked Charlotte.

“The Admitting surgeon on duty worried the bullet nicked his clavicle causing complications from bone fragments or that it might’ve damaged the shoulder joint. Fortunately, the bullet missed the clavicle and scapula. There’s a great deal of torn muscle tissue in the area and some moderate injury to the nerves under the joint. The surgeon said the nerves will regenerate, but recovery will take time. Atakan lost a lot of blood because of damage to the large vessels around the nerves. They’re keeping him in ICU tonight and tomorrow. Then, if no complications arise, they’ll move him to a private room.”

Nuray pulled away from her husband’s hold. “I’m going to my son,” she said. She identified herself to the nurse who escorted her into the unit.

“He’s awake but groggy. They have him doped up on morphine,” Charlotte told Metin.

“I understand. I’d like to see him now.”

Nuray held Atakan’s hand against her chest and stroked his hair with her other hand. He gave her a weak smile and told her not to cry, he’d be fine.

Charlotte sat on the foot of the bed next to Metin.

Tears ran down Nuray’s cheeks as she told Atakan he’d be able to rest better at home. Atakan scooted over a few inches and patted the mattress so she’d sit by him.

“I agree with your mother. You’ll come home,” Metin said.

“Not necessary. If we need to, we’ll hire someone in Istanbul to assist us,” Atakan said.

“Bah, I know how to treat such wounds. I’ve seen many in the army. But, I’ll bring in a physical therapist. You must start strengthening your arm and shoulder quickly.”

“There are many excellent therapists in Istanbul and Charlotte can help me with the dressings at the apartment,” Atakan argued.

“Charlotte is scheduled to work a shipwreck site in a few weeks, is she not?” Nuray asked. “Who will watch over you then?”

“We’re both sa-sassigned to the site,” Atakan replied, slurring under the effects of the strong pain killer. “I don’t have to dive to do my job. I’ll continue my therapy in Cyprus.”

“This is a bad idea,” his mother said in a firm tone. “Home is the best place for you.”

Nuray took a deep breath. She stood and turned. Stern eyes locked on Charlotte. Folding her hands in front of her, she took another deep breath.

Whatever came next wasn’t going to be good. Charlotte never went to parochial school. But she’d heard from those who had this was the posture the nuns took before someone got their knuckles rapped with a ruler.

“You seem a decent young woman, well bred, intelligent with a superior education. My son has always been drawn to clever women. I never approved of the two of you living together. I also understand this is not uncommon in your generation, although far more common in America than Turkey. I accepted your arrangement without complaint.”

“Mother—”

“But I thought much of your situation on the flight here. I can no longer consent to your continued living together.” Nuray ignored Atakan’s guttural groan. “I fear it may lead to marriage. This I cannot allow. Your presence in his life brings him danger. He’s my child, my only son. I wish you away from him.”

“Mother,” Atakan moaned.

“I will have my say, Atakan. Though her intentions are guiltless, this woman is bad for you. First there was that evil business in Sevastopol, where you had to rescue her,” she pointed a stiff finger toward Charlotte, “from the same man who tried to kill you today.” She aimed the same steely finger at her son.

“Sevastopol wasn’t her fault. She was absucted,” Atakan said, the morphine getting the better of his diction again.

“It does not matter. Either way, she was there both times. She’s the root of the problem.”

“Poppa,” Atakan turned to his father with pleading eyes.

“Nuray—” Metin moved next to Nuray and motioned for his wife to step into the corridor.

Stung by the attack, Charlotte sat mute. She didn’t know what to say in her defense.

The summer before, Atakan had led a team on a high risk assault on Tischenko’s Ukrainian compound to save Charlotte. Tischenko escaped through an underground passage, but all his men were killed in the confrontation. When she and Atakan visited his parents, Nuray never mentioned the rescue operation.

She acted genuinely happy for Charlotte and Atakan. She and Nuray spent a wonderful day together. They’d strolled through Nuray’s thriving orchards for awhile and afterward went to lunch. Nuray brought out family albums with photos of Atakan growing up. Charlotte’s favorite was Atakan at three curled up sleeping in the dog’s bed with the family’s big Shepherd. In another cute one, he was six riding on a neighbor’s donkey. He’d lost some baby teeth and gave the camera a picket-fence smile.

“Metin took these. He never missed one of Atti’s games whenever he was stationed near home.” She’d indicated a series of a skinny Atakan playing soccer at different ages. “Such a stick of a boy, he’s grown into manhood well,” she said with pride.

Charlotte smiled at hearing the nickname. Atakan never mentioned he’d had one.

Charlotte thought Nuray liked her. It made the sting of the accusation that much worse.

“Nuray—” Metin put his arm around his wife and motioned toward the door again.

Nuray’s eyes stayed locked on Charlotte for another long moment before she moved away from the hospital bed and left the room.

“Charlotte, ignore her. She’s upset and speaking nonsense,” Atakan said.

“She’s speaking from her heart.”

“Hand me a glass of water, please. I’m dying of thirst.”

Charlotte got up and poured him a glass, inserting a straw into the lid before handing it to him.

Atakan took a long swallow. “I’m good.” He gave the glass back to her and grasped her wrist as she turned to step away. “Sit.”

Charlotte sat in the same spot his mother had.

“We’ve never spoken of marriage. My lack of interest in the tradition is not a reflection of my feelings for you.”

“I didn’t bring up marriage. Your mother did.”

“Are you unhappy...” His eyelids started to droop. He blinked, but they began to droop again.

Charlotte stood to leave and let him sleep.

“Don’t go,” he said, patting the mattress.

“You’re falling asleep.”

“I’m fine.”

“Uh-huh, I see the morphine hasn’t dulled that stubborn streak.”

“Charlotte, are you unhappy with our living arrangement?”

“No, I love our life.”

“Good. I’m happy too.”

“But your mother is right about going home to heal. It would please your parents, and your father said he knows how to treat your wound. I don’t have any experience in that arena.”

“The doctors here will show you.”

“Go home.”

“Only if you come with me.”

“Are you nuts? Weren’t you listening? Your mother hates me.”

“Her emotions will settle. She’ll get to know you better and change how she feels.”

“No, they won’t. My being under foot twenty-four-seven only exacerbates her feelings.”

“Eggs in a basket—funny English word.”

“The drugs are making you silly.”

“Perhaps. Slide closer.”

Careful not to disturb the IV pole, Charlotte moved.

“How my mother feels about you doesn’t matter to me. She doesn’t rule my life.”

“I won’t go.”

“Fine, then we’ll stay in Istanbul until the wreck project starts.”

“You really think the Ministry will let you work a site in your condition?”

“I’m not an invalid. If a problem arises that I need help with, I’ll request someone from my unit to assist—probably Iskender.”

“All right, but I don’t want to be in the room when you tell your parents you’re not going home.”

“One thing will have to change when we get back to my...our place.” Atakan slid his hand over her blouse and gave her breast a light squeeze, “At least for a little while.” His sleepy eyes glittered with sexual innuendo for a split second.

“Yeah, you’ll have to play my stallion while I’ll ride you like an unbroken thoroughbred,” she said, reading the intent in his eyes. “At least until you work out your shoulder kinks.”

He pulled her down for a gentle kiss. “I’m sorry I didn’t believe you at the basilica this morning,” he said, breaking off the kiss but still caressing her breast.

“I’ll save the ‘I told you so’ for a better time.”

His parents returned. Charlotte subtly pushed his hand away, rose, and left the room.

Metin gave her a tight-lipped smile as she passed him.

Nuray kept her eyes on Atakan.

Chapter Six

Qandil Mountains, Iraq

“Look at this.” Darav Binici laid the front page of the Hurriyet newspaper down on the table.

“What is it, another article on how the government should deal with us?” Omar asked not looking up from his texting.

Turkey, the EU, and the CIA had labeled them a terrorist organization. Articles in European and Turkish papers appeared regularly offering different opinions on how to handle the PKK. Kurds and Kurdish groups spoke out with strong opinions too: some sympathetic to their methods, some condemning. Darav was aware of the critical rumblings from even other members of the PKK, the less militant, more political wing. More and more, they were turning against men like Darav, men who led the most dedicated of followers. Little by little they’d begun to disavow men and women who lived harsh lives in the Qandil Mountains for the cause. He had no use for such soft-bellied types.

Darav tapped the picture in the paper.

His friend and PKK compatriot, Omar, stopped texting. He dragged the kerosene lamp over to examine the picture in better light. Both men sat hunched in military field jackets. A biting wind whipped against the tent’s walls. The tent was old and offered scant protection from the brutal climate. Wind and snow seeped in through the entry flaps and under the bottom of the canvas sides. The comfort of warmth was impossible to obtain. The valley below showed signs of spring but not the barren mountain flanks where they camped. Patches of deep snow from the peaks to their location still covered the ground.

The numerous caves that dotted the slopes were large enough to accommodate many guerillas and fires could be built inside. Darav refused to use them and insisted on the tents. He and his group of fighters had holed up in caves two years earlier. Turkish jets struck in the night, bombing their hideout. The cave where he slept collapsed, burying him alive for hours.  Terrified, he wet himself and cried like a child as he lay under the rubble. After they dug him out, he vowed to never sleep or operate out of a cave again.

“What am I looking at exactly? I see it’s some kind of survey photo of a shipwreck, but how does this concern me?” Omar asked.

“Read the caption below.”

“’The Byzantine shipwreck found off Cyprus is believed to contain a rich cargo of gold artifacts.’ So?”

“So?” Darav repeated, impatient with Omar’s inability to make the connection. “Does your stomach not growl every night when you go to bed? We survive on lentil soup and the meager vegetables local villagers can spare. Sad, half-rotted beans or cucumbers, or an eggplant on occasion is not enough for our camp.

“My boots are torn. Only tape keeps them on my feet. Ammunition is low and the commander at Zap denies my pleas for more, complaining their supplies are too low to help us.”

“Darav, you tell me what I already know. Explain what I don’t understand. What has this wreck to do with our troubles?”

“It is the answer to them.” Darav pulled the plastic chair close to his friend. He rested his arms on the table and leaned forward, smiling. “We steal the relics and sell them on the black market. Our people keep the money. We don’t need to rely on supplies from Zap or Hakurk or anyone else.”

“They will demand we share.”

“Not if we don’t tell them. We conduct the operation in secret. A small company of us attack the site after a sufficient amount of the artifacts have been excavated.”

Omar looked unconvinced. Not surprising to Darav. Omar lacked vision and spontaneity. He was an excellent fighter, good with bombs. He’d served with the PKK longer than Darav, but his poverty of imagination kept him from reaching a higher station. He resented Darav’s natural leadership abilities and rapid rise to become the commander of their group.

“How do you plan to accomplish this attack?” Omar asked. “I doubt the team working the site is without some manner of security. The Ministry of Culture will have a representative there. One call from him and the Turkish military stationed in Northern Cyprus responds. If by some miracle we survive a shoot out with them, afterward we must have a safe escape route. It’s not the same as our incursions into Turkey. We clash with them there knowing we can retreat to our camp here.”