Byzantine Gold (5 page)

“Not without you.” She tugged on his shirt, pulling him toward their building. “Atakan please, let’s leave. Call the Director.”

Atakan shoved her behind him. Silent, his eyes searched the dark doorways of neighboring apartment buildings and parked cars.

“Atakan please.”

“Get inside.”

She stepped in front of him again. “We stay here together or we leave together.”

An eternity of seconds passed. Neither moved or blinked.

They both jumped and turned at the bellow from the horn of a passing truck. Thankfully, the driver was waving to another coming the opposite direction. He never saw the man in the sling pointing a gun at him.

“Please,” she repeated.

Atakan nodded. He stopped at the building’s entry door and took a last look, surveying the street. “He moves us around like pawns in a private game.”

A thin haze of smoke hung in the hall of their floor, fed by more flowing out the door of their apartment.

“Shit, our dinner.” Charlotte hurried inside.

The acrid odor from the ruined dish filled the kitchen. She flapped her hand at the thick cloud of smoke and quickly removed the skillet from the stove.

Behind her, Atakan had stopped to open the French doors to the patio and then opened the window in the kitchen wider.

“I’ll take care of things in here. You call the Director,” she said, whipping the air with a dish towel.

Between the open kitchen window and the French doors, most of the smoke dissipated rapidly. She gathered the bouquet. Atakan was right. They were forced players in Tischenko’s twisted game. She ripped the blooms from the stems and threw the flowers in the trash. She dumped the burned vegetables on top of them. Blackened butter fused vegetables and rice to the bottom of the pan. She scraped at the stuck pieces with a spatula but it was a lost cause. Once it cooled, she’d have to ditch the ruined skillet too.

She brought out more onions and tomatoes and salvaged what she could from the remaining half of Atakan’s mangled eggplant. She listened to his end of the conversation as he paced between the kitchen and dining area. It did little good. After he informed the Director of the incident, his part of the call was limited to “yes” and “no.”

“What’d he say?” she asked after Atakan disconnected.

“He’ll request additional police units to patrol the area. My unit will meet with him tomorrow to discuss options.”

“Maybe the police will get lucky and find him.”

“They won’t. He’s lying low in a safe house somewhere in the city.”

Atakan took a beer from the refrigerator and set it on the counter. He scooped out a handful of ice cubes from the small freezer and dropped them into a rock glass then poured her three fingers of scotch.  Not a good sign. She liked scotch but didn’t often drink it. Import taxes made indulgence expensive. Obviously, whatever he had to tell her required stronger liquid courage than wine. With dread, she took the drink from him.

“What’s on your mind?” she asked, taking a healthy swallow.

“I stupidly reacted the way Tischenko expected, yet he didn’t shoot when he had the opportunity.”

“Yes...so?”

“He’s waiting.”

“But, for what?”

“That’s the question. What did he say to you on the phone?”

“He said the name of the flowers, then added ‘everything in time,’ and hung up.”

“I understand the message but not the bouquet.”

“When you were surgery, I sat in the hospital’s garden. The flower beds were filled with those types of tulips. I stopped to admire one. The bastard was there, watching me.”

“He watches us even now.”

Chapter Eight

Alexandria, Egypt-May

Darav gazed out of the tram enjoying the scenery. His side offered the best view of the Mediterranean. Expensive hotels and sidewalk cafes with colorful umbrellas lined the eastern harbor.

He’d seen the Mediterranean once before, in Marmaris, with Omar and Havva. They left him in a seaside café similar to the ones in Alexandria while they rigged three rubbish bins with percussion bombs. His table had a large blue umbrella advertising Dubonnet. Another, a red and black one, advertised Cinzano. It was the first time he’d seen umbrellas over tables. In his village, there was a small café attached to a fruit market. A rusted aluminum awning covered the few tables. He liked the bright umbrellas. They were cheerful.

He could read and write; most in his tiny village couldn’t. He understood the letters in Dubonnet and Cinzano but didn’t know what they meant. He asked the waiter who took a superior tone with him for mispronouncing the words. The man referred to Dubonnet as an aperitif. Darav didn’t know what that was but refused to ask the arrogant waiter. He wished the waiter worked at a café near the bomb sites. The terror attack injured twenty-one people, half of them British tourists. The waiter should’ve been among the victims.

The tram turned toward the western harbor. The next station was Ras el-Tin, his stop. Nassor Jafari, the Egyptian diver on MIAR’s project lived a few short blocks from the stop in the Al-Anfushi District. Of all the divers on the team, Jafari was the only one physically suitable for him to impersonate. 

Darav spoke broken Arabic. If stopped by any residents in Jafari’s neighborhood, they’d know he wasn’t Egyptian. Before the uprising and change of government leadership, he’d pass himself off as a wayward tourist. After the upheaval, he worried the lack of visitors to the country might affect his plans, make him more noticeable. He’d listened to BBC News on the radio and kept abreast of the news regarding Egypt. To his relief, the tourist trade had begun to slowly recover, Alexandria faster than Cairo.

As he stepped off the tram, his anxiety faded. Clusters of tourists roamed the square, mostly European from what little he knew of the foreign languages spoken. They’d come to visit the famous Anfushi Tombs and the museum at Ras el-Tin Palace. He never heard of either or why they generated interest. Obviously important to tourists, both sites were circled on a pamphlet he’d taken from an airport kiosk. He’d mingle with the throng for awhile and then break away.

Darav found the building Jafari lived in without difficulty. He opened a tourist map he bought from a vendor and walked to the immediate vicinity, occasionally checking it like he was lost. He used the presence of a parked delivery van to slip into the alley entrance of the building.

Jafari’s apartment was on the third floor. The wood around the door’s frame and lock was chewed from previous burglaries. Darav removed a mini-crowbar he’d hidden in a pocket of his cargo pants. He used the site with previous scar marks to pry the lock. A cheap mechanism, it popped with ease. The crowbar was overkill. A credit card would’ve accomplished the job. Darav cleaned up the fresh splinters on the floor, entered the apartment and relocked the door.

Darav took a plastic grocery bag from under the sink in the kitchen and began sorting through Jafari’s desk. Any documents and photos pertaining to other dives he’d participated in, Darav put in the bag. In the bottom drawer was a locked fireproof metal box. Darav picked the lock and found Jafari’s passport, Egyptian birth certificate, and two envelopes containing Euros and Egyptian Pounds. Everything in the box, he put into different pockets. The paperwork from MIAR lay in a stack on the side of the desktop. Darav stuffed the communications in the bag. A silver framed picture of Jafari and an older couple sat on the corner of the desk. Darav studied it for a moment. He didn’t bear much resemblance to the younger version of Jafari. From the team photos posted in MIAR’s online newsletter, the now, more mature Jafari, looked the most like Darav.

Once he gathered what he thought might be useful, Darav stored the bag and hid behind the door. He thought again about the waiter in Marmaris. When his people completed the raid in Cyprus and sold the artifacts, he’d use some of the cash and return to Marmaris. He’d hunt down the waiter and tape a grenade to his insolent mouth.

Shuffling footsteps came from the wooden stairs that led from the last landing. Four apartments were on Jafari’s floor. Darav drew the Ka-Bar knife from his pants pocket, opened the blade and waited. The floorboards in the hallway creaked as the person came closer. The footsteps stopped outside Jafari’s door and Darav readied as the key slid into the lock.

Jafari stepped inside, his back to Darav, and closed the door. Darav clamped his hand over Jafari’s mouth, yanking his head back simultaneously. He brought the blade down into the soft hollow of Jafari’s throat and twisted the knife, staying with him as Jafari flailed and dropped to the floor, choking on his own blood. When he felt the death shudder, Darav removed the knife.

He took a towel from the bathroom and covered the front of his clothes and then returned to the living room. An excess of caution was needed, blood on his shirt or pants would attract attention. He knelt next to the body. In person, Jafari’s face was noticeably narrower than Darav’s and he was thinner-lipped. Darav would have to grow a beard to hide the differences, he thought as he checked for tattoos and any other identifying marks but found none. 

Darav used the same towel to clean his fingerprints off the metal box, which he left open on the desk.

In Jafari’s bedroom, he used the towel as a barrier against leaving prints and pulled out dresser drawers, tossing their contents on the floor and bed. He scattered photos and mementos from the boxes on the closet shelf so it looked as though Jafari had interrupted burglars who then killed him.

Finished, Darav cracked open the front door and peeked out, checking that no one would see him leave. He stepped into the hall but stopped and went back inside. He rifled through the desk one more time and found Jafari’s address book. He’d have the desk clerk at his hotel page through it and find the address of Jafari’s parents. Darav knew their names from Jafari’s Facebook page where he’d posted a picture of the family in his profile. He’d pay the clerk to write a brief note of condolence from Refik Mahir and mail it from Turkey. Mahir was the MIAR project leader on the Byzantine shipwreck site. He’d include a line stating MIAR was informed of the tragedy by fellow archaeologists in Egypt. The false letter circumvented the possibility of Jafari’s family sending a death notification to MIAR.

The eastbound tram Darav needed to return to his hotel had three cars, one more than the earlier tram he rode. The middle and rear cars were packed. Like a fool, he didn’t question the disparity in passenger numbers and boarded the emptier first car. Reserved for women only, he was laughed out of the car by the conductor and women. He squeezed onto the rear car, clutching the plastic bag to his chest, distrusting the riders pressed against him.

He was booked on the last flight out from Cairo to Baghdad. The false Syrian passport he traveled on would clear Iraqi Immigration. From Baghdad, he’d suffer the uncomfortable three-hundred-fifty kilometer bus trip to Irbil. The route from Diyarbakir Airport was less tortuous but far more dangerous. Diyarbakir was close to his home village in the Mardin Province. In Mardin, he could move from village to village, staying in safe houses until he reached the Qandil Mountains and the Iraqi border. More than dangerous, such a plan was impossible. A flight to Diyarbakir required him to clear Turkish Immigration in either Istanbul or Ankara first. The passport wouldn’t fool the authorities. They’d run him through facial recognition and he was wanted in Turkey. They’d arrest him on sight and he’d be tried for treason. Cairo to Baghdad was his best option.

Once he arrived in Irbil, he’d contact a covert organization of sympathizers to the cause. Talented experts there would remove the biometric chip in Jafari’s passport. They’d adapt a new chip with Darav’s iris scan and fingerprint in its place.

Chapter Nine

Salamis Bay, Cyprus-June

Refik and Talat greeted Charlotte and Atakan at Larnaca Airport. They welcomed Charlotte with warm hugs and a kiss on each cheek.

“It’s great seeing you,” she said. She’d worked with both on a Bronze Age shipwreck the previous dive season and was happy to work with them again. “I appreciate you requested me. It means a lot.” 

Refik and the MIAR staff liked to give the opportunity of working their wreck projects to new people. They chose students from different countries who needed field experience for their doctorates in nautical archaeology. She’d submitted her request for consideration. Atakan’s friendship with Refik went back many years. A hint from her suggesting he use his influence with Refik was instantly shot down. His position with the Ministry forbade him from interceding on her behalf. Any attempt carried serious repercussions.

All her hopes lay with Refik, who had the final say in choice. If he selected her, she’d be granted a work visa. A work visa allowed her another avenue to stay in Turkey. Although the wreck was off the coast of Cyprus, MIAR was headquartered in Bodrum, Turkey. Visa requests for MIAR’s participants were issued by the Ankara government and honored in Northern Cyprus. If they hadn’t selected her, she’d be forced to reapply for an extension of her residence permit. Immigration rules and bureaucratic red tape made those hard to obtain.

For both professional and personal reasons she wished to stay in Turkey, personal being the most important. The relationship between her and Atakan thrived. She adored the obstinate, if diplomacy challenged, devil. When MIAR didn’t immediately approve her application for assignment to the Cyprus wreck, she expressed her heightened visa concerns. Atakan reassured her she worried for nothing. He should’ve stopped there.

“If necessary, we can marry,” Atakan had offered.

From the pained look on his face the instant the words left his lips, he knew he’d screwed up. What woman could or would let it slide?

With a grossly insincere and dramatic palm to her chest, she said, “Be still my heart. Who can resist such a noble sacrifice oh Sultan of Romance?”

“I didn’t mean it to come out as bad as it sounded.”

“That is the worst marriage proposal ever,” Charlotte said with a laugh. “I’m not offended. I know how you meant it. The point is neither of us wants marriage. A piece of paper doesn’t reflect how we feel about each other.”

“I’ll do whatever I must to keep you with me.” No sooner had those words left his lips then a deep frown formed. “That didn’t come out well either, did it?”

She stuck her hand up. “Don’t say anymore. You’re digging a hole you can’t climb out of.”

Neither broached the subject of marriage again until his mother mentioned it at the hospital in Paris.

Her dream of eventually finding proof of her controversial Trojan War theory was another motivating reason to remain in the country. She conjectured Homer based the characters from the Iliad on actual people. A theory Atakan doggedly referred to as more crazy than controversial. In spite of his skepticism, she believed she saw the possible proof on the Bronze Age shipwreck from the year before. She alone had seen what she thought was a representation of Hektor’s chariot. The golden chariot was buried in the last unexplored cargo hold. The sculpture was lost when the stern hold broke from the hull. The lost section slipped into deep waters MIAR wasn’t equipped to excavate. If potential evidence sank with the hold, she believed other undiscovered evidence still existed in the waters of the Aegean or Eastern Mediterranean.

Refik and Talat welcomed Atakan with kisses to his cheeks and hard slaps on the back, as old friends do. Both were careful not to strike the injured shoulder.

“With your arm in a sling, I’m surprised the Ministry allows you to do field work. I thought they’d confine you to a desk assignment,” Refik said as they walked to the car.

“We ran the hazards and dangers of various scenarios and locations and felt confident I could continue with this project. MIAR agreed, then waffled. They settled on a conditional agreement.”