“As the captain, you’ll be the first missed.”
“With that bloody head wrap, you wouldn’t be far behind,” Hammet said.
“I’ll try,” came a voice from behind them. It was the tanker’s helmsman, a diminutive man named Green.
“It’s dark in the warehouse, Green,” Hammet said. “See if you can get lost in the shadows.”
But the guards were poised to prevent an escape and ordered Green back in line every time he lingered or tried to drift away from the others. Reluctantly, he joined the line of explosives haulers.
The crew continued their forced labor until the explosives in the container dwindled. Hammet curiously noted a dark-eyed woman in a jumpsuit monitoring their progress from the tanker’s deck before taking a position up on the bridge. As they returned to the warehouse for what he knew would be the last load, Hammet turned to his helmsman.
“Try to stay behind in the container,” he whispered.
The captain passed the word for his entire crew to quickly crowd into the container before a guard yelled at them to slow down. But it gave Green the chance to slip to the back of the container. He quickly climbed to the top shelf, then stretched against the side of the wall, his bantam body barely visible from below. Hammet let the other crewmen carry out the last of the explosives, then walked out of the container with his palms up.
“No more,” he said to the nearest guard, then followed the others across the warehouse.
Stepping quickly, he couldn’t help craning his neck as the guard walked over and peeked into the container. Satisfied that it was empty, the guard turned and slammed the door shut. Hammet turned away, holding his breath as he prayed for silence. But his hopes vanished with the sound of the dead bolt sliding closed with a sickening thud that Hammet felt all the way down to his toes.
56
THE TIRES OF THE COMMUTER PLANE KICKED UP A CLOUD of dust as they touched down on the dry runway of Çanakkale Airport a short distance southeast of the Dardanelles. The plane turned toward its designated terminal, slowly pulling to a stop as its twin propellers fell quiet. Summer watched from behind a barricade as her brother stepped off the plane with the last passengers. He walked with a slight limp and sported a few small bandages but otherwise appeared healthy. But as he stepped closer, she could see that he carried the worst of his wounds internally.
“Still in one piece, I see,” she said, giving him a hug. “Welcome to Turkey.”
“Thanks,” he replied in a low voice.
Gone was his usual positive energy and upbeat disposition. Even his eyes seemed darker, Summer thought. Not sad and mournful, as she might have expected, but cold and almost angry. It was a look she had never seen in her brother before. Gently grabbing his arm, she led him toward the baggage claim.
“We read the news about the attack on the Dome of the Rock, never imagining you were involved,” she said quietly. “Then Dad heard through the grapevine that you were there and had prevented the explosion.”
“I only stopped one of the charges from going off,” he said bitterly. “The Israeli security forces kept me out of the news while they patched me up at an Army hospital. I guess they didn’t want the presence of an American to muddy up the local politics.”
“Thank goodness, you weren’t severely injured.” She paused and looked at him with concern. “I’m sorry to hear about your Israeli friend.”
Dirk nodded but said nothing. They soon reached the baggage claim and found his luggage. Making their way to a small borrowed van in the parking lot, Summer said, “We’ve got one more pickup to make.”
Driving to the opposite end of the airport, she found a dilapidated warehouse building marked “Air Cargo.” Requesting a pickup for NUMA, she was handed a pair of overnight packages, and then two men wheeled out a small crate and loaded it into the rear of the van.
“What’s in the crate?” Dirk asked as they pulled away.
“A replacement inflatable boat. The Aegean Explorer lost two of her dinghies during a melee over a shipwreck.”
Summer filled Dirk in on what she knew about the discovery of the Ottoman wreck, the death of the two NUMA scientists, and the abduction of Zeibig.
“The Turks haven’t busted the guys in the yacht?” Dirk asked.
Summer shook her head. “Dad’s pretty livid over the response from the local authorities. The Explorer was impounded for a few days and blamed for the deaths of Tang and Iverson.”
“Justice rules for those with power. That’s tough news about Tang and Iverson. I’ve worked with them on other projects. Both good men,” he said, his voice trailing away as the discussion of death directed his thoughts to Sophie.
“On top of that, the algae bloom survey has fallen to pieces. Our Turkish environmental representative, who is required to be on board, is absent with some kind of family need. Meanwhile, Rudi and Al have been having trouble with the new AUV.” She wanted to add that Dirk’s arrival would help cheer everybody up, but she knew that wouldn’t be the case in his current condition.
Summer drove to Çanakkale’s commercial docks and located the Aegean Explorer moored beside some large fishing boats. She led her brother aboard and to the ship’s wardroom, where Pitt, Gunn, and Giordino were discussing their sailing schedule with Captain Kenfield. They warmly greeted the younger Pitt as he entered with his sister.
“Didn’t your father teach you not to play with explosives?” Giordino joked, pumping Dirk’s hand with a crushing grip.
Dirk forced a smile, then hugged his dad before sitting down at the table. “Summer tells me you’ve found an Ottoman shipwreck,” he said. The tone in his voice made it clear his focus was elsewhere.
“One that’s caused us a lot of trouble,” Pitt replied. “She dates to around 1570, and came with some unusual Roman artifacts aboard.”
“Unfortunately, all that’s left of those artifacts is some photographs,” Gunn added ruefully.
“Of course, it all pales in comparison to Summer’s discovery,” Pitt said.
Dirk turned toward his sister. “What was that?” he asked.
“You mean she didn’t tell you?” Giordino said.
Summer gave Dirk a sheepish look. “We ran out of time, I guess.”
“Such modesty,” Gunn said, rifling through a stack of papers on the table. “Here, I made a copy from Summer’s original,” he said, handing a sheet of paper to Dirk
He held up the page and studied it carefully:
University of Cambridge
Department of Archaeology
Translation (Coptic Greek):
Imperial Vessel Argon
Special Manifest for Delivery to Emperor Constantine
Byzantium
Manifest:
Personal items of Christ, including a small wardrobe with:
Cloak
Lock of hair
Letter to Peter
Personal effects
Large crypt stone
Altar—from Church of Nazarene
Contemporary painting of Jesus
Ossuary of J.
Assigned to 14th Legionaries, at Caesarea
Septarius, Governor of Judaea
“This is for real?” Dirk asked.
“The original is written on papyrus. I saw it briefly,” Summer replied with a shake of her head, “so I know it exists. This was a translation performed by a well-known Cambridge archaeologist and etymologist in 1915.”
“It’s incredible,” Dirk said, his attention fully grabbed by the document. “All of these items personally related to Jesus. They must have been collected by the Romans after his death and destroyed.”
“No, far from it,” Summer said. “They were obtained by Helena, mother of Constantine the Great, in 327 A.D. The items on the Manifest were sacred, and likely sent to Constantine to celebrate the Roman Empire’s conversion to Christianity.”
“I still can’t believe you found it in England, of all places,” Gunn said finally.
“All on acc
ount of our dive on HMS Hampshire,” Summer explained. “Field Marshal Kitchener apparently obtained the papyrus document while conducting a survey of Palestine in the 1870s. Its meaning apparently wasn’t understood until the translation was made decades later. Julie Goodyear, the authority on Kitchener who helped locate the Manifest, thinks that the Church of England may possibly have killed Kitchener because of it.”
“I guess you could understand their fears,” Giordino stated. “Finding an ossuary with Jesus’ bones in it would certainly kick over a few apple carts.”
“It’s an interesting connection to the Roman artifacts we found on the Ottoman wreck, which also date to the time of Constantine and Helena,” Gunn noted.
“So these Jesus artifacts were placed on a Roman ship leaving Caesarea?” Dirk asked.
Summer nodded. “Helena is known to have made a pilgrimage to Jerusalem, where she claimed to have discovered the True Cross. Fragments of the cross reside in churches all over Europe today. A common tale relates how the nails from the cross were melted down and incorporated into a helmet and bridle for Constantine. So Helena and the cross apparently made it safely to Byzantium. There is no mention of these items, however,” she added, pointing to the list. “They must have been shipped separately and were apparently lost to history ages ago. Can you just imagine the impact if we could have seen a contemporary image of Jesus?”
The room fell silent as everyone’s imagination conjured up a visual image of Christianity’s namesake. Everyone, that is, except Dirk. His eyes remained focused on the bottom of the Manifest.
“Caesarea,” he said. “It indicates that the shipment left Caesarea under the guard of Roman legionaries.”
“That’s just where you were working, isn’t it?” his father asked.
Dirk nodded.
“They didn’t happen to leave a sailing plan lying around etched in stone, did they?” Giordino asked.
“No, but we were fortunate in uncovering a number of papyrus documents from that era. The most interesting of them described the capture and execution of some Cypriot pirates. What was interesting was that the pirates had apparently battled a legionary force at sea sometime before they were captured. Dr. Haasis, whom I worked with at Caesarea, said the Roman legionaries were part of some group called the Scholae Palatinae, led by a centurion named Platus, as I recall.”
Gunn nearly fell out of his chair.
“What . . . what did you say his name was?” he stammered.
“Platus, or perhaps it was Platius.”
“Plautius?” Gunn asked.
“Yes, that was it. How did you know?”
“That was the name on my marker, er, the marker that was found on the wreck site. It was a memorial to Plautius, who apparently died in a sea battle.”
“But you don’t have any clue where the marker came from?” Dirk asked.
Gunn shook his head as Zeibig’s face suddenly brightened.
“Dirk, you said the pirates were from Cyprus?” he asked.
“That’s what the papyrus record indicated.”
Zeibig rifled through some papers, pulling out a page of research data.
“The Roman Senator inscribed on the gold crown, Artrius? Dr. Ruppé sent some historical research which indicated that he served as Governor of Cyprus for a short while.”
A thin smile crossed Pitt’s face. “Cyprus, that’s the clue we’ve been missing. If the Cypriot historical records are intact, I’ll bet you’ll find that Traianus, the name on the monolith, was also on Cyprus. Perhaps he even reported to Governor Artrius.”
“Sure,” Giordino agreed. “Traianus was probably ordered by the Governor to erect a memorial after the gold crown arrived in the mail.”
“But what was the Roman crown and marker doing on an Ottoman wreck?” Dirk asked.
“I think I have a theory about that,” Zeibig said. “As I recall, Cyprus historically remained under Venetian rule long after the fall of the Roman Empire. But the Ottomans came around and successfully invaded the island around 1570, which just happens to be the approximate date of our shipwreck. I’d speculate that the gold crown and stone tablet were simply antiquarian spoils of war that were being shipped back to the sitting Sultan in Constantinople.”
“We can assume from the Manifest that Plautius was assigned to transport the religious relics on behalf of Helena,” Gunn said. “The stele from the wreck, along with Dirk’s papyrus discovery, confirms that he lost his life fighting pirates off of Cyprus. Is it possible that the events all occurred on the same voyage?”
“I would wager that members of this Scholae Palatinae, like the Praetorian Guard, would not be far from the Emperor’s seat of power except in unusual circumstances,” Pitt said.
“Such as guarding his mother while she traveled to Jerusalem,” Summer said.
“Which would explain the gold crown,” Giordino said. “It may well have been awarded to Artrius while he was Governor of Cyprus, sent from Constantine in appreciation for capturing the pirates who killed Plautius.”
“The same pirates that stole the relics?” Gunn asked. “That’s the real question. Who ended up with the relics?”
“I performed a cursory historical search on the Manifest items,” Summer said. “While there are claimed fragments of the True Cross located in dozens of churches across Europe, I could find no substantive record of any of the items on the Manifest being exhibited today or in the past.”
“So they disappeared with Plautius,” Gunn said.
“The record at Caesarea stated that the pirates were captured and brought to port on their own ship,” Dirk stated. “The vessel’s decks were bloodied, and a number of Roman weapons were found aboard. While they had apparently battled Plautius, it wasn’t clear what became of his ship. Or the relics, for that matter.”
“Which probably means that the Roman galley of Plautius was sunk,” Pitt said.
The others in the room noticeably perked up at the notion, knowing that if one man could find an important shipwreck, it was the lean fellow with the green eyes sitting in front of them.
“Dad, could we try to look for it after the completion of the Turkish project?” Summer asked.
“That may be sooner than you think,” Gunn said.
Summer turned and gave him a puzzled look.
“The Turkish Environment Ministry informed us that they have discovered a significant amount of waste dumping by a large chemical plant in Çiftlik, a town near Chios,” Pitt explained. “Rudi looked at the currents, and there seems to be a strong correlation with the dead zone we were mapping in the vicinity of the Ottoman wreck.”
“Better than a ninety-five percent probability,” Gunn confirmed. “The Turks have kindly asked us to come back in a year and do some sample testing, but at this point we no longer need to extend any of our survey work.”
“Does that mean we go back to the Ottoman wreck?” Summer asked.
“Dr. Ruppé is organizing a formal excavation under the auspices of the Istanbul Archaeology Museum,” Pitt said. “Until he has the necessary approvals from the Cultural Ministry, he has suggested that we avoid any further work on the site.”
“So we can try for the Roman galley?” Summer asked excitedly.
“We’re on the hook for assessing a small region just south of here,” Pitt said. “We should be able to complete the work in two or three days. Providing, that is, that our AUV is operational,” he said, shooting Gunn a sideways glance.
“That reminds me,” Summer said. “I’ve got your spare parts.”
She tossed the two overnight packages to Gunn, who quickly tore the seal off the first one and looked inside.
“Our replacement circuit board,” he replied happily. “That should get us back in the water.”
He looked at the other package, then slid it over to Pitt.
“This one’s addressed to you, boss.”
Pitt nodded, then looked around the table. “If we’ve got an operational AUV again, then let’s g
o finish up our Turkey survey project,” he said with a wry grin, “because it’s a long voyage to Cyprus.”
AN HOUR LATER, the Aegean Explorer gently shoved off from the Çanakkale dock. Pitt and Giordino watched from the bridge as Captain Kenfield guided the vessel out the mouth of the Dardanelles, then south along the Turkish coastline. Once the Explorer was safely clear of the busy strait, Pitt sat down and opened the overnight package.
“Cookies from home?” Giordino asked, taking a seat across from Pitt.
“Not quite. I had Hiram do some digging on the Ottoman Star and the Sultana.”
“Hiram” referred to Hiram Yaeger, NUMA’s head of computer resources. From the NUMA headquarters building in Washington, Yaeger managed a sophisticated computer center that tracked detailed oceanographic and weather data around the globe. A skilled computer hacker, Yaeger had a nose for uncovering secrets, and didn’t mind utilizing both authorized and unauthorized data sources when the need arose.
“Two vessels that I’d like to find at the bottom of the sea,” Giordino said. “Was Yaeger able to find anything?”
“It appears so,” Pitt replied, perusing several pages of documents. “Both vessels are apparently registered in Liberia, under a shell company. Yaeger was able to trace ownership to a private Turkish entity called Anatolia Exports, the same outfit the police mentioned. The company has a lengthy history of shipping Turkish textiles and other goods to trading partners throughout the Mediterranean. It owns a warehouse and office building in Istanbul, as well as a shipping facility on the coast near the town of Kirte.”
“Ah yes, I know the latter quite well,” Giordino said with a smirk. “So who runs this outfit?”
“Ownership records cite a couple named Ozden Celik and Maria Celik.”
“Don’t tell me . . . They drive a Jaguar and like to run over people with boats.”
Pitt passed over a photo of Celik that Yaeger had gleaned from a Turkish trade association conference. Then he shared a number of satellite photos of the Celiks’ properties.