She sat down and closed her eyes. “Don't tell me.” She inhaled the aromas coming from the galley. “An antipasto of truffle salad and olivi mushrooms followed by a porcini risotto.”
“Not quite.” Austin cleared his throat. “We're having pizza. Mushroom, or pepperoni if you'd prefer carne.”
Kaela opened her eyes and stared at Austin. “What happened to the four-star chef?”
Austin tried his best to look angelic, but his rugged features wouldn't cooperate. “I confess. I exaggerated. My intentions were entirely honorable. Your spirits needed a lift back there on the beach.”
“And you looked like you'd pushed your face through a plate-glass window. Glad to see you're in better shape.”
“Amazing the miracles that can be performed with a needle, sutures and swabs.”
Kaela glanced over at the serving counter. “How's the pizza?”
“Almost as good as Spago's. Especially when you have nectar like this to wash it down.” He reached under the table and produced a bottle of Brunello Chianti Classico. “I picked up a case when we stopped in Venice.”
“You'refull of surprises, aren't you?” Kaela said, laughing.
“Sorry the dinner is not quite as advertised, but you'll have to admit that the water-view table is as promised.”
“No argument there. The view is spectacular.” She rose and said, “If you open the bottle, I'll get our dinner.” She grabbed a tray and stepped into the serving line. A few minutes later, she returned with two personal-sized pizzas and Caesar salads. Austin had the wine opened and poured their glasses. They hungrily attacked their dinner.
“This pizza is incredible,” Kaela said. She sipped the wine with a dreamy expression on her face. Suddenly, she glanced around as if she had lost something. “Have you seen Mickey and Dundee?”
“I meant to tell you. The boys grabbed something to eat earlier, then went up to the bridge to shoot some video. Seems they've charmed their way past Captain Atwood's gruff façade.”
“The camera tends to bring out the ham in people.” Austin refilled their glasses. “Tell me about your Noah's ark assignment.”
“It's the usual combination of humbug and fact that Unbelievable Mysteries packages for the mass TV audience. They splice old blurry images with new footage and do a dramatic voice-over. Heavy on the mysterious background music. There's usually a hint of a government cover-up and some danger to the crew. The viewers love it.”
“The danger was real this time.”
“Yes, it was,” she said thoughtfully. “That's why I feel so bad about Captain Kemal's cousin. It was my idea to look into the old sub base.”
“Don't blame yourself. There was no way you could have known you'd be shot out of the water.”
“Still - has anyone been able to contact Captain Kemal?”
“The bridge got in touch with him a while ago. Apparently, his radio is working now. The captain gave him the bad news.”
“Poor Mehmet. I keep playing that scene over and over again in my head. His family must be devastated.” Austin gently tried to take Kaela's mind off a situation she couldn't alter.
“If you're looking for Noah's ark, wouldn't you do better poking around Mount Ararat?”
Kaela welcomed the chance to change the subject. “No, not especially. You're familiar with the findings of William Ryan and Walter Pitman?”
“They're the Columbia University geologists who speculated that the Black Sea was originally a freshwater lake be- fore the Mediterranean broke through the Bosporus in a great flood. The people who lived along the shore had to run for their lives.”
“Then you must know that the saga of the flood, passed down by generations of bards, may have inspired the tale of Noah and the ark. Which means that the ark sailed these waters. It would be a waste of time humping our cameras up the side of Mount Ararat. Don't you agree?”
Austin leaned back in his chair and gazed into the dark amber eyes. They sparkled with good-humored intelligence.
“I'll answer that with a question of my own.”
“Let me guess. You want to know why someone who pretends to be a serious reporter ended up on the television equivalent of a supermarket tabloid.”
Austin added perceptiveness to the list of Kaela's other admirable qualities. “I've seen your show. In the episode I watched, Big Foot had been found living in Loch Ness with an alien love-child.”
“That must have been before my time, but I take your point. U.M. is trash television at its trashiest.”
Austin spread his hands. “So?”
“It's a long story.”
“We've plenty of time to talk. I'll have the sommelier refill your wineglass as often as you'd like.”
“That's the best offer I've had all day.” She cradled her chin in one hand and gazed into his face. There was no timidity in her large eyes. “I'll tell you about my background if you do the same for yourself.”
“Okay, you're on.”
She took another sip of Chianti. “I was born in Oakland, California. I was named Katherine after my dad's mother, and Ella after Ella Fitzgerald, Mom's favorite singer. My last name was Doran. I shortened it to Kaela Dorn when I went into TV. My mother was a ballet instructor at an African-American community center and my dad was an Irish-American, long-haired, pot-smoking hippie who had come to Berkeley to protest the Vietnam War and everything else.”
“There was a lot of that in the sixties.” She nodded. “Dad put aside his love beads and bongos and now teaches courses in contemporary American history at Berkeley, specializing in the protest movements of the sixties and seventies. He still has his beard, but it's a lot whiter than it used to be.”
“Happens to the best of us,” Austin said, pointing to his prematurely steel gray hair.
“I was something of a rebel as a kid. Pop's fault. One day Mom came down to the corner, where I was hanging out with a gang, and dragged me into her ballet classes where she could keep an eye on me. I traded in my gangsta colors for a tutu. I wasn't a bad dancer.”
The woman sitting across from Austin seemed made for dancing. “I would have been surprised if you were any less graceful than a Pavlova.”
“Thank you,” she said. “I was fair, but tripping about on my toes in the Nutcracker Suite didn't satisfy my craving for adventure. Pop's fault, too. He bummed around Khartoum and New Delhi before he headed west to pull us out of Vietnam single-handedly. I went to Berkeley and studied English lit, then I got accepted as an intern at a local TV station that wanted to fill its minority-hiring quota. I got tired of reading gory reports about car crashes off a TelePrompTer. When I heard about the opening at Unbelievable Mysteries, I jumped at the chance to travel to exotic, offbeat places, and be paid pretty well for it. Okay, that's me. How about you? How did you come to be rescuing maidens in distress and their friends?”
Austin gave a condensed version of his biography, omitting his service in the CIA, stretching a fact here and there to make the pieces fit. Kaela listened intently, and if she detected his effort to massage the truth, she didn't show it.
“I'm not surprised that you like fast boats or that you collect antique dueling pistols, or even that you listen to progressive jazz. I'm more surprised to hear that you study philosophy.”
“I don't know if study is the right word. I like to say I've read a few books on the subject.” He paused in thought, then said, “ 'One cannot conceive anything so strange and so implausible that it has not already been said by one philosopher or another.' Rene Descartes.”
“Which means?”
“I see a lot of strange things and people in my business. It gives me comfort to know that as far as philosophy is concemed, there is nothing new under the sun. Greed, avarice, evil. And conversely, goodness, generosity, love... Plato once said...” Austin became conscious of Kaela's stare. “Sorry. I sound like a professor.”
“I've never met a professor who swoops down out of the sky to do single-handed battle with a bunch of cutthroat
s.” She regarded him with leveled eyes. “Tell me, what exactly is your Special Assignments Team? Somebody mentioned it to me before I came out here.”
"There's no 'exactly' about it. There are four of us, each with an area of expertise. Joe Zavala is a marine engineer who designs many of our vehicles. The ultralight I flew in on was his creation. He can pilot anything under or above the sea. Paul Trout is a deep-ocean geologist with credentials from Woods Hole Oceanographic and Scripps Institute.
His wife, Gamay, is a diver and marine biologist with a background in nautical archaeology."
“Impressive. You still haven't told me what your team does.”
“Depends. In general, we handle undersea assignments that tend to be other than routine.” Austin failed to mention that those assignments often took place secretly, outside the realm of government oversight.
She snapped her fingers. “Of course. Now I remember. The Christopher Columbus tomb in the Yucatan. You were involved in its discovery.”
“Somewhat. It was a NUMA project.”
“Fascinating,” Kaela said. “I'd like to do a story on your team.”
“The NUMA Public Affairs Department would love it. Favorable publicity comes in handy when we go before Congress with our budget. Give them a jingle when you get back. I'll be glad to help.”
“Thanks, I'd appreciate that very much.”
“Now let me ask you a question. What do you intend to do with the footage your crew filmed back in Russia?”
“I'm not sure,” she said, with a furrowed brow. “We don't have much except the dead body of a guy dressed up like a doorman at a Russian nightclub.” She broke out in laughter. “Not that the lack of facts ever discouraged Unbelievable Mysteries from cooking up a story.”
“Maybe he's one of those UFO aliens you're always finding,” Austin offered.
“Not with that sword.” Kaela shuddered at the memory. “Seriously, Kurt, what's your take on this whole thing? Who were those guys and why were they so touchy about an abandoned sub base left over from the Cold War?”
Austin shook his head. “I can't answer those questions.”
“You must have given it some thought.”
“Of course. I don't have to be Sherlock Holmes to conclude that there's something there that someone didn't want us to see. I just don't know what it could be.”
“There's one way to find out,” Kaela said. “Go back for a look.”
“I don't think that would be wise.” Austin ticked off the reasons on his fingers. “We can sit here and laugh at a bunch of guys who look as if they came out of a production of Boris Godunov, but dumb luck is the only reason we're still alive. Second, since you don't have Russian visas you would have to enter the country illegally. Third, you don't have a way to get there.”
Kaela countered each point on her own fingers, “I appreciate your concern, but first, we'd be more prepared than we were and would get out in a hurry at the first hint of danger. Second, lack of a visa didn't stop you from landing on Russian soil, And third, if I can't get Captain Kemal to go back, I'm sure other fishermen are willing to earn in a couple of days what it takes them a year to make otherwise.”
Austin laced his hands behind his head, “You don't discourage easily.”
“I don't intend to stay with Unbelievable Mysteries forever, A story like this could be my ticket to a big job with a major network.”
“So much for my incredible powers of persuasion,” Austin said. “Since you appear to have your mind made up, maybe I can convince you to accompany me on a tour of Istanbul at night, Topkapi Palace is a must-see, and there are some great shops around the Sulemaniye Mosque where you can pick up some gifts for the folks back home, We can wrap up the evening with dinner on board one of the Lufer boats.”
“Another four-star chef.”
“Not quite, but the scenery is special.”
“I'm staying at the Marmara Hotel on Taksim Square.”
“I know where it is, How about seven o'clock the day we dock?”
“I'll be looking forward to it,” Austin saw little of Kaela the rest of the trip, She was busy with her two colleagues interviewing the captain and crew or working on background for Noah, He contacted NUMA headquarters and filed a report on the Russian incident and spent the rest of the time trying to piece the Gooney back together. The Argo made good time, and before long they were making their passage past the villages and old forts along the Bosporus.
THE TWO-HOUR PASSAGE through the Bosporus was never dull. The narrow seventeen-mile waterway is considered the world's most dangerous strait. Captain At- wood threaded the Argo around tankers, ferries and passenger boats as he made the twelve course changes necessary during the final leg of the voyage. The strong current that ran from the Black Sea to the Sea of Marmara made life even more interesting. Those on board let out a collective sigh of relief as the survey ship passed the ferry terminals and cruise-ship docks to tie alongside a pier near the Galata Bridge.
From the ship, Austin watched the television crew stuff its gear into a cab. Kaela waved good-bye, and the cab headed away from the waterfront. He walked around the deck, taking in the view of the bridge guarding the mouth of the Golden Horn, and the sprawling Topkapi Palace built for Sultan Mehmet II in the 1400s. In the distance he could see the minarets of the Hagia Sophia and the Blue Mosque.
He went back to his cabin and caught up on paperwork, then showered and exchanged his shorts and sweatshirt for casual slacks and a light cotton sweater. Near dinnertime, he walked down the gangway and made his way to the street to look for a cab. A taxi pulled up beside him. It was a vintage Chevrolet, circa 1950s. There were passengers in the car, which identified it as a dolmus, meaning “stuffed” in Turkish. Unlike the regular cabs, these taxis crammed in as many passengers as they could fit.
Austin got into the backseat with two other passengers who made space between them. A heavyset man sat on a jump seat and a fifth passenger occupied the front seat next to the meter. Austin told the driver to take him to the Taksim Square. He had visited Istanbul several times on NUMA assignments and knew the city fairly well. When the cab went a roundabout route, Austin thought it was simply to accommodate the other passengers. But nobody got off. The cab started to head away from Taksim Square and, suspecting the driver was trying to jack up the fare, Austin leaned forward and asked him where he was going.
The driver stared silently ahead, but the man in the front seat turned around. He had a wide, brutish face that even a mother couldn't love. Austin's eyes lingered on the passenger's features for only a second before shifting to the gun in the man's hand.
“Silence!” the man growled. The men sitting next to Austin pulled him back by the shoulders. A long-bladed knife pointed at his right eye. The cab accelerated at neck-snapping speed, exited from the traffic stream and plunged into a dark maze of narrow cobblestone lanes.
They headed away from the waterfront, skirting Karakoy and the police squads who monitored the official red-light district. Austin glanced longingly at the restaurant lights at the top of Galata Tower. Then the taxi was moving along the Istikal Caddesi, weaving in and out of traffic, past the nightclubs, movie theaters and unregulated brothels that lined the gaudy strip. The cab spun off the main drag and climbed a hill into Bozoglu, where all the old European embassies were housed during the Ottoman Empire, and executed a series of squealing turns.
The car stayed upright despite the protesting tires, which told Austin that the driver was a professional who knew the limits of his vehicle. There had been no attempt to blindfold Austin, and he wondered if this meant he had a one-way ticket to oblivion. As the car continued to hook left and right through the urban warren, he concluded that a blindfold was unnecessary; he didn't have a clue where he was.
The fact that they hadn't killed him offered slim solace. He knew instinctively that these men would not hesitate to use the weapons they had brandished in his face. After several minutes, during which the city lights faded to a gl
ow, the car whipped down a darkened, garbage-strewn street and into an alley not much wider than the vehicle. Austin's companions hustled him from the taxi and stood him against a brick wall while they bound his hands behind his back with duct tape. Then they pushed him through a doorway along a dim hall and into the lobby of an old office building. Grime covered the marble floor. On one wall was a brass floor directory black with the patina of age. The smell of onions and the muffled cry of a baby indicated that the office building was being used for human habitation. Probably squatters, Austin surmised.
His escorts nudged Austin into an elevator and stood behind him. They were hulking men, as big or brawnier than Austin, who had never considered himself to be a pigmy. The space was cramped, and Austin stood with his face pressed against the cold wrought iron of the ornate gate. He guessed that the elevator must date back to the time of the sultans. He tried not to think of frayed and neglected cables as the elevator slowly jerked and rattled up to the third and last floor. The elevator was more nerve-wracking than the speeding car. The elevator cracked to a stop, and one of his escorts growled in his ear.
“Out!” He stepped into a dark hallway. One man grabbed the back of Austin's shirt in a bunch, used it to steer him for- ward and brake him to an abrupt stop. A door opened, and he was maneuvered inside. There was the odor of old paper and oil from long-ago business machines. He felt pressure upon his shoulders, then the edge of a chair bumped against the back of his knees. He sat down and squinted into the darkness. A spotlight flashed on, and Austin saw sunspots as the glare hit him in the face. He blinked like a suspect being given the third degree in an old gangster movie.
A voice speaking in English came from behind the spotlight.
“Welcome, Mr. Austin. Thank you for coming.” Something about the voice sounded familiar, but he couldn't place it.
“It was an invitation I couldn't resist.”
A dry chuckle issued from the darkness. “The years haven't changed you, have they?”
“Do I know you?” A memory clawed at the back of Austin's mind like a cat scratching softly at the door.