“Do you recognize it?” Carina said.
“Oh, yes. Come with me.”
Cemil led the way to the exit, and they climbed back into the bright sunlight. The Grand Bazaar was a short tram ride away. The bazaar was a labyrinth of hundreds of shops, restaurants, and cafés, and former caravan-storage depots called hans. Politely aggressive proprietors lurked like trap-door spiders ready to pounce on passing tourists and talk them out of their Turkish lira.
They went through the Carsikapi Gate and made their way through the hot, unventilated maze of roofed streets. Cemil navigated the twists and turns as if he were operating on personal radar. He took them deep into the heart of the bazaar and stopped at a small shop.
“Merhaba,” Cemil said to a man in his sixties who sat in front of the shop, sipping tea and reading a Turkish newspaper. The shopkeeper smiled broadly. Putting the newspaper aside, he rose from his chair and pumped Cemil’s hand.
“Merhaba,” he said.
“This is Mehmet,” Cemil explained.” He’s an old friend.”
Mehmet brought out comfortable cushions for his guests to sit on and poured tea for everyone. He and Cemil chatted in Turkish. After a few minutes of conversation, Cemil asked Austin for the figurine and handed it to Mehmet. The shopkeeper examined the miniature Navigator and nodded vigorously. Using expansive hand gestures, he invited everyone into his shop. Shelves and floor were covered with rugs, jewelry, boxes of tea, scarves, pottery, and red fezes. He walked up to a shelf crowded with pottery and placed the figure next to a row of four identical statues.
Cemil translated his friend’s commentary. “Mehmet says he can give you a deal on these. Normally, they go for eight lira, but he’s willing to drop the price to five if you buy more than one.”
“Does Mehmet remember selling a statue to an American photographer a few years ago?” Austin asked.
Cemil translated the question and the answer. “Mehmet is Turkish. He remembers every sale he ever made. He recalls the photographer very well. Especially with this item, which moves very slowly. But he is old, and memory has not been very good lately.”
“Maybe this will help,” Austin said, “I’ll take all of the figurines.”
Mehmet beamed as he carefully wrapped each statue in tissue paper and placed the purchases in a plastic bag, which he handed to Carina.
“Can your friend tell us where he acquired these statues?” Carina said.
Mehmet explained that he had bought the statues in the south where his mother lives. He tells buyers that they are harem eunuchs. The craftsmanship could be better, and the detail was poorly executed, but he likes the old man who made them. He picks up a batch whenever he visits his aging mother, which is about once a month. The artist sells them in the abandoned village, he said.
“Where is that?” Austin said.
Cemil said, “It’s called Kayakoy, near the town of Fethiye. It was a Greek village until the Treaty of Lausanne was signed in 1923. The Greeks returned to Greece in the exchange and Turks living in Greece came to Anatolia. Then the Turks left after a big earthquake. It’s a tourist attraction now.”
Austin asked the artist’s name. Mehmet said he was sure he’d remember, but first he suggested that Austin and the lovely lady would like to look around the shop. Austin got the hint. He bought a silk scarf for Carina and a fez for himself, even though no self-respecting Turk would be caught dead in the cylindrical headgear.
Bidding Mehmet good-bye, at Cemil’s suggestion they headed to the Haghia Sophia neighborhood for lunch in a pleasantly shaded garden restaurant. While they waited for their food, Cemil said, “I’m sorry you came all this way for nothing.”
“I’m not sorry,” Carina said. “It gave me the chance to meet you in person, and to thank you for all you have done. Besides, we’re not through here yet.”
“But you have seen that the statues are only a tourist item.”
Austin lined up the figurines on the table. “How far is the town where these were made?”
“It’s on the TurquoiseCoast. About five hundred miles. Are you thinking of extending your visit to Turkey?”
Austin picked up a figurine. “I’d like to talk to the artist who made this.”
“So would I,” Carina said. “It’s quite possible he used a life-sized model.”
“This statue must be very valuable.”
“Maybe,” Austin said. “Maybe not.”
“I understand the need for discretion,” Cemil said, rising from the table. “Dalyran is only about an hour from here by plane. From there, it’s not a bad drive to Kayakoy. If you’ll excuse me, I’ll be on my way, but if you need any help please let me know. I have a great many connections in Istanbul.”
A few minutes after Cemil left, Austin and Carina hailed a taxi to drive them back to the hotel. The desk clerk found two seats on an early-morning plane to Dalyran and made car rental arrangements as well. As they stood in the hotel lobby, Carina said, “Now what, Mr. Tour Guide?”
Austin pondered her question and said, “I think I can do something off the beaten path.”
A cab took them back to the archaeological dig. Austin asked Hanley if he needed volunteers. He put them to work shoveling mud through strainers. Carina didn’t seem to mind being covered from head to toe with Bosphorus mud. She jumped about like an excited schoolgirl whenever they found a coin or broken pottery from the muck.
They worked until late at night, when the van came by to take the NUMA crew back to the hotel. As they trudged through the hotel lobby, Austin and Carina were so tired they hardly noticed the pair of men sitting in plush chairs reading magazines. Nor were they aware that two pairs of eyes followed them every step of the way to the elevator.
NUMA 7 - The Navigator
Chapter 27
AUSTIN TURNED THE RENTED RENAULT off the TurquoiseCoast highway onto a road that twisted and turned like a spastic snake. The road ran for several miles through cultivated countryside and sleepy villages. As the car rounded a bend, ruins could be seen on the crest of a hill.
Austin parked next to a cluster of buildings. The abandoned village had become a state-run tourist attraction. The inevitable ticket seller was waiting to take their modest admission fee. He pointed the way toward the village, and went to intercept a car with two men in it that pulled up next to the Renault.
An ascending mule path went past an outdoor restaurant, souvenir shop, and several freelance vendors peddling their wares. After a hike of a few minutes, Austin and Carina had an unimpeded view of the village.
Hundreds of roofless houses baked under the hot sun. Plaster had peeled off the outside of the silent structures to expose their rough stucco walls. A few houses had been taken over by squatters who had spread their laundry out to dry. The only other sign of life was a satanic-faced goat that munched contentedly on a weed-choked garden.
“It’s hard to believe that this place was once full of life,” Carina said. “People making love. Women crying out in labor. Fathers bragging about their newborns. Children celebrating birthdays and baptisms. Mourning the passing of old ones.”
Austin was only half listening to Carina rhapsodize. Two men had stopped on the trail about a hundred feet behind them. One was taking photos of the goat. They were in their twenties, Austin estimated, both dressed in black pants and short-sleeved white shirts. Their arms were thick and muscular. Their faces were shaded by the brims of their caps and sunglasses.
Carina had continued along the mule path. When Austin caught up with her, she was strolling across the courtyard of an abandoned church toward an old man perched on a wall under a shade tree. Decorated bowls and plates were lined up on the wall, which he was using to showcase his wares.
Austin greeted the man and asked if he were Mehmet’s friend, Salim.
The man smiled. “Mehmet buys my work for the covered bazaar.”
“Yes, we know. He told us where to find you,” Carina said.
Salim had the Pablo Picasso look that comes
to Mediterranean men of a certain age. The skin on his cheeks and bald head was tanned the color of tanbark and his face was as unlined as a baby’s. Good humor and wisdom lurked in big eyes that were as dark as raisins. He gestured toward his wares.
“Mehmet tells you of my souvenirs?” he said.
Austin pulled the Navigator figurine from his pocket. “We were looking for something like this.”
“Ah,” Salim said, his face lighting up. “The eunuch.” He made a horizontal cutting motion with an invisible knife. “I stop making them. No one buys.”
Austin carefully considered the next question. “Does the eunuch have a grandfather?”
Salim gave him a puzzled look and then flashed a big-toothed grin. He drew his arms in wide arcs as if they were describing a large circle. “Büyük. Big eunuch.”
“That’s right. Büyük. Where?”
“In Lycée tomb. You understand?”
Austin had noticed the strange Lycian tombs carved high up on the faces of plunging cliffs. The entrances were framed by ornate columns and triangular lintels like classic Greek or Roman temples.
In halting English, Salim said he had always been interested in art. As a young man, he explored the countryside with paper pad and charcoal in search of subjects. On one exploration, he had found a Lycian tomb unknown to the people in his village. The tomb was cut into a cliff above the sea, hidden from view by thick vegetation. He had gone inside and discovered a statue in the cave. He sketched it. When he was looking for a subject later to mold in clay, he went back to the sketch.
“Where is the statue now?” Carina said with growing excitement.
Salim pointed to the ground. “Earthquake.” The cliff had slid into the sea.
Carina was visibly disappointed, but Austin persisted. He showed Salim a map of the coast and asked the old man to pinpoint the site of the tomb. Salim tapped the map with his fingertip.
Carina clutched Austin’s arm. “Kurt,” she said. “Those men were in the hotel last night.”
The Turks had paused at the edge of the courtyard and were staring directly at Carina and Austin. Austin remembered the two men he had seen lounging in the lobby. Their arrival at the village was no accident.
“You’re right,” he said. “They’re a long way from Istanbul.”
He took a handful of lira from his pocket and dropped the bills next to Salim. He picked up a ceramic plate, thanked the old man for the information, and slipped his arm around Carina’s waist. He told her to walk as casually as she was able to the church.
He guided her through the doorway into the vacant building and edged over to a window that had been stripped of glass and framework. Peering around the edge of the doorframe, he saw the men talking to Salim. The old artist pointed to the church. The men broke off their conversation and headed toward the building. They were no longer sauntering and walked quickly with purpose in each step.
Austin told Carina to climb out a window opening on the opposite wall. He followed her through the opening, and they scrambled up a gravelly path to a hill that overlooked the church.
Carina hid in a small chapel perched at the top of the hill and Austin flattened himself to the ground. Their pursuers had separated and set off in opposite directions around the church. They met up again and had a heated discussion. Then they split up and disappeared into the labyrinth of deserted houses.
Austin retrieved Carina from the chapel and led the way down the other side of the ridge. They caught a glimpse of something black moving between them and the main road. One man had come around the bottom of the ridge and was going from house to house. Austin pulled Carina into a doorway.
He was still holding the plate he had bought from Salim. He stepped out of the doorway, curled the plate into his wrist, and snapped it like a Frisbee over a nearby rooftop. There was the sound of the plate shattering and the rattle of gravel kicked up by running feet.
Austin and Carina veered off the main thoroughfare through the village and followed a rocky goat path back to the road. Staying close to the side, they walked about a quarter of a mile back to the village entrance.
They headed for the Renault and saw the car that the two men had driven up in parked tight next to theirs. Austin told Carina to wait and went to the snack bar. He came back a minute later holding a corkscrew in his hand.
“This is no time for wine,” she said with a sour look.
“I agree,” Austin said. He wiped the sweat from his forehead. “A cold beer would be better.”
He asked Carina to keep watch. He ducked down between the cars as if tying his shoe and jammed the corkscrew point into the other car’s tire. He worked the point around until he felt a rubbery puff of air on his hand and mangled the valve for good measure.
“What are you doing?” Carina said.
“I’m making sure our friends get the point,” Austin said with a wolfish grin.
He slid behind the wheel of the Renault, started the engine, and pulled out onto the road with spinning tires.
AUSTIN DROVE as if he were in the Grand Prix. With Carina map-navigating, they headed toward Fethiye, a coastal market and resort town. He drove directly to the harbor. They walked along the quay past the wide-beamed wooden boats that took tourists out on day trips for fishing and scuba diving.
He stopped at the tie-up for a wooden boat about forty-five feet long. A sign said that the Iztuzu, the Turkish name for Turtle, was for hire on an hourly or daily basis.
Austin crossed the short gangway and called out a hello. A man in his forties came out of the cabin. “I’m Captain Mustapha,” he said, with a friendly smile. “You want to rent the boat?”
The boat was not new, but it had been well maintained. Metal was free of rust, and the wood was highly polished. Lines were neatly coiled. Austin surmised that Mustapha was a competent mariner. The fact that he was still in port suggested that he might be hungry for business. Austin pulled out the map he had shown Salim and pointed to the coastline.
“Can you take us here, Captain? We might like to do some snorkeling.”
“Yes, of course. I know all the good places. When?”
“How about now?”
Austin agreed to the price Mustapha threw out and waved at Carina to come aboard. Mustapha cast off the dock lines and eased the boat out of its slip. He pointed the bow into the bay. The boat followed the irregular coastline. They passed resort complexes, a lighthouse, and luxurious villas perched in the hills. Eventually, all signs of human habitation disappeared.
Mustapha angled the boat in toward a half-moon cove and killed the engine. He dropped anchor and dug out a couple of beat-up snorkels and masks and fin sets.
“You want to go swimming?”
Austin had been squinting up at a section of cliff where the rock was exposed like an open wound. “Maybe later. I’d like to go ashore.”
Mustapha shrugged and put the snorkels away. He hung a ladder over the side and brought the dinghy around. Austin rowed the short distance to shore and pulled the dinghy up on the rocky beach. Within a dozen or so feet from the water’s edge, the terrain rose at a sharp angle. Using tree trunks and bushes as handholds, Austin climbed until he was about a hundred fifty feet above the lagoon.
He stood on a ledge that bulged out from the cliff like a Neanderthal’s brow. A swath of rock about a hundred feet wide had been sheared off as neatly as if by a giant chisel. Austin guessed that the cliff had been weakened by the tomb, in combination with natural faults, and the violent shaking of the earth had jiggled it loose. Huge boulders lay at the base of the cliff and in the water.
Austin wondered whether the statue could have survived the crushing fall. Then he waved at Carina, who had been watching his climb, and started down the hill. He was sweating from the heat and exertion, and his shorts and shirt were covered with dirt. He dove into the water fully clothed, giving his body and clothes a quick laundering. When it came to the behavior of foreign tourists, Mustapha was never surprised. He started the eng
ine and headed back to port.
Austin cracked open a couple of bottles of Turkish beer from the cooler and handed one to Carina. “Well?” she said.
He took a deep gulp and let the cold liquid trickle down his throat. “We’ll assume that Salim is correct and the statue was still in the tomb at the time of the earthquake. There’s no certainty that it wasn’t buried between tons of rock. Even if we do find it, the Navigator may be too damaged to be of help.”
“Then this was all for nothing?”
“Not at all. I’d like to come back for a closer look.”
He told Mustapha he wanted to lease the boat for another day.
“Can we come back here tomorrow?” Austin said. “I’d like to do some diving.”
“Yes, of course. You’re scientists?” Mustapha said.
Austin showed him his NUMA ID. Mustapha had never heard of the agency, but the fact that Austin carried special identification impressed him. Mustapha was glad to get the charter. He had told the boat’s owners that if they didn’t get him a mate soon he would quit. Austin took a satellite phone from his backpack and punched in Zavala’s number. Zavala was at the port excavation, waiting for Hanley to give him the green light on the Subvette.
“You’ll have to tell Hanley that the sub’s services are needed elsewhere,” Austin said.
He gave Zavala his location and rattled off a shopping list. Zavala said if he could work out the logistics he would fly to Dalyran the next morning.
The boat pulled into its slip at dusk. Austin asked Mustapha to recommend a quiet hotel. The captain suggested a resort that was a twenty-minute drive at the end of a twisting road that wound through the wooded hills near Fethiye. The hotel clerk said reservations were usually necessary but that he had one room with a king-sized bed. Austin hadn’t given sleeping arrangements any thought. He asked Carina if she wanted to look for another hotel.
“I’m exhausted,” she said. “Still suffering from jet lag. Tell him we’ll take it.”