Crescent Dawn dp-21, page 31
part #21 of Dirk Pitt Series
“So let me see here,” the general said in his gravelly voice. “Some nuts nearly blow up half of Jerusalem, and neither Mossad nor Shin Bet have a clue who did it? Is that the truth or is that just what the Israelis are telling us?”
“The Israelis clearly lack confidence in the investigation,” the CIA man replied. “They believe a Lebanese weapons- and drug-smuggling ring known as the Mules are at least partially responsible. The Mules have known ties to Hezbollah, so it’s possible they targeted Jerusalem in retaliation for Israel’s continued problems in Gaza. The American involved in the incident identified one of the bombers as being involved in a recent terrorist incident at an archaeological dig in Caesarea.”
“Is the American one of our agents?” Braxton asked.
“No, he’s a marine engineer with NUMA. He’s recovering from minor injuries at an Israeli Army hospital in Haifa.”
“A marine engineer? What in blazes was he doing in Jerusalem?”
“Apparently he was romantically involved with the antiquities agent who was killed in the blast. He happened to accompany her on a routine stakeout and got caught up in the fray. A good thing, it turned out, as he was the one who prevented the main cache of explosives from detonating beneath the Dome of the Rock.”
“Sir, we really dodged a bullet on that one,” O’Quinn said. “There were enough explosives there to easily level the entire Dome structure, let alone a good chunk of the Old City. It would have ignited regional animosity like nothing we’ve seen. I’m certain that missiles would be flying over Israel today had the shrine been taken out.”
Braxton grunted, boring his eyes into O’Quinn. “Since we’re on the topic of explosives, I see you have some unsavory homegrown connections to add to the mix.”
“We obtained a sample of the unexploded ordnance from the Israelis and confirmed in lab testing that it is in fact HMX. It was produced by a domestic manufacturer under contract with the U.S. Army,” O’Quinn reported soberly.
“It’s our own bloody explosives?” the general thundered.
“I’m afraid so. We’ve done some digging, and it appears that the Jerusalem sample matches up with a shipment of high-grade HMX that was secretly sold to Pakistan for use in their nuclear weapons program back in the early nineties. The Pakistanis have since confirmed that a container of HMX went missing a short time thereafter. Black market operatives in the military are believed to have sold it to buyers outside the country, but no evidence of its use has emerged until this year.”
“An entire container of HMX. Unbelievable,” Braxton said.
“The container would have housed approximately eight thousand pounds of the high explosive. It accounts for significant destructive power.”
The general closed his eyes and shook his head. “I presume this attack is connected to the other recent mosque bombings?” he asked without opening his eyes.
“We know that the al-Azhar Mosque in Cairo and the Yeşil Mosque in Bursa were both hit with HMX. In both cases, nobody claimed responsibility for the attacks. And no evidence was found linking the blasts to any local factions. We appear to have a similar set of circumstances in Jerusalem.”
“What of this dead Palestinian who was found in the graveyard?”
“He was a low-level artifact hunter with no known terrorist associations,” the CIA man responded. “He may have had some involvement with the discovery of the quarry, but he is not believed to have been a player in the actual attack.”
“Which takes us to the still unanswered questions of who and why.”
O’Quinn gave the general a pained look. “Nobody has claimed responsibility for any of the attacks, and I’m afraid we just don’t have a firm trail,” he said. “As Joe can verify, the intelligence agencies are looking at suspects across the board, from fringe Christian and Jewish sects to al-Qaeda and other Muslim fanatic groups. We’re reliant on the foreign intelligence agencies, and they don’t have any strong connections at this point.”
The CIA man nodded. “General, the targets have all been sites of theological importance in the Sunni Muslim world. We think there’s a strong possibility that the attacks are originating from a Shia source. The possible Hezbollah link in the Jerusalem attack furthers the theory. I have to tell you, there is a growing contingency within the agency that believes it’s the Iranians, trying to divert attention from their weapons program.”
“It’s a viable motivation,” Braxton agreed, “but they’d certainly be playing with fire if they got caught with dirty hands.”
O’Quinn quietly shook his head.
“I have to disagree, sir,” he said. “These bombings don’t have the earmark of the Iranians. It would certainly represent a new level of external extremism that we haven’t seen before.”
“You’re not giving me much else to go on, O’Quinn,” the general growled. “What about that Turk, Mufti Battal, that you were excited about?”
“He’s entered the presidential race, as we feared. He and his party would certainly benefit from any outrage in the fundamentalist community that these bombings may incite. It raises the point that these attacks may be linked to specific political goals rather than general terrorist tactics. As for Battal, we’re monitoring his activities closely, but we’ve yet to witness any pattern of coercive tactics so far. We certainly have no hard proof of a link, at this point.”
“So you’ve got nothing there. Perhaps the question you boys need to be thinking about is where they intend to strike next.”
“The targets have clearly been growing in significance,” O’Quinn said.
“And they’ve been denied in their latest outing, which ought to scare us all, in what they might be planning next.”
“The Kaaba in Mecca might be a possible target. I’ll see to it that the Saudis are advised to increase security,” O’Quinn said.
“We’ve got analysts working overtime on the matter,” the CIA man added. In the true Washington vernacular of helplessness, he added, “We’re doing everything we can.”
Braxton brushed off the comment with a glare. “Let me tell you what to do,” Braxton said, leaning forward over his desk while eyeballing both intelligence men with ire. “It’s really a simple exercise to put a stop to this. All you have to do,” he said, his voice rising to a fever pitch, “is find me the rest of those explosives!”
52
The Ottoman Star eased into the cove north of the Dardanelles late in the afternoon, docking at the long pier that now stood empty. Beneath the adjacent rippled waters, the sunken workboat still sat on the sandy bottom, waiting for the shore crane and a dive crew to raise it from the depths.
Standing on the ship’s bridge, Maria was surprised to note her brother’s Jaguar parked on the dock. Celik watched as the ship approached the pier, then emerged from the Jaguar’s backseat as the mooring lines were secured. He briskly stepped down the quay with an attaché case tucked under his arm and boarded the ship.
“I wasn’t expecting you to meet me here, Ozden,” Maria said by way of a greeting.
“Time is short,” he replied, gazing about the bridge with an agitated expression. The captain and helmsman caught his drift and quickly stepped off the bridge, leaving Celik alone with his sister.
“I heard that the police searched the facilities after we departed,” Maria said. “Is it not dangerous for you to be here?”
Celik smirked. “The local police have been well paid to look after our interests. They paid a cursory visit and were kept away from the warehouses.” The police investigators reminded him of the assault by the NUMA men, and he subconsciously rubbed the spot on his head where Pitt had clubbed him.
“Those Americans will pay for their intrusion,” he said in a guttural tone. “But we have more important matters to address first.”
Maria braced for the onslaught over the failure at Jerusalem, but the expected outburst never materialized. Celik quietly gazed out the forward window, eyeing the empty dock.
“Where is the Sultana ?”
“I left it in Beirut to complete the repair work. The crew will bring her to Istanbul in a few days.”
Celik nodded, then stepped close to his sister.
“Now, tell me, Maria, why did the mission fail?”
“I am uncertain myself,” she replied calmly. “The primary charge failed to detonate. It was set with multiple fuzes, and I am positive it was staged properly. There must have been outside interference. Even the secondary charge should have produced more damage. I suspect the Israeli archaeologist who was killed may have somehow disabled some of the charges.”
“The results were disappointing,” Celik replied, suppressing his usual vitriol, “but I am thankful for your safe return.”
“We put the Lebanese smugglers ashore in Tripoli on the voyage back, so the Israelis have nowhere to search and no trail to follow.”
“You have always covered your tracks well, Maria.”
Despite his unusually calm demeanor, she could see the distress in his face.
“How is the Mufti faring?” she asked.
“He is campaigning like a professional politician and has won the public support of some key members of the Grand National Assembly. But he is still trailing in the polls by at least five percentage points, and we have just days to go before the election.” He looked at her with an admonishing gaze. “The Jerusalem attack failed to give us the boost that is necessary for us to win.”
“Perhaps it is beyond our control,” she said.
Maria’s words suddenly released the anger that Celik had kept bottled up.
“No!” he shouted. “We are too close. We must not fail to seize the opportunity. The restoration of our family empire is at stake,” he said, nearly tasting the power of his own planned ascension. The mad eyes were suddenly ablaze, and his face pulsed red with fury. “We cannot let this chance slip through our fingers.”
“The Golden Horn?”
“Yes,” he replied, opening his attaché case and pulling out a map. “The intercept must occur tomorrow night,” he said, handing her a folder. “Enclosed is the target ship’s schedule and route. Can you be ready?”
Maria looked at her brother with trepidation.
“Yes, I believe so,” she said quietly.
“Good. There is a team of Janissaries waiting to board the ship who will act in support of the operation. I will be counting on you.”
“Ozden, are you sure you want to do this?” she asked. “The risks are high. It will mean the death of a great many of our own countrymen. And I fear the repercussions if we don’t succeed.”
Celik stared at his sister with a gaze born of delusion, then nodded firmly.
“It is the only way.”
53
Abel Hammet watched the rays of the setting sun sparkle like balls of fire atop the loafing waves of the Mediterranean. Standing on an open bridge wing, the Israeli ship captain watched the sun drop beneath the horizon, ushering in a welcome evening breeze. Sucking in deep breaths of the cool air, he swore he could detect the smell of Turkish pine trees from the shoreline ahead. Peering over the distant prow of his vessel, he could just begin making out a few twinkling lights along the southern Turkish coast. Temporarily refreshed, he stepped back onto the bridge of the Dayan to complete his watch.
At just under a hundred meters in length, the Dayan was a relatively small tanker, certainly minuscule in comparison to the supertankers that plied oil from the Persian Gulf. Though sharing most of the characteristics of the crude carriers, she had actually been purpose-built for a slightly different cargo: fresh water. Spurred by a recent trade agreement, the Israeli government had three identical vessels constructed to transport water to its dry and dusty shores.
Sitting two hundred and fifty miles across the Mediterranean from Israel, Turkey was one of the few countries in the arid region that actually possessed a surplus of fresh water. Controlling the headwaters of both the Tigris and Euphrates, as well as other rich highland rivers, it sat on a strategic resource that would only grow in importance in the coming decades. Tapping it as a new export, the country had agreed to sell a tiny fraction of its water to Israel in a trial trade deal.
Dayan carried just over a million gallons, and Hammet knew its contribution to Israel’s water supply was a drop in the bucket, but the biweekly commutes across the Med ultimately added up. For him, it was easy sea duty, and he and his nine-man crew enjoyed the work.
Standing in the center of the wheelhouse, he studied the ship’s progress on a navigation monitor.
“Engine back two-thirds,” he ordered the helmsman. “We’re forty miles from Manavgat. No use in us arriving before daybreak since the pumping facility won’t be manned any earlier.”
The helmsman repeated the order as the speed was reduced on the ship’s single engine. Riding high on the sea with an empty hold, the tanker gradually slowed from twelve knots to eight. As midnight approached a few hours later, the executive officer appeared on deck to relieve the captain. Hammet took a final scan of the radar system before turning in.
“There’s a vessel coming up behind us off our port flank, but otherwise the seas are clear,” he told the exec. “Just keep us off the beach, Zev.”
“Yes, Captain,” the man replied. “No midnight swims tonight.”
Hammet retired to his cabin a deck below and quickly fell asleep. But he awoke a short time later, feeling something amiss. Shaking away the cobwebs, he realized that the ship’s engine was not throbbing and shuddering through the deck as usual when under way. He thought it odd that no one had come to wake him if there was a navigational problem or mechanical issue with the ship.
Slipping on a bathrobe, the captain exited his cabin and climbed a stairwell up to the bridge. Stepping into the darkened wheelhouse, Hammet froze in shock. A few feet in front of him, the executive officer was lying facedown in a small pool of blood.
“What’s going on here?” he barked at the helmsman.
The helmsman stared back at him in wide-eyed silence. Under the dimmed lights of the bridge, Hammet could see that the young man had an ugly gash across the side of his face. The captain’s vision was suddenly diverted out the forward window, where he noticed the lights of another vessel shining dangerously close to the tanker’s port beam.
“Hard right rudder!” he shouted at the helmsman, ignoring a rustling behind him.
A tall figure emerged from the back wall, dressed in black, with an ebony ski mask covering his head and face. In his hands, he held an assault rifle, which he raised to shoulder height. The helmsman ignored Hammet’s command, merely staring as the gunman stepped closer. Hammet turned and looked just in time to see the rifle whipping toward his face. He heard the crash of the gun’s stock strike him on the side of the jaw an instant before a flash of pain surged through him like a bolt of lightning. He felt his knees buckle, and then the pain vanished as everything turned to black and he joined his executive officer flat on the deck.
54
“Ridley, my friend, come in, come in.”
The Fat Man’s voice sounded like sand in a mixer as he welcomed Bannister into his Tel Aviv apartment for the second time in as many weeks.
“Thank you, Oscar,” the archaeologist replied, strutting in with an air of confidence that had been notably lacking on his last visit.
Gutzman led him to a sitting area, where a thin, well-dressed Arab sat at a nearby desk, reviewing some documents. He looked up, eyeing Bannister with a suspicious stare.
“That is Alfar, one of my curators,” Gutzman said with a derisive wave of his hand. Catching a look of caution in Bannister’s face, he added, “Do not worry. His ears are safe.”
Gutzman reached his favorite sitting chair and tumbled into it without grace.
“Now, what is of such importance that you have called on me again so soon?” he asked.
Bannister spoke quietly, buttering up his victim for the kill.
“Oscar, you know as well as I that hunting for history is at best a speculative business. We may search for days, weeks, or even years for that one monumental discovery and still come up empty. Sure, along the way there may be important finds and occasionally the exciting piece that taps the imagination. Most of the effort usually ends up going for naught. But there is always the chance of that rare instance where the stars are in alignment and one is very, very lucky to find a singular gift from the heavens.”
He leaned forward in his chair for effect and stared into the Fat Man’s eyes.
“Oscar, I believe I may be on the verge of such a find.”
“Well, what is it, my boy?” Gutzman wheezed. “Don’t toy with me.”
“I was just in London for a short visit and happened to call on an antiquities dealer I’ve known for a number of years. He recently acquired a cache of items stolen years ago from the Church of England’s archives,” he lied, pausing, again for effect.
“Go on.”
“A portion of the material contained original artwork, jewelry, and artifacts liberated from the Holy Land during the Crusades.” Bannister looked cautiously back and forth across the room, then added in a low voice, “Included in the works was an original copy of the Manifest.”
Gutzman’s eyes inflated like balloons.
“Are… are you serious?” he rasped. He tried to contain his excitement, but his face turned flush with exaltation.
“Yes,” Bannister replied, producing an intentionally poor photocopy of the papyrus document. “I have not seen the original myself, but I’ve been assured that it is authentic.”
Gutzman studied the page for several minutes without uttering a word. Only the ruffling of the page in his unsteady fingers disturbed the silent room.
“It exists,” he finally said in a hushed tone. “I cannot believe by God’s good graces that it has come to be.” The old man then looked at Bannister sternly. “This dealer, he will sell it to me?”
