As he nudged the stick forward, their attention was caught by a dark silhouette on the horizon ahead. It was another vessel, low-set and sinister, lying motionless several kilometres off Seaquest’s bows.
They all knew what they were looking at. It was the reason why Jack had been recalled so urgently from Alexandria. Katya and Costas went silent, their minds reverting from the excitement of archaeology to the sobering problems of the present. Jack set his jaw in grim determination as he made a perfect landing inside the orange circle on the helipad. His calm assurance belied the rage that welled up inside him. He had known their excavation would be discovered, but he had not expected it quite so soon. Their opponents had access to ex-Soviet satellite surveillance that could make out a man’s face from an orbital height of four hundred kilometres. Seaquest was totally exposed in the cloudless summer skies of the Mediterranean, and the fact that she had stayed put for several days had obviously excited interest.
“Check this out. It came up yesterday before I flew out.”
Costas was leading Jack and Katya through the maze of tables in Seaquest’s conservation lab. The tungsten bulbs in the overhead gantry cast a brilliant optical light over the scene. A group of white-coated technicians were busy cleaning and recording the dozens of precious artefacts that had come up from the Minoan wreck over the last two days, preparing them for conservation before being readied for display. At the far end Costas stopped beside a low bench and gingerly lifted the covering from an object about a metre high.
Katya drew in her breath with astonishment. It was a life-sized bull’s head, its flesh black steatite from Egypt, its eyes lapis lazuli from Afghanistan, its horns solid gold capped with sparkling rubies from India. A hole in the mouth showed it was a rhyton, a hollowed-out libation vessel for offerings to the gods. A rhyton as sumptuous as this could only have been used by the high priests in the most sacred ceremonies of the Minoan world.
“It’s beautiful,” she murmured. “Picasso would have loved it.”
“A brilliant centrepiece for the exhibit,” Costas said.
“In the maritime museum?” Katya asked.
“Jack earmarked one of the trireme sheds for his long-cherished Minoan wreck. It’s almost full and the excavation’s hardly begun.”
IMU’s Mediterranean base was the ancient site of Carthage in Tunisia, where the circular war harbour of the Phoenicians had been magnificently reconstructed. The sheds once used for oared galleys now housed the finds from the many ancient shipwrecks they had excavated.
Jack suddenly seethed with anger. That such a priceless artefact should fall into the hands of the criminal underworld was unconscionable. Even the safe haven of the museum was no longer an option. When that silhouette had appeared on the horizon, it had been decided to abandon the regular helicopter shuttle. The Lynx had a supercharge capacity, enabling it to outrun virtually any other rotary-winged aircraft over short distances, but it was as vulnerable as any subsonic aircraft to laser-guided ship-to-air missiles. Their enemy would pinpoint the crash site with GPS and then retrieve the wreckage using submersible remote-operated vehicles. Any surviving crew would be summarily executed and the artefacts would disappear forever as attacker’s booty.
It was a new and lethal form of piracy on the high seas.
Jack and his companions made their way to the captain’s day cabin. Tom York, the vessel’s master, was a compact, white-haired Englishman who had finished a distinguished career in the Royal Navy as captain of a jump-jet carrier. Opposite him sat a ruggedly handsome man whose physique had been honed as a rugby international for his native New Zealand. Peter Howe had spent twenty years in the Royal Marines and Australian Special Air Service and was now IMU’s chief security officer. He had flown in from IMU’s Cornwall headquarters in England the night before. Howe had been a friend of Jack’s since schooldays and all three had served together in naval intelligence.
“I couldn’t fit in our climbing gear.” Howe gave Jack a rueful look.
“No problem.” Jack’s face creased into a smile. “I’ll have it airfreighted out. We’ll find a mountain to climb when this is done.”
On the table lay a two-way UHF radio and an Admiralty Chart of the Aegean. Costas and Katya squeezed in beside York and Howe. Jack remained standing, his tall frame filling the doorway and his voice suddenly terse and to the point.
“Right. What do we have?”
“It’s a new one on us,” Howe said. “His name is Aslan.”
Katya visibly shuddered, her eyes widening in disbelief. “Aslan.” Her voice was barely audible.
“You know this man?” Jack asked.
“I know this man.” She spoke haltingly. “Aslan — it means Lion. He is…” She hesitated, her face pale. “He is a warlord, a gangster. The worst.”
“From Kazakhstan, to be precise.” Tom York pulled out a photograph and slapped it down on the chart. “I received this by email from the IMU press agency in London a few minutes ago.”
It showed a group of men in combat fatigues and traditional Islamic gear. The backdrop was a barren landscape of sun-scorched ravines and scree slopes. They held Kalashnikovs and the ground in front was piled high with Soviet-era weaponry, from heavy-calibre machine guns to RPG launchers.
It was not so much the bristling arsenal that caught their attention, such images being commonplace since the early days of the mujahedin in Afghanistan; it was the figure sitting in the centre. He was a man of awesome bulk, his hands grasping his knees and his elbows jutting out defiantly. In contrast to the khaki that surrounded him, he wore a billowing white robe and a close-fitting cap. The hint of a moustache showed on either side of his mouth. The face had once been fine-featured, even handsome, with the arched nose and high cheekbones of the nomads of central Asia. The eyes that stared out of sunken sockets were jet-black and piercing.
“Aslan,” York said. “Real name Piotr Alexandrovich Nazarbetov. Father a Mongolian, mother from Kyrgyzstan. Based in Kazakhstan but has a stronghold on the Black Sea in Abkhazia, the breakaway province of the Georgian Republic. A former Soviet Academician and Professor of Art History at Bishkek University, would you believe.”
Howe nodded. This was his area of expertise. “All manner of people have been seduced by the huge profits of crime in this part of the world. And it takes an art historian to know the value of antiquities and where to find them.” He glanced at the newcomers. “I’m sure you’re all familiar with the situation in Kazakhstan.” He gestured at the map on the wall behind him. “It’s the usual story. Kazakhastan gains independence following the collapse of the Soviet Union. But the government’s run by the former Communist Party boss. Corruption is rife and democracy a farce. Despite oil reserves and foreign investment, there’s a progressive breakdown in internal security. A popular uprising gives the Russians an excuse to send in the army, which is withdrawn after a bloody war. The nationalist forces are severely weakened and the place is left in anarchy.”
“And then the warlords move in,” Costas interjected.
“Right. The insurgents who once fought together against the Russians now compete with each other to fill the vacuum. The idealists of the early days are replaced by thugs and religious extremists. The most ruthless murder and pillage their way across the country. They carve out territories for themselves like medieval barons, running their own armies and growing fat on drug and gun money.”