“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.
“That’s our boy,” Giordino said, examining the first photo. “What else do we know about him and his wife?”
“Maria is actually his sister. And data is somewhat scarce. Yaeger indicates that the Celiks are secretive types who keep a very low profile. He says he had to do some real digging to find any juice.”
“And did he?”
“Listen to this. A genealogical trace puts both Celiks as greatgrandchildren of Mehmed VI.”
Giordino shook his head. “Afraid I don’t know the name.”
“Mehmed VI was the last ruling Sultan of the Ottoman Empire. He and his clan were kicked off the throne and out of the country when Atatürk swept into power in 1923.”
“And now the poor boy has nothing to show for it but a mangy old freighter. No wonder he has a chip on his shoulder.”
“He apparently has a lot more than that,” Pitt said. “Yaeger believes the pair may be among the richest people in the country.”
“I guess some of that explains the fanaticism over the Ottoman shipwreck.”
“And the brashness of the Topkapi theft. Though there might have been another motivation.”
“Such as?”
“Yaeger found a possible financial link to an Istanbul marketing organization. The organization is helping promote the candidacy of Mufti Battal in the upcoming presidential election.”
Pitt set down the page he was reading. “Rey Ruppé in Istanbul told us about this Mufti. He has a large fundamentalist following and is viewed as a dangerous power in some circles.”
“Never hurts to have friends with deep pockets. I wonder what’s in it for Celik?”
“A question that might have an illuminating answer,” Pitt said.
He set down the last of the report and pondered the wealthy Turk and his savage sister while Giordino took a look at the satellite photos.
“I see the Ottoman Star has returned to home port,” Giordino said. “I wonder what a Greek tanker is doing alongside her.”
He slid the photo across the table for Pitt to examine. Pitt took a look at the high overhead shot of the now-familiar cove, spotting the freighter at the dock. On the opposite side of the dock was a small tanker ship, its blue-and-white flag barely visible atop its mast. The flag caught his eye, and Pitt studied it a moment before grabbing a magnifying glass from behind the chart table.
“That’s not a Greek flag,” he said. “The tanker is from Israel.”
“News to me that Israel has its own tanker fleet,” Giordino said.
“Did you say something about an Israeli tanker?” Captain Kenfield asked, overhearing the conversation from across the bridge.
“Al found one parked in the cove of our Turkish friends,” Pitt said.
Kenfield’s face turned pale. “While we were in port, there was an alert making the rounds about an Israeli tanker that went missing off the coast near Manavgat. It’s actually a water tanker.”
“I recall seeing one a few weeks back,” Pitt remarked. “What’s the size of the missing ship?”
“The ship was named the Dayan , I believe,” he said, stepping to a computer and performing a quick search. “She’s eight hundred gross tons and three hundred ten feet long.”
He turned the computer monitor toward Pitt and Giordino so that they could see a photograph of the ship. It was a dead match.
“The photos are less than twenty-four hours old,” Giordino said, noting a date stamp on the image.
“Captain, how’s your secure satellite phone working?” Pitt asked.
“Fully operational. Do you want to make a call?”
“Yes,” Pitt replied. “I think it’s time we call Washington.”
57
“O’Quinn, good of you to come by. Please, step inside and grab a seat.”
The intelligence officer was startled that the Vice President of the United States greeted him in the second-floor foyer of the Eisenhower Executive Office Building and personally showed him into his office. Washington protocol surely dictated that a secretary or aide escort a lesser being into the sanctified lair of the Number Two. But James Sandecker was that rare breed who had little use for such pageantry.
A retired Navy admiral, Sandecker had been responsible for founding the National Underwater and Marine Agency decades earlier and building it into a powerhouse oceanographic unit. He surprised everyone by passing the reins to Pitt and accepting a vice presidential appointment, where he hoped to further the cause of protecting the world’s oceans. A small but fiery individual with flaming red hair and goatee, Sandecker was known in the capital as a blunt and outspoken man who was nevertheless highly respected. O’Quinn had often been amused during intelligence briefings to see how quickly the Vice President could dissect an issue, or individual, in order to get to the heart of the matter.
Stepping into the large office, O’Quinn admired a collection of antique oil paintings, featuring old ships and racing yachts, which lined the paneled walls. He followed Sandecker to his desk and took a seat opposite of him.
“Do you miss the sea much, Mr. Vice President?”
“There’s no shortage of days that I’d prefer to be sailing something other than a desk,” Sandecker replied, reaching into a drawer and jamming a large cigar between his teeth. “Are you monitoring events in Turkey?” he asked pointedly.
“Yes, sir. That’s part of my regional assignment.”
“What do you know about a nutcase named Ozden Celik?”
O’Quinn had to think a moment. “He’s a Turkish businessman who’s been associated with members of the Saudi Royal Family. We think he might be involved in helping to finance the fundamentalist Felicity Party of Mufti Battal. Why do you ask?”
“He’s apparently been up to a few other things. You’re aware of the Israeli tanker ship that went missing two days ago?”
O’Quinn nodded, recalling mention of the incident in a daily briefing report.
“The vessel has been observed at a small shipping facility controlled by Celik a few miles north of the Dardanelles. I have reliable word that this Celik was behind the recent theft of Muslim artifacts at Topkapi.” Sandecker slid a satellite photo of the tanker across his desk.
“Topkapi?” O’Quinn repeated, his brows rising like a pair of drawbridges. “We believe there may be a link between the Topkapi theft and the recent mosque attacks at al-Azhar and the Dome of the Rock in Jerusalem.”
“The President is aware of that possibility.”
O’Quinn studied the satellite photograph.
“If I may ask, sir, how did you acquire this information?”
“Dirk Pitt at NUMA. Two of his scientists were killed by Celik’s men and a third kidnapped and taken to the same facility,” Sandecker replied, pointing to the photo. “Pitt got his man out, and he discovered a container of plastic explosives at the facility. An Army supply of HMX, to be exact.”
“HMX is the explosive compound identified from the mosque bombings,” O’Quinn said excitedly.
“Yes, I recall that from your presidential briefing.”
“Celik must be acting on behalf of Mufti Battal. It’s clear to me that the anonymous mosque attacks, utilizing our explosives, are an attempt to incite fundamentalist outrage across the Middle East, and particularly in Turkey. Their goal must be to sway public opinion in order to sweep Battal into office.”