“Thanks for the lift,” Pitt said as he attended to Lazlo.
“You boys were cutting it a bit close there,” Giordino replied.
“We got lucky. Maria Celik wanted to use us for target practice on the starboard rail, so we hiked up the deck. Happened to find a pair of lines that had been lowered over the port side, and we were scrambling down them as the ship turned turtle. We managed to make it over the keel, then slid down the other side to avoid the yacht.”
“You needn’t have worried,” Giordino said with a grin. “It got flattened like a pancake.”
“Any survivors?”
Giordino shook his head.
“Lazlo needs medical attention,” Pitt said. “We better get him to shore.”
He and Giordino helped him inside the submersible, then they motored toward the southern shoreline.
“That was some blast,” Giordino said to Pitt. “Could have been a lot worse.”
Pitt simply nodded quietly, staring out the cockpit window.
Ahead of them, the massive remains of the Israeli tanker rose up high by its stern. The vessel stood near vertical in an almost defiant manner before plunging beneath the waves with a rush. Somewhere not far across the strait, the twisted dreams of a renewed Ottoman dynasty sank with it.
83
The tanker explosion rattled Istanbul more politically than physically. The confirmed loss of the police boat and Coast Guard vessel in conjunction with the attack put the country’s military forces on high alert. When the tanker was identified as the Dayan , a flurry of high-level accusations between Turkey and Israel went flying across diplomatic channels. Protests by panic-stricken residents of the city nearly led to a military response. But fears of a Turkish/Israeli conflict were assuaged when the authorities found the Dayan ’s rescued crewmen.
Interviewed publicly, the crewmen detailed their hijacking and captivity at the hands of the unknown gunmen. Turkish sentiment quickly turned when the men described loading the explosives at gunpoint and almost dying aboard the ship but for their last-minute rescue. Privately, after checking Lazlo into a hospital, Pitt and Giordino had informed Turkish authorities of their role in sinking the tanker.
When U.S. intelligence secretly provided evidence that the same HMX explosives were used in the mosque attacks in Bursa, Cairo, and Jerusalem, the Turkish forces were quick to act. Secret raids were immediately carried out against Celik’s home, office, and port facilities, while the Ottoman Star was located in Greek waters and seized. As public pressure mounted to identify who committed the attack and why, the official investigation wasn’t kept quiet for long.
With the release of their names, Ozden and Maria Celik became public pariahs and a source of national embarrassment. When it was later discovered that they had orchestrated the break-in at Topkapi, the national embarrassment and anger turned to outright rage. Investigators and journalists alike dove into the pair’s concealed pasts, revealing their ties to the last Ottoman ruling family, as well as to underworld mobsters and drug runners who had kick-started Celik business holdings.
Inevitably, the Celiks’ financial dealings with Arab royalty were uncovered, leading to the revelation that millions of dollars had been funneled to Mufti Battal. The objective of the Celiks’ attacks became readily apparent, and public furor was directed to the Mufti and his Felicity Party. Although no evidence was found that the Mufti was involved or even aware of the terrorist attacks, the damage was done.
The final confirmation of the Celiks’ guilt was confirmed when divers were sent to the bottom of the Golden Horn. The mangled remains of the Sultana were located not far from the shattered hull of the tanker. A salvage team brought the wreck to the surface, where it was left to a police forensics team to remove the crushed body of Maria Celik from the flattened deck of the yacht.
His name in ruin, his assets seized, and his dead sister’s body held in the Istanbul city morgue, there was nothing left of Ozden Celik’s empire but the man himself.
Yet he had apparently vanished into nothingness.
84
The Friday noon prayer, called khutbah , was typically the highest-attended Muslim service of the week. It was the time when the resident mosque Imam would offer a separate, faith-inspiring sermon before leading the assemblage in prayer.
At Istanbul’s Fatih Mosque, the prayer hall remained oddly empty, despite the muezzin ’s recent call to prayer. The khutbah was normally packed to the gills, with dozens of people spilling out of the prayer hall and into the courtyard, hoping to catch a glimpse of Mufti Battal while listening to his words of hope. But that was not the case today.
Barely fifty ardent followers stood in the open hall as Mufti Battal entered and stepped to a raised platform near the mihrab . The once-mighty Mufti looked like he had aged twenty years in the past week. His eyes were sunken and cold, his skin pale and lifeless. The swagger and conceit that had fueled his rise to power was completely absent. Gazing at the sparse crowd, he trembled slightly, suppressing the single emotion of rage.
Speaking in a subdued voice, he began his homily railing against the dangerous, unchecked powers of the establishment. In uncharacteristic fashion, he was soon rambling incoherently, targeting a litany of perceived ills and threats. The somber faces staring back at him in disillusionment finally checked his diatribe. Ending his sermon abruptly, he recited a short passage from the Qur’an dealing with redemption, then led the small audience in prayer.
Not wishing to mingle with his brethren, Battal quickly stepped to the side of the prayer hall and entered an anteroom where he kept a small office. He was surprised to find a bearded man in the room seated in front of his desk. He was dressed in the faded white shirt and trousers of a laborer, and wore a wide-brimmed hat that partially covered his face.
“Who let you in here?” Battal thundered at the man.
The stranger stood and raised his head to look Battal in the eye, then tugged on his fake beard.
“I let myself in, Altan,” replied the haggard voice of Ozden Celik.
Beneath his commoner’s disguise, his appearance was not far removed from that of Battal’s. He had the same drawn, gaunt face and pasty skin. Only his eyes burned with a greater, somewhat crazed intensity.
“You have endangered me by coming here,” Battal hissed. He quickly stepped to the back door and opened it cautiously, sticking his head out in surveillance.
“Come, follow me,” he said to Celik, then slipped out the door.
He led him down a corridor, then entered a seldom-used storage room at the rear of the mosque. A washing machine was wedged into one corner, fronted by a cluster of old towels left to dry on a wire clothesline. As Celik followed him in, Battal closed the door behind him and locked it.
“Why have you come here?” he asked impatiently.
“I need your help to get out of the country.”
“Yes, your life is finished in Turkey. As nearly is mine.”
“I have sacrificed everything for you, Altan. My wealth, my property. Even my sister,” he added, his voice quivering. “It was all done for the aim of making you President.”
Battal stared at Celik with nothing but contempt.
“You have destroyed me, Ozden,” he said, his face flush with anger. “I was crushed in the election. My benefactors have disappeared. My congregation has abandoned me. All because you have tainted my reputation. And now this.”