Maria sat quietly on one side of the ship’s bridge, silently watching the captain deal with the small parade of port, customs, and trade representatives who filed aboard in search of paperwork and money. Only when the local textile distributor complained about his short shipment did she intervene.
“We were forced to accelerate our departure,” she said bluntly. “You’ll receive the difference with the next shipment.”
The browbeaten distributor nodded, then left quietly, not wishing to tangle with the fiery woman who owned the ship.
The dockyard cranes were quickly engaged, and soon metal containers filled with Turkish textiles and produce were being rapidly unloaded from the ship. Maria stuck to her perch on the bridge, watching the work with disinterested eyes. Only when she spotted a dilapidated Toyota truck pull up and park alongside the gangway did she sit upright and stiffen. She turned to one of the Janissary guards that her brother had sent to accompany her on the voyage.
“A man I am to meet has just pulled up on the dock. Please search him carefully, then escort him to my cabin,” she ordered.
The Janissary nodded, then stepped briskly off the bridge. He was mildly surprised to find the driver of the truck was an Arab attired in scruffy peasant clothes and wearing a ragged keffiyehwrapped around his head. His dark eyes glared with intensity, however, deflecting attention from the long scar on the right side of his jaw, which he had acquired in a knife fight while a teen. The guard duly searched him, then showed him aboard, escorting him to Maria’s large and stylishly appointed cabin.
The Turkish woman sized him up quickly as she offered him a seat, then dismissed the Janissary from her cabin.
“Thank you for coming here to meet me, Zakkar. If that is indeed your name,” she added.
The Arab smiled thinly. “You may call me Zakkar. Or any other name, if it so pleases you.”
“Your talents have come highly recommended.”
“Perhaps that is why so few can afford me,” he replied, removing the dirty keffiyehand tossing it onto an adjacent chair. Seeing that his hair was trimmed in a neat Western cut, Maria realized that the grubby outfit was simply a disguise. Given a shave and a suit, he could easily pass as a successful businessman, she thought, not knowing that he often did.
“You have the initial payment?” he asked.
Maria rose and retrieved a leather satchel from a cabinet drawer.
“Twenty-five percent of the total, as we agreed. Payment is in euros. The balance will be wired into a Lebanese bank account, according to your instructions.”
She stepped closer to Zakkar but clung to the satchel.
“The security of this operation must be unquestioned,” she said. “No one is to be involved who is less than completely trustworthy.”
“I would not be alive today if conditions were otherwise,” he replied coldly. He pointed at the satchel. “My men are willing to die for the right price.”
“That will not be necessary,” she said, handing him the satchel.
As he peered inside at its contents, Maria stepped to a bureau and retrieved several rolled-up charts.
“Are you familiar with Jerusalem?” she asked, laying the charts across a coffee table.
“I operate in Israel a good portion of the time. It is Jerusalem where I am to transport the explosives?”
“Yes. Twenty-five kilos of HMX.”
Zakkar raised his brow at the mention of the plastic explosives. “Impressive,” he murmured.
“I will require your assistance in placing the explosives,” she said. “There may be some excavation work required.”
“Of course. That is not a problem.”
She unrolled the first chart, an antiquated map labeled, in Turkish, “Underground Water Routes of Ancient Jerusalem.” Placing it aside, she displayed an enlarged satellite photograph of Jerusalem’s walled Old City. She traced a finger across the eastern face of the wall to the hillside beyond, which descended into the Kidron Valley. Her finger froze atop a large Muslim cemetery perched on the hill, its individual white gravestones visible in the photo.
“I will meet you here, at this cemetery, at exactly eleven p.m., two nights from now,” she said.
Zakkar studied the photo, noting the nearby cross streets, which were overlaid on the image. Once they were committed to memory, he looked up at Maria with a quizzical gaze.
“You will be meeting us there?” he asked.
“Yes. The ship will be sailing from here to Haifa.” She paused, then added firmly, “I will be leading the operation.”
The Arab nearly scoffed at the notion of a woman directing him on an assignment, but then he considered the handsome payoff he would receive for the indignity.
“I will be there with the explosives,” he promised.
She moved to her bunk and pulled out a pair of wooden foot-lockers stored underneath. The heavy lockers had metal handles affixed to each end and were stenciled with the words “Medical Supplies,” written in Hebrew.
“Here is the HMX. I will have my guards carry it to the dock.”
She stepped to the Arab mercenary and looked him hard in the eye.
“One last thing. I want no cowardice over our objective.”
Zakkar smiled. “As long as it is in Israel, I do not care what or whom you destroy.”
He turned and opened the door. “Till Jerusalem. May Allah be with you.”
“And also with you,” Maria muttered, but the Arab had already slid down the corridor, the Janissary following close behind.
After the explosives were transported to the Arab’s truck, Maria sat down and studied the photograph of Jerusalem once more. From the antiquated cemetery, she eyed the glistening target positioned just up the hill.
We’ll shake up the world this time, she thought to herself, before carefully returning the photograph and charts to a locked cabinet.
42
Rudi Gunn paced the bridge like a nervous cat. Though the bump on his head had long since receded, a purple bruise still blemished his temple. Every few steps, he would stop and scan the weathered dock of Çanakkale for signs of relief. Finding none, he would shake his head and resume pacing.
“This is crazy. We’re on our third day of impoundment. When are we going to be released?”
Pitt looked up from the chart table, where he was studying a map of the Turkish coast with Captain Kenfield.
“Our consulate in Istanbul has assured me that our release is imminent. The necessary paperwork is promised to be meandering through the local bureaucracy even as we speak.”
“The whole situation is outrageous,” Gunn complained. “We’re placed in lockdown while the killers of Tang and Iverson are allowed to slip free.”
Pitt couldn’t argue with him, but he did understand the dilemma. Long before the Aegean Explorerhad contacted the Turkish Coast Guard, the marine authority had been alerted by two earlier radio calls. The first reported that the NUMA ship was illegally salvaging a historic Turkish shipwreck protected by the Cultural Ministry. The second call reported two divers killed during the salvage operation. The Turks refused to identify the source of the calls but rightfully acted on them in advance of the Aegean Explorer’s request.
Once the NUMA ship was escorted to the port city of Çanakkale and impounded, the case was turned over to the local police, further compounding the confusion. Pitt immediately phoned Dr. Ruppé in Istanbul to document their approved presence on the wreck site, then he phoned his wife, Loren. She quickly badgered the State Department to push for their immediate release even after the police had searched the ship and, finding no artifacts, slowly realized there was no basis for arrest.
Rod Zeibig ducked his head through the doorway and broke the air of exasperation.
“You guys got a minute?”