Naz chuckled at her side. “Do not even try to take it all in. You will never move again.”
Caitlyn blinked and then turned a quick gaze upon Crouch. Her boss was equally starstruck and the two gave a self-conscious laugh.
“Geeks,” Alicia muttered. “Where to, Naz? Lead the way. I’m never comfortable inside a church for too long.”
Russo practically barked. “Ha ha. I wonder why.”
Caitlyn forced her legs forward as Naz led the way deeper inside. Though the hour was yet early the church was already crowded, jam-packed with camera-touting holiday makers, as noisy and busy as anywhere in Europe. Caitlyn fell in with the team, ignoring everything else, and tried to adapt as well as she could, still conscious of her inexperience, her naivety with most things military and the sharp learning curve that lay ahead. Back at MI5 the future had been assured, the present mapped out… structure and regulations put in place to help keep her secure. Those who conformed and listened and remained shrewd but undemanding were what they wanted. They didn’t want James Bond. Caitlyn could have conformed until the cows came home and the heavens collapsed if all had remained stable in her personal life. Even a hiccup could have been ridden out.
But what happened between her parents was far beyond a hiccup. It was the worst unimaginable upheaval. Life stopped having meaning for her right then; the connotations of it tugged at her all the time, even now as she walked with new colleagues through this magnificent structure. How on earth could she not have known what was happening?
Ahead, Naz slowed, waiting for a knot of people to disperse. Once their constant chatter had died away he beckoned the team over, motioning at them to gather around.
“And here lies the tomb of Enrico Dandolo, leader of the Fourth Crusade and the man responsible for the sack of Constantinople.”
Caitlyn looked at the ground. A simple plaque, a grave-marker bearing the name ‘Henricus Dandolo’, laid between rough borders of cement, lay humbly before them, protected by a simple rope and pedestal barrier. The marble floor all around it was cracked and worn as if parts had been uplifted or intentionally broken at some point in history.
“Somewhat unassuming,” Crouch noted. “This is Dandolo’s tomb?”
“Yes, or once was. Stories abound on this point as much as they do with most of history’s accuracies. Some say his bones were later dug up and scattered, possibly destroyed. Some say the Ottomans later desecrated his tomb. Some even say his body was quickly removed in anticipation of what may happen later. None of this matters. All we need to know is that once this was Dandolo’s tomb and it was put here, inside this church, for a reason known only to him.”
Caitlyn didn’t take her eyes from the grimy-looking marker. “Why?”
“Because we’re on a treasure hunt, Miss Nash,” Crouch said. “And if Dandolo stole the Hercules along with the Horses and wanted the worthy to know about it, then he will have left us a clue. Don’t forget, he ruled this place when he died.”
Caitlyn searched the floor with her gaze. “Certainly there’s no clue down there.”
“No. He would have wanted it to remain forever,” Naz said. “At least the life of the church.”
“Which leaves us with…” Healey, close to Caitlyn’s side, raised his head to take in the walls. The pale marble stone gave nothing away, jealously guarding its secrets now as it had for fifteen hundred years. Naz laughed.
“What did you expect? A poem? A map? A secret passage? The secret of the Hercules has lasted since 1204. Do not expect it to succumb so easily.”
Caitlyn quickly scanned their surroundings, seeing nothing out of the ordinary. The team allowed another group of tourists to pass by, listening to their chatter of Dandolo and Istanbul, and then came together again.
“Do we know anything else of this man?” Caitlyn suggested. “Something that might give us a clue.”
“Mostly what you have heard is all that is relevant,” Naz said.
“Then we already know,” Crouch said. “We already know the answer.”
“But where…” Caitlyn turned full circle. Sunlight fell across the grave from one side, its bright shafts catching her eye. No way would that old trick work — a time of day and a shaft of light pointing a way to the ultimate treasure. A tourist with a camera lens almost as long as his arm leaned past her, shielding the light as he took a close-up snap of the tomb. Beyond him a darker doorway led to even more of the second-floor loge. Crouch backed away, affording more people a view and recognizing that the thing they needed would need more thought.
“Dandolo,” he mused. “Constantinople. The Horses of St. Mark. Venice.” He absorbed the display afforded by the tomb and its surrounds, the passageways leading off, the ceiling and the extensive floor. In truth the entire area was oddly bland, offering little in the way of mystery. Indeed, a wooden guard cabin stood behind them, inappropriate but probably necessary.
Crouch let his gaze wander.
Alicia and Russo, remaining distant, continued to guard the team’s perimeter. Caitlyn entertained a moment of irrationality where she questioned the need for a guard inside this church, then again understood just how far she had to go to become a true team member.
Stupid girl.
“Ya see that statue?” Alicia was bantering with her large companion. “Bet you can’t break it apart with your bare hands.”
“Don’t you ever shut up?”
“Only when I’m fighting.”
Russo placed his hands together as if wishing for an adversary to turn up.
“Careful. You do that inside here too often they’ll bronze you and stick you on a pedestal.”
Caitlyn’s attention wandered again, back to Crouch who was staring into the middle-distance, then to Naz who was kneeling beyond the rope line, hands resting against Dandolo’s grave marker as if it might be persuaded to reveal its innermost secrets. A beam of sunlight penetrated the clouds for a moment, filling the windows and glancing across the tomb.
The windows.
Crouch turned to her, his face alight, sunshine not the only glow lighting his features. “The windows!” he said.
EIGHT
Naz rose to face them, puzzled. “What are you talking about?”
Crouch grabbed the man’s arm in his excitement. “The windows,” he whispered. “Which set looks out onto the Hippodrome?”
“There is no Hippodrome anymore.”
“I know. But in Dandolo’s day. When the Horses of St. Mark surmounted it.”
Naz looked like he’d experienced a sudden revelation. “Of course! The tomb was built here, in full view of the windows that stare out at the object of Constantinople that he coveted most, and stole.” The archaeologist did a quick mental shuffle. “Those.” He pointed and raced off.
“Slow down.” Crouch caught him fast. “If anyone is watching…”
Naz’s quick exuberance dissipated. “You mean the crazy woman?”
“Yes. And who knows what other trolls we may have picked up along the way.”
“Trolls?” Naz’s tone was confused.
“Trolls, yes. Those who seek to upset and destroy. From the one-star reviewers to the social media scavengers and nuisance hackers. Our intentions may be good, my friend, but that doesn’t mean those we attract feel the same. So take it steady and look like a sightseer.”
Gradually, the group gravitated over to the group of windows in question. As Caitlyn already knew they were made of stained glass and colorful — an arch of greens and blacks forming over individual panes tinted various hues of blue, red, white and green. As a whole each window was a simply stunning vision, but taken by individual panes and dissected, each one painted a different picture. Caitlyn counted eight separate panes to each window on the wall, which amounted to thirty two different scenes. Nonchalantly, but more carefully than she could have believed possible, she examined each one.