Two members of Jon’s party did not have their expenses underwritten by the ICO. Instead, American taxpayers footed their bill, and no one was even supposed to know they had anything to do with Jon’s group. They were, of course, two agents from the CIA, one sitting by himself at the rearmost seat in business class on the left side of the plane, the other taking the same position on the right. Jon grinned as he noted their navy blue serge suits and ties. If they were supposed to look like tourists, wouldn’t khaki Dockers and sport shirts have been more appropriate?
The plane landed with an emphatic bump at Ataturk Havalimani, the international airport west of Istanbul. The Turkish morning was bright and hot as Jon’s party descended the lofty aluminum port-a-stairway from the front of the plane, a strong semisirocco blowing up from Africa to the south and sending swirls of dust into the air.
At passport control, a welcoming committee from the Turkish Ministry of Culture greeted them amiably, led by the dapper and amply mustachioed director himself, Adnan Yilmaz. He would be their liaison with the Turkish government throughout their visit. Once their baggage was in hand, he whisked them through the various gateways set up to screen out troublemakers. Curbside, he reminded them of the final planning meeting for the debate, to be held in three days at the U.S. consulate in Istanbul, then ushered them inside two black Mercedes limousines emblazoned with insignia from the Turkish government.
So far, so good, thought Shannon, who was torn between the thrill of finally visiting one of the most exotic cities on earth and the fear that somewhere in that vast metropolis of thirteen million, there had to be at least a dozen or so fanatics who felt that they would please Allah by assassinating her husband-or both of them.
Her dread, however, was soon drenched by the improbable vista unfolding before them. To the south were the sparkling sapphire waters of the Sea of Marmara, alive with ships of every variety sailing eastward or westward. Ahead and to the left, the central skyline of Istanbul grew ever larger, not with skyscrapers, as in other cities, but with huge, domed mosques, each surrounded by several stately minarets that looked for all the world like two- or three-stage guided missiles in stone, as if to guard the sanctity of the mosque.
Further eastward, and occupying the most commanding view of the waterfront, were the vast grounds of the Topkapi Palace-for centuries, the home of the great sultans of the Ottoman Empire that had at one time controlled the Mediterranean world and all of Balkan Europe as well. This was not one palace, but a virtual palatial city of its own, full of structures housing the sultans’ treasures in art and women too. From 1453 to the late nineteenth century, much of the world was ruled from here.
Jon was exuberant as he directed Shannon to the sights left and right. Their limos turned northward and were mounting the hill overlooking the Bosporus when he suddenly asked the driver to slow down.
“There, Shannon!” Jon exuded. “See those two great structures? The one to the left, with the six minarets, is the Blue Mosque. And the one to the right, with only four-” he suddenly shifted to a tone of near reverence-“is probably the greatest Christian monument in the entire world: Hagia Sophia.” He said the last in a choked whisper.
Shannon, too, was deeply moved. Hagia Sophia-Greek for “Holy Wisdom”-had been constructed 1,500 years ago by the great Byzantine emperor Justinian, who, on dedication day in AD 537, declared proudly, “Solomon, I have outdone thee!” He had indeed, with this first and largest domed structure in the world, the Christian exemplar from which every domed Muslim mosque since that time was patterned. And Hagia Sophia would be the place where the Muslim-Christian debate would take place that could change all of their lives.
“It’s such a shame that the Muslim conquerors added those minarets,” Shannon said. When Constantinople was taken over in 1453, the cathedral had been converted into a mosque. A mosque? Wait a minute…
“Jon, you can’t be planning to debate a Muslim opponent inside a mosque?”
He looked surprised. “Why not? I’m a generous sort and don’t mind giving him some home-field advantage.”
As he chuckled, the rest of her history knowledge fell into place. “Wait, I recall now. Ataturk, the founder of modern Turkey, converted Hagia Sophia from a mosque into a secular public museum.”
“Precisely.” Jon grinned. “But you were worried there for a minute, weren’t you?”
She swatted him playfully and sat back to enjoy the sights. Through crowded streets scented with dozens of different spices and jammed with humanity buying or selling at hundreds of open-air markets, the limos threaded their way down to the waterfront of the fabled Golden Horn. This was the inlet from the Bosporus-gilded each sunrise and sunset-that split the city and set off the triangular peninsula tip that was the heart of Istanbul. They crossed the Galata Bridge and drove up another hill in the eastern sector of the city, atop which stood the Istanbul Hilton, their headquarters while in Turkey.
Jon and Shannon’s suite was on the top floor of the Hilton, and they walked out onto their balcony to take in the commanding view to the south and west. Below them sprawled the great Turkish metropolis, with millions of citizens packed into its boulevards, parkways, streets, and alleys. To the south flowed the majestic Bosporus, that great waterway channeling water from the Black Sea into the Sea of Marmara and eventually into the Aegean and Mediterranean. The ominous drone of ships’ horns filled the air as ferries scuttled between Europe and Asia-a distance no more than the width of the waterway at that point. On a north-south axis, the ferries had to interweave themselves between the huge cargo ships sailing an easterly-westerly vector, their staccato horn blasts advertising a near miss from time to time.
A knock on the door of their suite interrupted Shannon’s reverie. They walked back from the veranda, and Jon opened the door. It was their two “guardian angels” from the CIA who wanted to sweep the room for any listening devices. Their code names were merely Click and Clack-perhaps in honor of the Tappet brothers on National Public Radio?-and they brushed off all requests for further identification, genially but firmly. Despite their best efforts, no bugs were found.
“Still,” Clack advised, “I wouldn’t mention anything supersensitive inside here.”
“Do we go out onto the balcony, then?” Jon asked.
“Never! Anyone down below could home in on you with telescopic audio.”
Shannon sighed. It seemed that from now on, the panoramic view would have to be enjoyed from within the safe confines of their suite.
Early the next afternoon, Jon and Shannon had an audience with the personage who had innocently lured them almost halfway across the world, the man with the official title, His All Holiness, Bartholomew II, Archbishop of Constantinople, New Rome and Ecumenical Patriarch, who was the 271st successor to the Apostle Andrew. Jon had already met and enjoyed instant rapport with the eastern pope at the Vatican III Council in Rome, the ecumenical conclave where a potential disaster to Christianity had been avoided.
The Eastern Orthodox Patriarchate was located on the eastern edge of the old city just north of the Sultan Selim mosque and overlooking the Golden Horn. The patriarchate was heavily walled-as was so much in that area of the world-but here with more reason. It had been subject to repeated bomb attacks by Muslim terrorists in recent years-a fact deplored by the secularist government of Turkey and the reason there was an official guard station near the entrance.
Inside the gate, Jon and Shannon received a warm welcome from an aide to the patriarch and were given a brief tour of the premises, including St. George’s Chapel with its great chandeliers of shimmering crystal. In the reception hall stood a lofty dais on two levels. On the upper dais was a throne to seat not a human being but a beautifully illuminated Bible, attesting to the supremacy of Scripture. Immediately in front of it but on the lower dais stood the patriarch’s throne of gold with red silk cushions that Bartholomew would have occupied were this a state reception.