“I’m sure they do, but how accurate could they be?”
Tom paused and then nodded in understanding. “John Harrison wouldn’t have completed building his first Sea Clock until 1730 — which means that any reference to the Skeleton Coast prior to that would have been based on a known latitude and visual guess work, without any reference to longitude.”
“Exactly, which means we’re back to square one. Looking for the lost pyramid of the Kalahari Desert.”
“Yeah, without any leads,” Tom said. His voice was hard and despondent as he spoke. “We could try ground penetrating LIDAR swathes from the air… but the Kalahari Desert’s a big place. We might just end up spending the rest of our lives searching before we found any evidence of the pyramid.”
Sam’s cell phone rang. He answered it, spoke briefly, and then hung up. A small glint of a smile creased his lips. “Change of plans. Forget the Kalahari for the moment. That was Elise on the phone. I need you to go to Istanbul instead.”
Tom nodded. “Sure. What’s in Istanbul?”
“Elise thinks she’s tracked down Peter Smyth and he might have an idea where the Mary Rose sank in the Black Sea in 1653. The Mary Rose was the first expedition to the Third Temple, so theoretically, if we find her, we might find a link to where she was going.”
“Great. When do we leave?”
“Not we. Just you. I’ve told Elise to recall the rest of the Maria Helena crew from their vacation and send them to the Black Sea to meet you.”
“Okay, you’re not coming, too?”
“No. I have somewhere else to be.”
“Really?” Tom asked. “Where are you going?”
“Paris. I have to attend an auction.”
“An auction? What are you looking to buy?”
Sam’s jaw fixed into a hardened grin. “Finally, some answers.”
Chapter Twenty-Eight — Derinkuyu
Dmitri Vernon pulled up at the house in a rented black sedan. Out in the front were several police officers making notes and talking animatedly on their cell-phones. It was late in the evening, and they all looked like they’d been there all day. A local news crew was filming from thirty feet away, just behind the cordoned off police lines. He took a deep breath and stepped out of the car. They were already making a circus out of his damned show.
He wore a tailor-fitted black suit with no brand name. He was six foot-two, but his perfectly proportioned physique gave him the appearance of a more modest stature. He wore dark impenetrable aviator sunglasses and the surly expression of a man accustomed to displeasure. He took little interest and no pleasure in his work today. It would be yet another false alarm. Not that it mattered. The timing was definitely getting closer. He had waited long enough and soon he would find what he was after. He ignored the local law enforcement officers, ducked under the police containment line, and entered the house.
A detective quickly approached. “Excuse me! Who are you and what are you doing here?”
Dmitri acknowledged the man. “Are you in charge here?”
“Yes. My name is Harun Ismet and this is my scene. Who are you?”
“My name’s Dmitri.” He handed his credentials to the detective. They gave his name as Dmitri Vernon. Below on the identification card were the words, Interpol, Special Agent. Under country of origin, were the letters, U.S.A.
The detective scrutinized the ID and then handed it back to him. “You’re an American?”
“Yes. But I’m based at Interpol’s headquarters in Lyon, France.”
“Are you taking over my case?” the detective asked.
Dmitri shook his head and feigned a gracious smile. “No. I’m just here to have a look at something.”
Contrary to popular perception, the international policing organization does not have its own prisons or carry out arrests. Instead it acts behind the scenes, collating masses of intelligence and coordinating police efforts internationally. Dmitri liked to think this added to its mystique. His work generally went unnoticed, eclipsed by the national police forces that make the arrests and headlines, while Interpol rarely receives more than a line or two in news reports. The organization is a ghostly presence, informing operations on the ground, but never getting its hands dirty.
A wry smile came over the detective’s face. “What interest does Interpol have with this case?”
“Probably very little. But the MO triggered something on our database for a previous crime, so they sent me to have a look.”
“You could have called. We could have faxed you our report.”
“No. I needed to see the scene with my own eyes.”
Ismet nodded. “Follow me through to the back of the house. He’s on the bottom level.”
Dmitri followed without speaking. The house, like many of the other ones in the region, had been dug into the side of the hill, where porous volcanic stone had been easy to tunnel.
“How did you get here so fast?” Ismet asked, as he climbed down the ladder. “We only got called to the property three hours ago.”
Dmitri turned to climb backwards down the narrow ladder. “I just happened to be in the area.”
“Really? I wasn’t aware of any operations with Interpol currently being run in my jurisdiction?”
Dmitri forced himself to smile. “No. I was here entirely on vacation when they called and asked if I could check it out.”
Ismet stared at him. He wore his opinion on his open face — the man didn’t believe a word that Dmitri had said — clearly Dmitri was here for a purpose. Unable to find a reason to challenge him, Ismet ignored the statement. “All right. He’s on the other side of this door, but it’s not a very nice sight. Of course, you’d already know that.”
“Do you know who he is? Or technically, who he was?”
“His name’s Kahraman Sadik.”
He didn’t recognize the name. “Is he known to you?”
“Does he have any priors?” Ismet asked. “No. He’s a good citizen. At least on record anyway.”
“What did he do?”
“He worked as a tour guide in the ancient city below for nearly twenty-five years.”
Dmitri nodded and opened the door. The light switch had been left on and it shined directly on the deceased man’s face. Dmitri took in the entire scene in a glance. The deceased was short. He had been stripped bare and his hands and feet had been nailed onto the wood of a small cross at the center of the room. His stomach appeared unnaturally large. A recent surgical incision was noted just above his navel which had been neatly sewn up. Next to the body was an antique set of brass weighing scales. Although the nails appeared painful, he had no doubt they weren’t the cause of the man’s death.
He glanced at the detective. “Do you have a cause of death?”
“No. Only the wounds you can see clearly and none of them is lethal.” Ismet chuckled. It was the sort of thing only a seasoned detective could find amusing. “Of course, we don’t know what was done to his insides before being stitched up.”
Dmitri nodded and studied the deceased more carefully. A few minutes later he stopped at the man’s mouth. There was something inside. He removed a pair of blue nitrile gloves from his pocket and placed them on his hands. “Do you know what that is?”
“No idea. I wasn’t informed there was anything.”
Dmitri carefully opened the man’s mouth. “Do you mind if I have a look. See if it might answer some questions?”
“Sure,” Ismet said, appearing happy to have someone else perform the task.