PITT STOOD IN THE TERMINAL WAITING AREA AND LET OUT a slow sigh of relief. Looking out the window, he watched Loren’s plane back away from the gate and head toward a line of jets awaiting takeoff from Atatürk International Airport. At last he could relax, knowing his wife was out of danger.
It had been an uneasy interval since he had stood on the dock of Yenikoy and watched the would-be assassins sail off on the Bosphorus ferry. He and Loren had quickly hailed a cab and raced back to Istanbul, sneaking into the rear entrance of their hotel and quietly checking out. They crisscrossed the city to ensure they weren’t being followed, then checked into a modest hotel near the airport for the night.
“We probably should have gone to the U.S. Mission and reported the whole thing,” Loren complained as they entered their bland room. “They could have at least provided us security at a nice hotel.”
“You’re right,” Pitt conceded. “After thirty-seven briefings with a dozen bureaucrats, they’d probably find a safe place for us by a week from Thursday.” He wasn’t surprised that she hadn’t pushed for diplomatic aid earlier. Despite her years in Congress, she rarely used her status to press for special treatment.
“The State Department is going to hear about it all the same,” she replied. “Those creeps need to be put behind bars.”
“Just do me a favor and wait until you are safely home before you blow your horn.”
Rebooking their flights, he saw her off on the first departure to Washington. With time to kill before catching his flight to Chios, he ate breakfast at an airport café, then tried phoning Dr. Ruppé. He was surprised when the archaeologist answered the number in Rome he had given Pitt.
“You calling from the airport?” Ruppé asked as a highly amplified boarding announcement blared from a speaker above Pitt’s head.
“Yes, I just saw Loren off and I’m waiting for my flight out.”
“I thought you two were staying another day.”
Pitt filled him in on their adventure up the Bosphorus.
“Thank goodness you two are safe,” Ruppé said, shocked at the story. “Those guys must certainly be well connected. Have you reported this to the police?”
“No,” Pitt replied. “I was a bit leery after they discovered our whereabouts so quickly.”
“Probably a wise move. The Turkish police have had a reputation for corruption. And based on my spate of bad news, you were probably right to think that way.”
“What happened?”
“I got a call from my assistant at the museum. Apparently, someone broke into my office and tossed the place during daylight hours. The good news is, they didn’t find my safe, so your gold crown is still safe.”
“And the bad news?”
“They took the coins and some of my papers, which included your charts showing the location of the wreck. I can’t say for sure, but it would seem to me there has to be a connection with all these events. Nothing like this has ever happened to me before.”
“Another by-product of the leaky Turkish police?” Pitt asked.
“Might well be. My assistant already reported the crime, and they are conducting an investigation. But like the Topkapi robbery, they claim to be working without any leads.”
“They ought to have a bushelful by now,” Pitt lamented.
“Well, I guess there’s not much more to be done. I’ll try to have an interpretation of your crown when I get back to Istanbul.”
“Take care, Rey. I’ll call in a few days.”
Pitt hung up the phone, hoping that his involvement with the Topkapi thieves was at an end.
But deep down, he had a feeling that it wasn’t.
18
THE MOROCCAN-STYLED VILLA COMMANDED AN ARRESTing view of the Mediterranean from its rocky perch along the Turkish coastline. While not as gargantuan as some of the moneyed estates situated near the sea, it was built with a discerning eye for detail. Exquisitely glazed tiles covered every external wall, while miniature spires capped each roofline. Yet functionality superseded opulence, and a high premium was placed on the resident’s privacy. A high stone wall encircled the landward perimeter, obscuring the interior compound from the eyes of locals and tourists alike who traveled along the coastal road to the nearby beach resort of Kusadasi.
Ozden Celik stood at a large picture window, staring beyond the shimmering blue sea toward the faint outline of Samos, a Greek island fifteen miles away.
“It is a travesty that the islands off our own shore have been taken by another nation,” he said bitterly.
Maria sat at a nearby desk, reviewing a stack of financial documents. The sunlit room was decorated similarly to the Bosphorus office, with tribal rugs on the floor and collectible artifacts from the Ottoman era gracing the walls and shelves.