Crescent Dawn (Dirk Pitt 21)

“Anything is possible,” Pitt replied. “It would seem somebody important was traveling aboard.”

Giordino took hold of the crown and placed it on his head at a rakish angle.

“King Al, at your service,” he said, with a wave of his arm. “Bet I could attract a fine local lady wearing this.”

“Along with some men in white jackets,” Pitt scoffed. “Let’s take a look at your lockbox.”

Giordino set the crown back into the ceramic case, then picked up the small iron box. As he did, the corroded padlock slipped off, dropping to the towel.

“Security ain’t what it used to be,” he muttered, setting the box back down. Emulating Pitt, he worked the edges of the lid with his fingers, prying the top off with a pop. Only a small amount of seawater sloshed about inside, for the container was filled nearly to the rim with coins.

“Talk about hitting the jackpot,” he grinned. “Looks like we may be in for an early retirement.”

“Thank you, no. I’d rather not spend my retirement years in a Turkish prison,” Pitt replied.

The coins were made of silver and badly corroded, several of them melded together. Pitt reached to the bottom of the pile and pulled out one that glimmered, a lone gold coin that hadn’t suffered the effects of corrosion. He held it up to his eye, noting an irregular stamp, indicative of hammered coinage. Swirling Arabic lettering was partially visible on both sides, surrounded by a serrated ring. Pitt could only guess as to the age and origin of the coin. The two men curiously examined the other coins, which in their condition revealed few markings.

“Based on our limited evidence, I’d guess we have an Ottoman wreck of some sort on our hands,” Pitt declared. “The coins don’t look Byzantine, which means fifteenth century or later.”

“Somebody should be able to date those accurately.”

“The coins were a lucky find,” Pitt agreed.

“I say fund the project another month and avoid going back to Washington.”

A battered Toyota pickup truck approached along the dock, squealing to a halt in front of the men. A smiling youth with big ears climbed out of the truck.

“A ride to the airport?” he asked haltingly.

“Yes, that’s me,” Pitt said, retrieving his overnight bag from the Zodiac.

“What about our goodies?” Giordino asked, carefully wrapping the items in the towel before the driver could examine them.

“To Istanbul with me, I’m afraid. I know the Director of Maritime Studies at the Istanbul Archaeology Museum. He’ll find a good home for the artifacts and hopefully tell us what we found.”

“I guess that means no wild night out on Chios for King Al,” Giordino said, passing the towel to Pitt.

Pitt glanced at the sleepy village ringing the harbor, then climbed into the idling truck.

“To be honest,” he said as the driver began pulling away, “I’m not sure Chios is ready for King Al.”

3

THE COMMUTER PLANE TOUCHED DOWN AT ATATÜRK International Airport in Istanbul just before dark. Scurrying around a mass of commercial jumbo jets like a mosquito in a beehive, the small plane pulled into an empty terminal slot and bumped to a halt.

Pitt was one of the last passengers off the plane and had barely stepped into the tiled terminal when he was mauled by a tall attractive woman with cinnamon-colored hair.

“You were supposed to beat me here,” Loren Smith said, pulling away after a deep embrace. “I was afraid you weren’t going to come at all.” Her violet eyes beamed with relief as she gazed at her husband.

Pitt crooked an arm around her waist and gave her a long kiss. “A tire problem on the plane delayed our departure. Have you been waiting long?”

“Less than an hour.” She crumpled her nose and licked her lips. “You taste salty.”

“Al and I found a shipwreck on the way to the airport.”

“I should have guessed,” she said, then gave him a scolding look. “I thought you told me flying and diving didn’t mix?”

“They don’t. But that puddle jumper I flew in on barely cleared a thousand feet, so I’m plenty safe.”