Crescent Dawn (Dirk Pitt 21)

“But you are not like them?”

“No,” the Sheikh replied thoughtfully. “I attended the Islamic University at Madinah. Since an early age, I have devoted myself to Allah. There is no greater purpose in life than to expound the words of the Prophet.” He turned slowly from the window with a distant look.

“The threats to our ways never cease,” he said. “In Cairo, the Zionists bomb al-Azhar, yet there is no global outrage.”

“Mufti Battal and I are outraged.”

“As am I. Such affronts cannot be ignored,” the Sheikh said.

“We must strengthen the foundation of our house to withstand all outside forces.”

The Sheikh nodded in agreement. “As you know, I have been blessed with a sizable fortune. I will continue to support the way of the Sunnah here. I share in the wisdom of Istanbul in venerating our past.”

“Upon it, we will build great blessings to Allah.”

The Sheikh eased toward the door. “I will arrange the transfer of funds shortly. Please pass my blessings to Mufti Battal.”

“He will be both grateful and delighted. Praise be to Allah.”

The Sheikh responded in kind, then joined an entourage waiting for him outside the door. When the Arab contingent had left the foyer, the host closed the door and returned to his desk, where he removed a key from the top drawer. Stepping to an inconspicuous side door, he turned the lock and entered an adjacent office nearly three times the size of the former. The room was not only large but also grand in appearance, and nearly the opposite in ambience. Brightly lit, it featured a stylish mix of contemporary art and classical oil paintings, unique tribal floor coverings, and nineteenth-century European furniture. Accented by overhead spotlights, the room’s prominent features were opposing banks of built-in shelves, which were loaded with expensive antiques and relics from the Ottoman era, including porcelain vases, detailed tapestries, and jeweled weaponry. In the center of one shelf was the collection’s show-piece, a gold-threaded tunic on a mannequin in a glass-enclosed case. A placard inside indicated that the tunic had been worn by Mehmed I, an Ottoman Sultan who ruled in the fifteenth century.

A petite woman with short black hair was seated on a divan, reading a newspaper. Her presence stirred a touch of annoyance in the man’s face, and he walked past her without saying a word. Reaching a carved desk near the window, he peeled off a keffiyeh and black robe, revealing a sport shirt and slacks underneath.

“Your meeting with the Sheikh was productive?” she asked, lowering her paper.

Ozden Aktan Celik nodded in reply.

“Yes, the nitwit runt of the royal litter has agreed to another infusion of cash. Twenty million, to be exact.”

“Twenty?” the woman replied, her eyes widening. “Your skills at persuasion are impressive indeed.”

“Simply a matter of playing one spoiled rich Arab off another. When our Kuwaiti benefactor learns of the Sheikh’s contribution, he will be forced to exceed it out of ego alone. Of course, your recent visit to Cairo helped up the ante.”

“Amazing how the Zionist threat can be milked for such profits. Just think of the money th

at would be saved if the Arabs and Israelis ever kissed and made up.”

“They’d each find another scapegoat to antagonize,” Celik said, taking a seat behind the desk. He was a well-proportioned man, with thinning black hair combed back on the sides. His nose was wide, but he had a strong face, and would not have looked out of place on the cover of Gentlemen’s Quarterly magazine. Only his dark eyes hinted at a personality quirk, dancing constantly in a pirouette of emotional intensity. They twitched with anger as they focused on the woman.

“Maria, I would have preferred that you not show yourself so quickly. Particularly given your chaotic performance last night.” His eyes centered on her with a glowering intensity.

Whatever intimidation he intended had absolutely no effect on the woman.

“The operation went off entirely as planned. It was only the intrusion by some meddling bystanders that delayed our exit.”

“And subverted the acquisition of the Muhammad artifacts,” he hissed. “You should have killed them all on the spot.”

“Perhaps. But as it turns out, two of them were U.S. government officials, including a Congresswoman. Their deaths would have overshadowed our objective. And our objective seems to have been attained.” She folded the newspaper she was reading and tossed it over to Celik.

It was a copy of Milliyet, a Turkish daily newspaper, its blazing headlines proclaiming “Murdering Thieves Attack Topkapi, Steal Holy Relics.”

Celik nodded. “Yes, I’ve read the accounts. The media is blaming domestic heathens for stealing and desecrating our nation’s sacred Muslim relics. Exactly the headlines we intended. But you forget that we have paid influence with a number of local reporters. What is it that the police believe?”

Maria took a sip from a glass of water before responding. “We can’t be certain. My informant within the department was only able to obtain an electronic copy of the incident report this morning. It appears they have no real suspects, though the American woman did give some physical descriptions and reported that our team appeared to be speaking in Arabic.”

“I told you I didn’t like the idea of using Iraqi operatives.”

“They are well trained, my brother, and, if caught, still provide a safe scapegoat. A Shia thief, even if from Iraq, is nearly as productive as a Western infidel for our purposes. They are well paid to keep quiet. And besides, they falsely believe they are working for their Shia brethren. I couldn’t have obtained this without them,” she added, opening a small suitcase at her feet.