Crescent Dawn (Dirk Pitt 21)

“You, my friend,” he said, wheezing out the words in pain, “have arrived like a breath of fresh air.”

36

NEARLY THE ENTIRE DOCK CREW HAD FLOCKED TO THE rear of the warehouse to watch the smoldering remains of the truck light up the night sky. Giordino’s handiwork could not have produced a better diversion. And it was all so simple.

Sneaking to the side of the truck, he’d quietly opened the cab door and peeked inside. The interior reeked of cigarette smoke, with dozens of butts littering the floor amid smashed cans of soda pop. A notebook, some tools, and the bony remains of roasted chicken wrapped in brown paper sat on the bench seat. But it was a thin, ragged sweatshirt stuffed under the seat that caught Giordino’s eye.

Giordino grabbed the shirt and easily ripped off a sleeve, then searched the dashboard until he found the cigarette lighter and pushed the knob in. He then made his way to the rear of the truck and unscrewed the gas cap. He carefully dangled the sleeve in the tank until it was partially saturated with gasoline, then pulled it up and laid the dry end over the side of the gas tank. He left the fuel-soaked end just inside the filler tube and rested the cap on top of it to seal in the vapors. When he heard a popping sound, he scurried to the cab and retrieved the cigarette lighter, then hurriedly ignited the dry end of the sleeve before the lighter turned cold.

He barely had time to run to the rear of the stone building before the small flame crept up the sleeve to the fuel-soaked section of the cloth. The flames quickly ran to the filler, igniting the vapors in an explosion that blew apart the fuel tank.

But it was the charge of plastic explosives, positioned on top of the fuel tank, which did the real damage a second later. Even Giordino was surprised by the massive blast that blew the truck entirely off the ground and incinerated its back end.

Pitt had done his best to coordinate his break-in with the sound of the blast. Perched on the ladder outside one of the darkened second-story windows, he shattered the glass with his mallet as the building itself shook before him. He quickly climbed in, finding himself in the guest bedroom of the comfortably appointed living quarters. He was sneaking down the stairs when he heard Zeibig’s struggling gasps and sprang with his mallet to lay down Celik and the guard.

Regaining his strength, Zeibig stood and looked down at the unconscious Celik, who had a large bump on the side of his head.

“Is he dead?”

“No, just napping,” Pitt replied, noticing the prone figure beginning to stir. “I suggest we get out of here before they wake up.”

Pitt grabbed Zeibig by the arm and started to lead him toward the front door, but the archaeologist suddenly stopped in his tracks.

“Wait . . . the stele,” he said, stepping over to Gunn’s stone slab.

Pitt gazed at the excavated stone, which stood nearly four feet high.

“Too big to take as a souvenir, Rod,” he said, urging their departure.

“Let me study the inscription for just a moment,” Zeibig pleaded.

Rubbing the surface with his fingers, he quickly read the Latin several times, pressing himself to memorize the words. Satisfied that he had it down, he looked at Pitt with a weak smile.

“Okay, got it.”

Pitt led the way to the front entrance and flung open the door only to be met by an attractive woman with dark hair on her way in. Pitt knew he had seen her face before, but the evening clothes she wore obscured the context. Maria, however, recognized Pitt immediately.

“Where did you come from?” she demanded.

The harsh voice immediately came back to Pitt as the one that had threatened him in the Yerebatan Sarnici cistern in Istanbul. He was startled by her sudden appearance here but then realized it all made sense. The Topkapi thieves had ransacked Ruppé’s office, which had led them to the wreck site.

“I’m from the Topkapi vice squad,” Pitt said in a wry tone.

“Then you will die together with your friend,” she snapped in reply.

Looking past them, she caught a glimpse of her brother and the guard lying on the floor of the conference room. A twinge of fear and anger crossed her brow, and she quickly backpedaled across the porch and turned toward the warehouse to yell for help. But her words were never heard.

A burly arm appeared from the shadows and wrapped around her waist, joined by a hand that gripped tightly over her mouth. The fiery woman kicked and flailed, but she was like a child’s doll in the powerful grip of Al Giordino.

He carried her back up to the doorway and into the foyer, as he nodded pleasantly at Zeibig.

“Where would you like this one?” he asked, turning to Pitt.

“In a fetid Turkish prison cell,” Pitt replied. “But I guess we’ll have to make do with a closet for the moment.”

Pitt located a small broom closet off the stairwell and opened the door, and Giordino deposited Maria inside. Zeibig brought over a desk chair,

which Pitt wedged beneath the handle after Giordino slammed the door shut. A deluge of muffled voices and angry kicks immediately ensued from within.