“The targets have clearly been growing in significance,” O’Quinn said.
“And they’ve been denied in their latest outing, which ought to scare us all, in what they might be planning next.”
“The Kaaba in Mecca might be a possible target. I’ll see to it that the Saudis are advised to increase security,” O’Quinn said.
“We’ve got analysts working overtime on the matter,” the CIA man added. In the true Washington vernacular of helplessness, he added, “We’re doing everything we can.”
Braxton brushed off the comment with a glare. “Let me tell you what to do,” Braxton said, leaning forward over his desk while eyeballing both intelligence men with ire. “It’s really a simple exercise to put a stop to this. All you have to do,” he said, his voice rising to a fever pitch, “is find me the rest of those explosives!”
52
THE OTTOMAN STAR EASED INTO THE COVE NORTH OF the Dardanelles late in the afternoon, docking at the long pier that now stood empty. Beneath the adjacent rippled waters, the sunken workboat still sat on the sandy bottom, waiting for the shore crane and a dive crew to raise it from the depths.
Standing on the ship’s bridge, Maria was surprised to note her brother’s Jaguar parked on the dock. Celik watched as the ship approached the pier, then emerged from the Jaguar’s backseat as the mooring lines were secured. He briskly stepped down the quay with an attaché case tucked under his arm and boarded the ship.
“I wasn’t expecting you to meet me here, Ozden,” Maria said by way of a greeting.
“Time is short,” he replied, gazing about the bridge with an agitated expression. The captain and helmsman caught his drift and quickly stepped off the bridge, leaving Celik alone with his sister.
“I heard that the police searched the facilities after we departed,” Maria said. “Is it not dangerous for you to be here?”
Celik smirked. “The local police have been well paid to look after our interests. They paid a cursory visit and were kept away from the warehouses.” The police investigators reminded him of the assault by the NUMA men, and he subconsciously rubbed the spot on his head where Pitt had clubbed him.
“Those Americans will pay for their intrusion,” he said in a guttural tone. “But we have more important matters to address first.”
Maria braced for the onslaught over the failure at Jerusalem, but the expected outburst never materialized. Celik quietly gazed out the forward window, eyeing the empty dock.
“Where is the Sultana?”
“I left it in Beirut to complete the repair work. The crew will bring her to Istanbul in a few days.”
Celik nodded, then stepped close to his sister.
“Now, tell me, Maria, why did the mission fail?”
“I am uncertain myself,” she replied calmly. “The primary charge failed to detonate. It was set with multiple fuzes, and I am positive it was staged properly. There must have been outside interference. Even the secondary charge should have produced more damage. I suspect the Israeli archaeologist who was killed may have somehow disabled some of the charges.”
“The results were disappointing,” Celik replied, suppressing his usual vitriol, “but I am thankful for your safe return.”
“We put the Lebanese smugglers ashore in Tripoli on the voyage back, so the Israelis have nowhere to search and no trail to follow.”
“You have always covered your tracks well, Maria.”
Despite his unusually calm demeanor, she could see the distress in his face.
“How is the Mufti faring?” she asked.
“He is campaigning like a professional politician and has won the public support of some key members of the Grand National Assembly. But he is still trailing in the polls by at least five percentage points, and we have just days to go before the election.” He looked at her with an admonishing gaze. “The Jerusalem attack failed to give us the boost that is necessary for us to win.”
“Perhaps it is beyond our control,” she said.
Maria’s words suddenly released the anger that Celik had kept bottled up.
“No!” he shouted. “We are too close. We must not fail to seize the opportunity. The restoration of our family empire is at stake,” he said, nearly tasting the power of his own planned ascension. The mad eyes were suddenly ablaze, and his face pulsed red with fury. “We cannot let this chance slip through our fingers.”
“The Golden Horn?”
“Yes,” he replied, opening his attaché case and pulling out a map. “The intercept must occur tomorrow night,” he said, handing her a folder. “Enclosed is the target ship’s schedule and route. Can you be ready?”