Crescent Dawn (Dirk Pitt 21)

“Now, what is of such importance that you have called on me again so soon?” he asked.

Bannister spoke quietly, buttering up his victim for the kill.

“Oscar, you know as well as I that hunting for history is at best a speculative business. We may search for days, weeks, or even years for that one monumental discovery and still come up empty. Sure, along the way there may be important finds and occasionally the exciting piece that taps the imagination. Most of the effort usually ends up going for naught. But there is always the chance of that rare instance where the stars are in alignment and one is very, very lucky to find a singular gift from the heavens.”

He leaned forward in his chair for effect and stared into the Fat Man’s eyes.

“Oscar, I believe I may be on the verge of such a find.”

“Well, what is it, my boy?” Gutzman wheezed. “Don’t toy with me.”

“I was just in London for a short visit and happened to call on an antiquities dealer I’ve known for a number of years. He recently acquired a cache of items stolen years ago from the Church of England’s archives,” he lied, pausing, again for effect.

“Go on.”

“A portion of the material contained original artwork, jewelry, and artifacts liberated from the Holy Land during the Crusades.” Bannister looked cautiously back and forth across the room, then added in a low voice, “Included in the works was an original copy of the Manifest.”

Gutzman’s eyes inflated like balloons.

“Are . . . are you serious?” he rasped. He tried to contain his excitement, but his face turned flush with exaltation.

“Yes,” Bannister replied, producing an intentionally poor photocopy of the papyrus document. “I have not seen the original myself, but I’ve been assured that it is authentic.”

Gutzman studied the page for several minutes without uttering a word. Only the ruffling of the page in his unsteady fingers disturbed the silent room.

“It exists,” he finally said in a hushed tone. “I cannot believe by God’s good graces that it has come to be.” The old man then looked at Bannister sternly. “This dealer, he will sell it to me?”

Bannister nodded. “Given the nature of his acquisition, he is forced to sell it quietly. That is why he has priced it at only five million pounds sterling.”

“Five million pounds!” Gutzman cursed, propelling himself into a coughing fit. When he recovered his breath, he stared into Bannister’s eyes.

“I will never pay that,” he said, finding a strong voice.

Bannister paled slightly, not anticipating the response. “I suspect the price may be negotiable, Oscar,” he stuttered. “And the dealer indicated he would have the document carbon-dated at his expense.”

Having purchased artifacts from grave robbers to politicians, Gutzman knew how to get his price. More than that, he knew when he was being played, and the hesitation in Bannister’s voice did not go undetected.

“Stay here,” the Fat Man said, rising unsteadily from his chair and leaving the room.

He returned a moment later with a thick binder. Gutzman sat down and opened it, revealing a collection of photographs encased in plastic sleeves. Ancient artifacts of assorted age and style, large and small, appeared in the photographs. Bannister recognized statues, carvings, and pottery that he knew were worth hundreds of thousands of dollars. Gutzman flipped to the back of the binder, then removed several photos and handed them to Bannister.

“Take a look at these,” the Fat Man huffed.

“Part of your collection?”

“Yes, from my storehouse in Portugal.”

Bannister studied the photos. The first showed a small collection of rusty swords and spear tips. The second photo showed an iron military helmet that Bannister recognized as a Roman Heddernheim type. A thin bronze panel containing the image of an eagle, a scorpion, and several crowns appeared in the next photo. The final image was of an object undistinguishable to Bannister. It appeared to be a large, angular mass of metal that was twisted and warped on one side.

“A rare collection of Roman armament,” Bannister said. “I’m guessing the eagle and scorpion reliefs are part of a battle standard?”

“Very good, Ridley. It’s not just any standard, however, but the emblem for the Scholae Palatinae, the elite Roman guards of Constantine the Great. What do you make of that last object, my friend?”

Bannister studied the photograph again but shook his head.

“I’m afraid I don’t recognize it.”

Gutzman smiled in minor triumph. “It is the bronze ram from an imperial galley ship. Based on its size, it likely came from a Liburnian bireme.”