Crescent Dawn (Dirk Pitt 21)

Pitt shook the thought from his mind as he tapped the throttle levers, ensuring that they were fully against their stops, as he sighted a direct path toward the burning lights of Istanbul.

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MARIA PACED THE TANKER’S BRIDGE WITH AN ANGER that turned her features to cold stone.

“I was not expecting a challenge from the Coast Guard,” she said. “How did they know we were approaching?”

A short, ashen-faced man piloting the tanker shook his head.

“The Dayan is known to be missing. It’s possible a passing vessel identified us and reported it to the Coast Guard. Perhaps it is a good thing. The authorities will now know right away that the Israelis are responsible for the attack.”

“I suppose that is true. Still, we cannot afford any further interference.”

“The radio has been silent. I don’t believe they had the opportunity to alert anyone,” the captain said. “On top of which, the radar is clear of vessels ahead of us.”

He glanced out the side window, noting the lights of the blue yacht visible just a few yards off the tanker’s beam.

“The Sultana’s reported some minor damage during contact with the Coast Guard vessel,” he reported, “but they are ready to take us off at any time.”

“How long until we can evacuate?”

“I will slow the vessel as we enter the eastern channel of the Bosphorus. You can prepare to evacuate as I align the ship toward the Golden Horn and set the automatic pilot. I would estimate that the ship will be in position in about fifteen minutes.”

Maria looked at her watch. The electronic fuzes were timed to detonate in just over one hour.

“Very well,” she said calmly. “Let us not delay.”

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PALE BANDS OF CRIMSON STREAKED ACROSS THE DARK gray sky as the sun prepared its daily climb over the eastern horizon. All across Istanbul, pious Muslims were arising early to partake in a large meal before daybreak. The muezzins would begin their warbled cries shortly, beckoning the faithful to mosque for dawn prayer. The mosques would be more crowded than usual, as the Islamic calendar showed it was the last week of Ramadan.

The name Ramadan refers to the ninth month of the Islamic calendar, when tradition dictates that the first verses of the Qur’an were revealed to Muhammad. Adherents focus on attaining a closer relationship with God during the month, which is fostered through a strict adherence to fasting during daylight hours. The act of self-purification is promoted not only by fasting but by an emphasis on good deeds toward others. Special food and gifts are given to friends and relatives while charity and aid are offered to the poor. But just a few miles from the city’s historic mosques, Maria Celik was preparing to unleash her own brand of charity.

The Israeli tanker steamed into the mouth of the Bosphorus, hugging close to the Asian shoreline. When the Golden Horn slipped into view across the strait, the tanker’s pilot reduced power.

“Now is the time,” he said to Maria.

The swift current of the Bosphorus, flowing south from the Black Sea, quickly slowed the large vessel to a crawl. Maria gathered several men along the starboard flank and lowered a steel accommodation ladder over the side. The yacht cruised up immediately and held station off the foot of the stairs.

“Secure the prisoners and then get the rest of the men off,” she ordered one of the Janissaries, then stepped onto the lowered stairway.

She made her way down the metal steps, then was helped aboard the yacht by a waiting crewman. Climbing up to the wheelhouse, she was met by her two Iraqi hired thugs. Even in the predawn darkness, the one named Farzad was wearing his trademark sunglasses.

“You have made the preparations in Greece?” she asked them.

“Yes,” Farzad replied. “We can make a quiet entry through Thios. A secure covered berth has been reserved for the Sultana, and transportation has been arranged for you to Athens. Your return flight to Istanbul is booked in three days.”

Maria nodded as they watched the remaining Janissaries climb down the stairway and hop onto the yacht. The guards watching the tanker crew had been quietly pulled, and the door to the mess room chained shut.

On the bridge of the Dayan, the pilot watched the last of the Janissaries step off, then he signaled the yacht that he was changing course. As the Sultana temporarily slipped away from the tanker’s side, the pilot increased the engine’s revolutions to half speed and eased the bow toward the west. Taking a bearing toward the Süleymaniye Mosque, he pro

grammed the automatic pilot and then engaged it.

He was about to step off the bridge when he noticed a flashing on the console. Glancing at the warning light, he simply shook his head.

“Nothing I can do about that now,” he muttered, then scrambled down to the stairwell and leaped to the waiting yacht, leaving the massive Dayan to her own devices.

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