Crescent dawn dp 21, p.24
Crescent Dawn dp-21, page 24
part #21 of Dirk Pitt Series
“You think Rod is still aboard the yacht?” Giordino asked.
“I think we should assume so, for starters. What do you say we double-park alongside her and take a look? They shouldn’t be expecting us.”
“I say surprise is a good thing. Let’s move.”
Pitt took a course bearing, then submerged the Bullet and crept toward the dockyard. Giordino activated the sonar system, helping guide them to within a few yards of the yacht. Easing gently to the surface again, they arose in its shadow just off its port beam. Pitt started to pull alongside the yacht when he noticed a commotion on the stern deck.
A trio of armed men came bursting from the interior and turned toward the dock. A second later, a fourth man came into view, being pushed across the deck by the others.
“It’s Zeibig,” Pitt remarked, catching a brief glimpse of the scientist’s face.
From their low position in the water, they could just barely see Zeibig, who had his hands tied behind his back. Two of the gunmen roughly hoisted him up onto the dock, then prodded him toward shore. Pitt noticed one of the gunmen return to the boat and take up a casual position on the stern.
“Scratch one yacht,” Pitt said quietly. “I think it’s time to go invisible.”
Giordino had already opened the ballast chambers, and the Bullet quickly vanished into the inky depths. They reconnoitered the cove once more, then crept in and surfaced just behind the stern of the freighter, tucking in right against its transom. It was an optimally concealed spot, obscured from shore by the freighter while mostly hidden from the pier by an adjacent stack of fuel drums. Giordino quietly climbed out and attached a mooring line to the pier, Pitt shutting down the power systems and joining him.
“Won’t be a pretty scene if that big boy fires up his engines,” Giordino said, eyeing the submersible floating just above the freighter’s propellers.
“At least we’ve got his license plate number,” Pitt replied, looking up at the ship’s stern. In broad white letters was painted the ship’s name, Osmanli Yildiz , which meant “Ottoman Star.”
The two men crept along the pier until they reached the shadow of a large generator sitting across from the freighter’s forward hold. Ahead of them was a handful of dockworkers occupied with loading large wooden crates into the freighter with the high crane. The blue yacht, with its armed gunman still pacing the deck, was moored just a few feet in front of it. Giordino gazed ruefully up at the bright overhead lights that illuminated the path ahead.
“I’m not so sure it’s going to be easy to pass Go and collect our two hundred dollars from here,” he said.
Pitt nodded, peering around the generator to survey the dockyard. He could see a small two-story stone building onshore flanked by a pair of prefabricated warehouses. The interior of the right-hand warehouse was brightly illuminated, highlighting a pair of forklifts that hauled crates out of an open bay door for the crane to transfer. In contrast, the left-hand warehouse appeared dark, with no visible activity around it.
Pitt turned his attention to the stone building in the center. A bright porch light illuminated its front façade, clearly revealing a gunman standing guard outside the front door.
“The stone building in the middle,” he whispered to Giordino. “That’s where Zeibig has to be.”
He peered again, spotting the headlights of a car that was approaching from the surrounding hillside. The vehicle bounded down a steep gravel road, then turned onto the dock and pulled up in front of the stone building. Pitt was surprised to recognize the car as a late-model Jaguar sedan. A well-dressed man and woman climbed out of the car and entered the building.
“I think we need to make our play pretty quickly,” Pitt whispered.
“Any thoughts on how to get off this pier?” Giordino asked, sitting perched on the side of a ladder tilted against the generator.
Pitt looked around, then gazed at Giordino for a moment, a small grin spreading across his face.
“Al,” he said, “I think you’re sitting on it.”
34
Nobody paid any attention to the two men dressed in faded turquoise jumpsuits walking down the pier with their heads hanging down and carrying an aluminum ladder. They were obviously a pair of crewmen from the freighter returning the borrowed equipment to shore. Only they were members of the crew that nobody had ever seen before.
The men working on the dock were busy securing a crate marked “Textiles” to the crane and paid no heed as Pitt and Giordino passed by. Pitt had noticed the guard on the yacht glance at them momentarily before turning away.
“Which way do we go, boss?” Giordino asked as he stepped off the pier, holding the front end of the ladder.
The illuminated warehouse was nearly in front of them, its open bay door, just a few yards to their right.
“I say we avoid the crowds and go left,” Pitt replied. “Let’s shoot for the other warehouse.”
They turned and walked along the waterfront, passing the narrow stone building. Pitt guessed it had originally been built as a fisherman’s house but now served as an administrative office for the dock facility. Unlike the gunman on the yacht, the man guarding the front door eyed them suspiciously as they passed by the courtyard in front of the house. Giordino attempted to trivialize their presence by casually whistling “Yankee Doodle Dandy” as they passed, figuring the Turkish gunman would be unfamiliar with the tune.
They soon reached the second warehouse, a darkened building with its large waterfront drop-down door sealed shut. Giordino tried the handle on a small entry door alongside and found it unlocked. Without hesitating, he led Pitt inside, where they deposited the ladder against a work desk illuminated by a flickering overhead light. The rest of the building’s interior was empty, save for some dusty crates in the corner and a large sealed container near the rear loading dock.
“That was easy enough,” Pitt said, “but I don’t think waltzing in the front door of the building next door looks as promising.”
“No, that guard watched us like a hawk. Maybe there’s a back door?”
Pitt nodded. “Let’s go see.”
Picking up a wooden mallet he noticed lying on the desk, he walked across the warehouse with Giordino. Adjacent to the loading dock was a small entry door, which they slipped through. They quietly made their way to the back side of the stone building only to find it had no rear or side doors. Pitt approached one of the lower-level windows and tried to peek in, but the blinds had been tightly drawn. He stepped away and studied the second-floor windows, then tiptoed back to the warehouse to confer with Giordino.
“Looks like we’re back to the front door,” Giordino said.
“Actually, I was thinking of trying an upstairs entry,” Pitt replied.
“Upstairs?”
Pitt motioned toward the ladder. “Might as well put that thing to use. The windows were dark upstairs, but they didn’t appear to have the blinds drawn. If you can create a distraction, I could climb up and enter through one of the windows. We can try to surprise them from above.”
“Like I said, surprise is a good thing. I’ll go get the ladder while you work on that distraction.”
As Giordino padded across the warehouse, Pitt stuck his head out the back door and searched for a means to create a diversion. An option appeared in the form of a flatbed truck parked behind the opposite warehouse. He ducked back inside as Giordino approached with the ladder, but then he suddenly looked past him curiously.
“What’s up?” Giordino asked.
“Look at this,” Pitt said, stepping closer to the steel shipping container sitting nearby.
It was painted in a desert-khaki-camouflage scheme, but it was some black-stenciled lettering that had caught Pitt’s attention. Several points around the container were marked, in English, “Danger — High Explosives.” Beneath the warning was stenciled “Department of the U.S. Army.”
“What the heck would a container of Army explosives be doing here?” Giordino asked.
“Search me. But I’d be willing to bet the Army doesn’t know about it.”
Pitt walked to the front of the container and slid across the dead bolt, then swung open the heavy steel door. Inside were dozens of small wooden crates with similar warnings stenciled on their sides, each tightly secured to metal shelves. Near the doorway, one of the crates had been pried open. Inside were several small plastic containers the size of bricks.
Pitt pulled one of the containers out and peeled off the plastic lid. Inside was a small rectangular block of a compressed clear powdery substance.
“Plastic explosives?” Giordino asked.
“It doesn’t look like C-4, but it must be something similar to it. There’s enough here to blow this warehouse to the moon and back.”
“You think that stuff might be helpful in creating a distraction?” Giordino asked, raising an eyebrow in a sly arch.
“I know so,” Pitt replied, resealing the container and handing it carefully to his partner. “There’s a truck parked in back of the other warehouse. See if you can make it go boom.”
“And you?”
Pitt held up the hammer. “I’ll be knocking on the door upstairs.”
35
Zeibig had not feared for his life. He was certainly distressed at being abducted at gunpoint, handcuffed, and locked in a cabin on a luxury yacht. Reaching the cove, he had his doubts as he was roughly herded ashore and into the old stone building, where he was directed to sit in an open conference room. His captors, all tall, pale-skinned men with hardened dark eyes, were certainly menacing enough. Yet they had not yet proven to be abusive. His feelings changed when a car pulled up in front and an austere Turkish couple emerged and entered the building.
Zeibig noted the guards suddenly assume a stiff, deferential posture as the visitors stepped inside. The archaeologist could hear them discussing the freighter and its cargo with a dock foreman for several minutes, surprised that the woman seemed to be making most of the demands. Finishing their shipping business, the couple strolled into the conference room, where the man glared at Zeibig with angry contempt.
“So, you are the one responsible for stealing the artifacts of Suleiman the Magnificent,” Ozden Celik hissed, a vein throbbing out from his temple.
Dressed in an expensive suit, he looked to Zeibig to be a successful businessman. But the red-eyed anger in the man bordered on psychotic.
“We were simply conducting a preliminary site investigation under the auspices of the Istanbul Archaeology Museum,” Zeibig replied. “We are required to turn over all recovered artifacts to the state, which we were intending to do when we returned to Istanbul in two weeks.”
“And who gave the Archaeology Museum ownership of the wreck?” Celik asked with a furl of his lips.
“That you’ll have to take up with the Turkish Cultural Minister,” Zeibig replied.
Celik ignored the comment as he moved to the conference table with Maria at his side. Spread across the mahogany surface were several dozen artifacts that the NUMA divers had retrieved from the wreck site. Zeibig watched them peruse the items, then he suddenly became wide-eyed himself at the sight of Gunn’s monolith lying at the far end of the table. Curiosity caused him to crane his neck, but it was too far away to make out the inscription.
“To what age have you dated this shipwreck?” Maria asked. She was dressed in dark slacks and a plum-colored sweater but unstylish walking shoes.
“Some coins given to the museum indicate that the wreck sank in approximately 1570,” Zeibig said.
“Is it an Ottoman vessel?”
“The materials and construction techniques are consistent with coastal merchant vessels of the eastern Mediterranean in that era. That’s as much as we know at the moment.”
Celik carefully reviewed the collection of artifacts, admiring fragments of four-hundred-year-old ceramic plates and bowls. With the experienced eye of a collector, he knew that the wreck had been accurately dated, confirmed by the coins now in his possession. Then he approached the monolith.
“What is this?” he asked Zeibig, pointing to the stone.
Zeibig shook his head. “It was removed from the wreck site by your men.”
Celik carefully studied the flat-sided stone, noticing a Latin inscription on its surface.
“Roman garbage,” he muttered, then examined the remaining artifacts before stepping back over to Zeibig.
“You will never again plunder that which belongs to the Ottoman Empire,” he said, his dark eyes staring madly into Zeibig’s pupils. His hand slipped into his coat pocket and retrieved a thin leather cord. He twirled it in front of Zeibig’s face for a moment, then slowly pulled it taut. Celik moved as if stepping away from Zeibig, then turned and whipped the strap over the archaeologist’s head as he whirled behind him. The cord immediately constricted around Zeibig’s neck, and he was jerked to his feet by a firm upward yank.
Zeibig twisted and tried to drive his elbows into Celik, but a guard stepped forward and grabbed his cuffed wrists, pulling his arms forward as the cord tightened around his neck. Zeibig could feel the cord bite into his thorax, and he struggled for air while the blood pounded in his ears. He heard a loud pop and wondered if the sound was his eardrum bursting.
Celik heard the sound as well but ignored it, his eyes ablaze with bloodlust. Then a second blast erupted nearby, shaking the entire building with the accompanying force of a thundering boom. Celik nearly lost his balance as the floor vibrated and window glass shattered upstairs. He instinctively released his grip on the leather garrote.
“Go see what that was,” he barked at Maria.
She nodded and quickly followed the foreman out the front door to investigate. Celik immediately tightened his grip on the leather strap as the guard remained stationary, holding firm to Zeibig’s wrists.
Zeibig had managed to suck in a few breaths of air during the interlude and renewed his efforts to break free. But Celik jabbed a shoulder into his back, turning as he pulled on the leather strap and nearly pulling the archaeologist off his feet.
Turning red and feeling his head pounding as he gasped for air, Zeibig gazed into the eyes of the guard, who smiled back at him sadistically. But then a puzzled look crossed the guard’s face. Zeibig heard a muffled thump, then felt the leather strap suddenly slip free from his neck.
The guard let go of Zeibig’s wrists and quickly fumbled inside his jacket. In the fuzzy, oxygen-deprived recesses of Zeibig’s brain, he knew the man was reaching for a gun. With a sudden impulse that felt like it was happening in slow motion, Zeibig leaned forward and grabbed the guard’s sleeve. The guard hastily tried to shake the hand free before finally shoving the archaeologist away with his free arm. As he gripped his handgun in a shoulder holster, an object whizzed by and struck him in the face. He staggered a bit until a second blow hit home and he crumpled unconscious to the floor.
Zeibig turned with blurry vision to see a man standing beside him, holding a wooden mallet in his hand, a grim look of satisfaction on his face. Coughing and sputtering for air, Zeibig smiled as his senses revived and he could see that it was Pitt.
“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.”
