Clarion of Midnight: Megali Idea

By Kristina O'Donnelly

Clarion of Midnight is a fast-paced, international thriller with a tender love story at its core, unraveling in locales continuing to create headlines. The events span exotic Turkey and Israel, and the timing is the eve of a Military coup in Turkey - actually a front to raise the Byzantine Empire, upon the lands of the modern Turks, Kurds, Greeks, Syrians, Iraqis and Jews alike. From the Lands of the Morning, reverberates the Clarion of Midnight ... Anika Alkibiades is the most powerful, brilliant and ruthless woman straddling Europe and Asia. Hers is the Megali Idea of taking over the Government of Turkey, remold it in the glorious spirit of Byzantium, and then reappropriate Byzantium's former territories. Her dark beauty is timeless, exotic, and beguiling, men who are the movers and shakers of the land, are mere dominoes in her hand, and she is close to realizing her golden dream. She is like Catherine the Great of Russia who wanted to conquer Istanbul and replace the crescent atop the Hagia Sophia with a cross. But like all great women, Anika has one weakness: her undying passion for Shaheen, the Turk who had been her first lover....

• Language: English
• Publisher: Rob Preece
• Release date: Mar 18, 2016
• ISBN: 9781310278464

Book preview

Clarion of Midnight

- Megali Idea

Kristina O’Donnelly

Published at Smashwords by Kristina O’Donnelly

Copyright 2016 by Kristina O’Donnelly

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

East will always be east, and west, West, but the twain shall remain locked in a perpetual embrace, in the soul of

Constantinople’s enchanting, seductive heiress, Istanbul

Art by Betul, Gallery Les Arts Turcs, Istanbul

© Copyright: 2000-2016, Kristina O’Donnelly aka Kristin V.Donnelly

Clarion of Midnight – Megali Idea, 1st Printing, November 10, 2004, Rose International Publishing House, USA.

2nd Printing March,2016

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used as fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form, by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information or storage retrieval system, without the express consent of the copyright holder.

Author’s website: http://www.ladyliterature.com

Art & Calligraphy: Gallery Les Arts Turcs, Istanbul, Turkey.

Website: http://www.lesartsturcs.com ; http://www.istanbullife.org

Contact author: https://www.facebook.com/kristina.odonnelly

Author on amazon: amazon.com/author/kristinaodonnelly

Introduction

Lands of the Morning: A sweeping, tri-continental series of six, related, yet independently plotted epic novels (each novel stands on its own). The general plot of Lands of the Morning is an arabesque fabric of international politics, ambition, triumph and tribulation set against a tapestry rich in subtle reflections of the author’s experiences in the Fourth Estate in Turkey and U.S.A. Skeins of exotic people, places and customs rooted in Turkey and branching out to Ireland, Israel, U.S., and in the finale, Azerbaijan and Bosnia-Herzegovina, keep the subplots interlaced with the fast-growing scheme of events, which climax in an unexpected denouement. The fruit of a lifetime of research and writing, this series is fiction based upon authentic, contemporary as well as historical backgrounds and events.

Sequel to The Horseman, the award-winning lead novel of this series, Clarion of Midnight – Megali Idea is a fast-paced international thriller unraveling in locales which continue to create headlines. The events span exotic Turkey and Israel, and the timing is the eve of a Military coup in Turkey.

Character Profiles:

Anika Alkibiades - A Greek born in Turkey, she has risen from grinding poverty to untold riches. Powerful and brilliant, Anika is the widow and heir of Yorghos Alkibiades, the shipping billionaire whose illustrious family is traced back to Byzantium.

Anika has a deep hatred of the Turks and her dream is to restore Byzantium to its former glory. Masterminding a far-reaching, bloody plot to overthrow the Turkish Government, she is paving the road to her grandson’s succession as its absolute ruler.

Leyla Kayhanoğlu - The child of an American mother and Turkish father, Leyla is fiercely loyal to her father’s beliefs and country. Her sense of loyalty and identity will be tested when she falls in love with Mark, an American Jew.

Mark Cohen - A New Yorker born of Ashkenazi parents, Mark perceives himself as an American first, a Jew second; the faith of his ancestors will begin awakening in him as he travels through Israel in quest of the stolen gold of Chatalhoyuk.

The stolen gold of Chatalhoyuk is the catalyst that brings Leyla, Mark and Anika together. In the background, is Burhan’s (now the Turkish Minister of Interior and steering a dangerous course between extremist factions) personal struggle as his dark secret (his illegitimate son) is on the verge of being revealed to his American wife, Ariadne.

________________________________

Author’s Note: As it is in The Horseman, Clarion of Midnight - Megal Idea, too, contains a lot of authentic historical/sociological background information woven into the story. Advised by some to delete these parts on account of that the Reader’s eyes will be glazing over, I have chosen to let you decide. Yes, dear Reader, I believe that it is your prerogative to either make notes to return later, or skim through, or skip altogether, those paragraphs that do not hold your attention.

I live to learn, and to tell; my soul’s urge is to be the conduit of news and knowledge – so let the information be available, and it is up to you what to make of it. From Keltia to Anatolia, do not let the light go out!

Warm regards,

Kristina O’Donnelly.

Prologue - August 12, Israel – mid 1980s

Deuteronomy (KJV): Chapter 32, Verse 41: …If I whet my glittering sword, and mine hand take hold on judgment; I will render vengeance to mine enemies, and will reward them that hate me.

"Madame, Sir Colin Drake is on the phone, what shall I tell him this time?"

Startled, Anika ran the back of her hand across her brow and looked up, her eyes squinted against the sun. Bohar was standing above her, trying hard and not succeeding, to keep his hungry gaze from devouring her heavy-breasted, nude body. Biting her lower lip, she held back a warm smile. Wavy black hair and dark-brown eyed, Bohar was of average height, slim but muscular, and though satisfying as an occasional lover, he was simply indispensable as the best assistant she had ever employed.

She waved a dismissive hand. Anything you want, Bohar. Just get him off my back for now.

Bohar turned around and left her side, his swift stride a clear sign of his disapproval.

Comfortably stretched out on the chaise-lounge on the balcony of her penthouse, long wavy black hair loose, bronze skin glistening with sun lotion, Anika wanted nothing to interfere with her savoring the moment. At the left of her horizon, outlined in blue, rose Jordan’s Moabite mountains, at its right, the jagged hills of the Sinai, and in the middle, shone the Red Sea. Below the line of her vision, stretched Eilat’s, an international playground on the Gulf of Aqaba, cafe and hedonist-crowded beach. But behind her, the world kept interfering in form of the ticking telex she had set up in her suite, manned by Bohar.

Despite the languor on her face and outspread, well-toned limbs, her mind was alert. At fifty-three, Anika Diodorus Alkibiades looked much younger, for she was a woman who embraced life with zest. She thrived on pitting her formidable wits against the world, and particularly against men, since they piloted — not intelligently, at that — its finances and politics. As she continued to review the events of the past week, she smiled with satisfaction. Burhan Kayhanoğlu, the Turkish Minister of Interior and a most irritating roadblock on her way to unleash the full might of her own, long-held version of the Megali Idea [Megali Idea (a concept of Greek nationalism expressing the goal of establishing a Greek state that encompasses all ethnic Greeks, going back to the Greek-Turkish War of 1897)], was about to be removed for good. Although he had survived her past attempts at erasing him, now the thin cord, which connected him to his ninth life, was so worn out that it could snap at any minute!

Her feline smile widened. She lifted her right leg, high, flexing its muscles, feeling pride in how far she could stretch or bend, and weave circles in the air with her ankle and red-lacquered toes. In control… yes, in control of her muscles, bones, and destiny. That of her own, and that of other people she chose to manipulate. Burhan’s life had been hers for the taking ever since his protector, her husband, had passed away five years ago. Yhorgos had not allowed her to touch Burhan for he had been fond of Burhan’s father, Jenghis, a distant cousin of his who’d been a Captain in the Turkish Air Force — and had never ceased mourning that in 1954, he’d been forced to order his execution.

The thought of her husband plunged her into a momentary sadness. Ah, Yhorgos, you sentimental fool …

Jenghis had been an arrogant nonentity who did not own a pot to piss on. The sum-total of his life’s accomplishments had made him less important than a roach beneath their feet. True, he’d been handsome, rumored to be a tiger in bed. And Yhorgos had been boyishly proud of Jenghis’s sexual exploits and capacity to drink huge amounts of raki and still remain fun to be with.

Jenghis’ son Burhan had inherited his father’s looks as well as vainglorious notion of being incorruptible, but got to be more dangerous because of the power he had acquired. Many years ago, just to please her husband, she had attempted to recruit him, and of course he had thwarted her. And she had dismissed him as a threat to her plans, for she had recognized Burhan as the type of self-righteous crusader who’d end up hanging himself if she just gave him enough rope.

Her eyes crinkled at the corners as her smile widened. Ahhh, but the man was totally blind to how he aided and abetted in his own downfall! During these last six months, piece by carefully acquired piece, the final set of dominoes had been put in place, awaiting her nudge to set them rolling. And she had done so four days ago, with the results beginning to show as early as on the next day, August the 9th.

However, she had one regret: her failure to take into account Mark’s reaction to the media-blitz which had resulted in his near-fatal collision with her avalanching dominoes. Anika cared for Mark, and intended to do all necessary to help him recover.

As she conjured up Mark Cohen’s image, her heartbeat accelerated. Ah, yes, she thrived on political and financial manipulations the way she thrived on young men who were well built, brown-eyed, olive-skinned, and vigorous in bed. Her penchant for them was of course a legacy of Shaheen, her first love, that accursed Turk who’d unleashed her unquenchable sexuality. She’d been fifteen when she met him, and Shaheen, whose name meant the falcon, twenty-six.

Same age as Mark, today... and the resemblance... oh, Sancta Panaghia, the physical resemblance …but also, Mark made love with the same enthusiastic, raw passion that was Shaheen’s hallmark.

Madame! Sir Colin is insisting! Bohar interrupted her ruminations again.

Tell the old bloke I’m indisposed, she drawled, imitating a British accent, her features softening with affection as she spoke to him. Bohar Daraz was a twenty-eight-year-old genius Polish-Jew who had defected from the Soviet Union ten years ago. Although he spoke both Greek as well as Turkish fluently, Anika conversed in English with him, a throwback to the day when she first met him in Paris, shortly after he had defected, and was pleased to discover that her new, young protégé from Moscow spoke English like a New Yorker.

Bohar shook his head from side to side. Madame, I’ve been giving him the same excuse for days. Understandably Sir Colin is getting impatient now. He’s eager to negotiate about the treasure. He’s flown here from London as soon as you summoned him; if he misses one more Cabinet meeting during this crisis, he’ll never get back in the graces of the Iron Lady.

How dare you mention that ugly crone’s name in my presence? Anika sat up furiously, reached for a cigarette, Bohar whipped out a slim lighter from his shirt pocket, clicked it on and protecting its bluish flame with his palm, bent over towards her.

As she took a thirsty drag from the cigarette, rage flooded her veins. Six months ago, while she was renegotiating her charter with British Petroleum, that Thatcher bitch, discovering that she had secured a lucrative deal with Sovfracht, the Soviet Shipping Agency, had accused her of working for the KGB, then ordered an investigation into Poseidon Maritime’s alleged weapons trafficking in the North Sea. Of course the investigation was doomed to failure, she thought aloud, chuckling.

Yes, Bohar replied dryly, "because the vessels were under Liberian registry, owned by individual corporations. But Madame, it cost us a great deal of maneuvering, in addition of the two key board-members we had to weed out, to get the BP to renew their charter with you."

Ol’ Maggie has been too long at the helm, Anika hissed, enabling her to stick her nose in my business. Bohar, listen, we need to create a few more diversions for her... maybe another Profumo-like scandal in the Cabinet... or, let’s have some fun in Ireland, hmm? Check our ties with the IRA and its opposition, the Ulster Volunteer Force... funnel some weapons and cash to both. It ought to give them renewed incentive to slash each other’s throats.

Sir Colin is still waiting on the phone, he reminded her quietly. Bearing in mind that his brother-in-law, recently appointed Secretary to Reverend Paisley, could be a useful link with the UVF... would you like me to inform him that you are no longer indisposed?

No, not that I’m indisposed, she spoke thoughtfully, rather, tell him that I’m troubled about the latest news from Turkey. I need more time to try salvaging our deal. But it’s possible that I might not succeed. If he doesn’t like it, he and his senile brother-in-law can go to hell. I don’t need them to prop the IRA, or... let me see... hmm, maybe the Welfare Fund of the striking coal miners in England... She threw back her head and laughed, clapping her hands like a child, "Nai! I shall have the Iron Lady busily sweating bullets, all on my own!"

Very well, Madame.

As Bohar went inside, Anika craned her neck, watching his gait. In short-sleeved white cotton shirt and tight white trousers, his wiry body alerted her to that she had not had sex for a while. And Bohar Daraz was a good boy, fiercely loyal to her in every way, and because she appreciated these qualities, she was wont to reward him periodically. With her body, for this was what made him happy the most.

Sighing, Anika rose to her feet, sauntered toward the suite, which combined whirlpool, shower and sauna, and passed Bohar, who, after wrapping up with Sir Colin, was tearing a page off the telex. Catching up with Anika as she turned on the hot water jets in the glass-enclosed marble shower stall, he announced, Adnan has shipped the package you requested, to Jerusalem. But as you know, Madame, it’s damaged; and Adnan can’t guarantee it’ll arrive in a useful state. He added with a wry grin, Madame, I suspect your latest sex-slave is in danger of giving up his soul enroute to your bed.

Don’t be insolent, she chided him gently, reaching for his pants’ zipper and pulling it down slowly.

Forgive me, Madame. Trembling, Bohar aided his mistress by quickly shrugging off his shirt and stepping out of his pants.

When they were under the warm jets and he was about to violently make love to her, Anika stayed him for a moment. I’ve decided against the transaction with Sir Colin, she informed him quietly, "as soon as we’re finished here, we are returning to Jerusalem. I’d advise you to pray hard for that package to arrive safely, and alive."

Sighing, Bohar grasped her firm buttocks with both hands and bent his knees to accommodate her. You know I’ll do anything to make you happy, Madame, he whispered, choking as he struggled not to climax before she was satisfied, including selling my soul to the devil.

Sha-heeennn! Anika cried out suddenly, racked with heart wrenching convulsions, oh, Shaheen, my one and only, beautiful, beloved Falcon....

Chapter 1 - July 18, Izmir, Turkey

The chaos hovering over this nation could easily be overlooked here, Mark observed, intrigued by the business-as-usual atmosphere as he strode from the direction of the elegant, Moorish style clock tower toward the Bazaar, on his way to the bus station. As it was his habit, he had all five senses cocked, absorbing the minutiae of life like a sponge. The truth was that these were dangerous days to live here; an unofficial civil war had sprung up like brushfire and was fanning into the deepest corners of the land. Intangible yet inevitable, the future awaited Turkey, ready to rise and strike with the righteous wrath of a long due apocalypse.

Around him stretched the ancient, myth-endowed city of Izmir, Turkey’s largest Aegean port and the birthplace of the legendary poet, Homer. Because of its proximity to Ephesus and Pergamum, two other equally wondrous cities of Antiquity, he was given to fantasizing about the distinguished ghosts who were still lingering in this area. Once upon a time, St. Paul had paced the marble streets of Ephesus, and the Virgin Mary had spent her final years there. Impressively planted along the shores of a large bay furrowed by ships, today’s Izmir lay languid against the dark blue sea, protected by a ring of verdant mountains and interspersed with modern, palm-lined avenues.

A beatific smile fled across his lips. How incredible that in this latter part of the Twentieth Century, he, one Mark David Cohen, a neophyte archaeologist from Brooklyn, New York, was given the great good luck to go hobnob in the cradle of mythology and history!

A few drops of sweat sneaked their annoying way out of his hair, down his forehead, blurring his vision. He was in a hurry and although somewhat blinded, he refused to break his stride in search of a kerchief. So he stumbled onward, determinedly rubbing his eyes and blinking until his world was back in focus. The temperature had reached 105°F today and despite the sea breeze blowing across the shady avenues and bustling traffic and pedestrians, the air felt hot, heavy. As he listened to random snatches of a la Franka and a la Turka tunes and conversations, a commingling of Turkish, Greek, French, and English, he envisioned them shimmer and vibrate as they rose until they dissolved in the hazy atmosphere.

He was forced to stop at an intersection, waiting for the traffic light to change. As he straightened his rucksack, he noticed two pretty young brunettes study his denim shorts and long muscular legs with frank interest. Realizing that he had caught them, they giggled and nudged each other. He winked, smiled, and then quickly crossed the street. With added buoyancy in his steps he hurried through the narrow side streets to the colorful, lively Bazaar. Then a sigh of regret escaped his throat. The rich variety of displayed antiques, jewelry and clothing was enchanting, yet today he had no eye for them. He yearned to be back, swimming in the cool depths of the Aegean. Hot damn, he’d rather be searching for the remains of his ship, wrecked two thousand years ago while on a trade journey from Cyprus to Thrace, than go on this pain-in-the-ass funds-raising trip to Istanbul! He felt at home in Poseidon’s, God of the Seven Seas, universe, exploring its mysteries while many an iridescent fish brushed his torso and floating plankton reached for him with ghostly yet flirtatious arms.

At last he arrived at the bus station and stood in line to buy his ticket. His gaze continued scanning his circus-like surroundings. He was among peasants who wore shalvars (ballooning pants caught at the ankle), several women covered from head to toe in dark charshafs, also Saturnine-faced soldiers, hawk-eyed porters, and a few European tourists of the penniless-yet-adventurous kind. A motley mixture of smells, from garlicky sweat to open-air grilled meats and the reek from the public lavatory, besieged his sensibilities and he had to be careful to breathe through his mouth. Adding insult to the injury was the mercury, climbing higher with each passing minute, and his eyes began to burn from the shimmering heat.

After he had bought his ticket, he took refuge beneath the shadow of a dwarf palm tree. Absentmindedly he unbuttoned his faded denim shirt, hesitated a second, then shrugged it off and stuffed it into his already bulging rucksack. The charshafed women around him chastely averted their gaze from his exposed, perspiration-sleek chest and shoulders. Yet he sensed that they were staring at him secretly, and his dark brown eyes beneath his sun browned brow, danced with a boyish, gleeful spirit of fun.

These Turkish women were an enigma, charming him with their understated yet earthily sensuous, femininity. But he preferred to observe them from the distance. As thrilled as he was by their mysterious beckoning, he was too enamored with his work to succumb.

Trailing a black cloud of exhaust fumes, the red and white Mercedes Benz bus to Istanbul, entered the station. Mark shouldered his rucksack and joined the crowd, impatient with visions of air-conditioned comfort and a scenic window seat.

A petite, slender girl clad in a demure blue-cotton dress, got in front of him and he had to curb his speed. She had silky dark-blond, shoulder-length hair parted from the side, obscuring his side of her face. Yet her frame and demeanor had something very appealing and although he could see no more than the top of her upturned nose and the hint of an oval face, for a second he imagined she was a lovely small bird he’d enjoy to cradle in his hands. Wishing to see her features up close, he quickened his step. Side by side they approached the entrance to the bus, but then he paused so that she may enter first. Pressing her bulky canvas shoulder bag to her breast, she lowered her head and climbed in almost running.

As he lifted one foot to reach the first landing, he was elbowed aside by a black-haired, stately woman dressed in white, and he staggered. While regaining his balance, the refreshing strong scent of lemon cologne permeated his nostrils. Amused by her assertiveness, he let her have her way, and then followed her up into the bus.

The silky-haired girl took a seat in the front, next to an old peasant woman. He tried to sit behind her, but a soldier in rough khaki uniform, beat him to it. The lemon-scented woman ahead of him, turned around, her gaze met his. She gave him the ghost of a smile, sat down, and then motioned him with her hand to join her, half-turning so that he could pass her and sit by the window. With one last wistful glance at the silky-haired girl, he obliged.

The bus grunted, its air-conditioning came on, fanning them like a warm breath, and it began inching its way between the congested traffic. With unemployment skyrocketing, one university place for every ten applicants and inflation making life’s basics a luxury, the streets brimmed with young men and women who had no place to go, yet were full of restless energy.

As Izmir and its hubbub slipped behind, Mark closed his eyes, trying not to think of his own pressing problems. Striving to relax, he mentally swam in the bottom of the Aegean, checking the undersea vegetation and the sunken boat, which had formed a small mound. However, the imagery would not give him the solace he sought. He switched his thoughts to yesterday, reliving his excursion to Kadife Kale, the Velvet Castle. Dominating Izmir from Mount Pagos, the Velvet Castle had been built way back in the Fourth Century B.C., and restored many times thence. Standing on this high fortress, his bird’s-eye gaze sweeping the magnificent city and its bay, he had dreamed full steam, of many things. The past. The future. Recognition as a master archaeologist. A white stone house on the Aegean with a wraparound terrace and a floor-to-ceiling library with bookshelves that spanned all its rooms. Wife? Children? Maybe... hopefully!

Young man! Are you asleep?

Asleep? he gasped, opening his eyes and blinking like a disgruntled owl. No, not anymore. He swung his head aside, facing his neighbor. Their eyes met, a violent shudder racked his body, and he had the disturbing sense of having received an electrical shock.

Good! she beamed, I was afraid of spending long hours in the bus without anyone to talk to.

All at once he was acutely conscious of the fact that he was bare from the waist up. But it was still stiflingly warm and the thought of wearing his shirt just for the sake of good manners, felt simply unbearable. Managing to produce a casual shrug, he tried to turn away from her, and then realized that he could not, for he was compelled to study her. She had mesmerizing, large black-brown eyes with heavily applied eyeliner and mascara, and glossy black hair swept away from her high brow, then knotted on the nape of her neck. Her narrow nose was aquiline; her mouth wide with full, naturally dusky-red lips, and her chin was strongly defined. The smooth olive skin of her face and throat, set off to advantage by her lace-ruffled white silk blouse, made her age hard to judge; she could be anywhere between thirty and forty. She was not very beautiful, at least not in the conventional sense, yet she had an erotic aura about her that was captivating.

In an instinctive effort to place as much space between their bodies as it would be possible on the narrow seat, he pressed himself against the window.

She didn’t seem perturbed by his withdrawal. Tell me, you’re a tourist, are you not? she probed, Where are you from? I must say bravo, your Turkish is fluent!

I’m an American, he replied curtly.

Oh, I see.

Her earnest expression made him smile. Oh yes, nowadays we’re not too popular around here.

She did not return his smile. Never mind those ingrate Turks! I’m a Greek, and we’re fond of you Yankees. You’re a rich, dependable ally.

He noted that she had a purposeful, vibrant presence and from as much as he could gather, a well-endowed figure. With a will of its own, his gaze swept the outline of her large breasts, which were trembling from the jerky ride, and the sight stirred him.

She seemed to notice that, too. The tip of her tongue slowly went over her dry lips. He swallowed hard.

So, tell me, she spoke, her tone suddenly husky, what brought you here? Was it thirst for adventure?

No, Herodotus, he replied gravely. "He said of this region, under the most beautiful sky and in the world’s best climate. I happened to read his quote on a miserable, icy winter day in New York, and got hooked. I had to come here to verify it with my own eyes."

Oh, really? she teased him, Is that all?

No, of course not. I’m an archaeologist.

Ah, now I understand! Izmir is the source of history as well as legend. She opened her purse and retrieved a transparent bottle of cologne. As she doused herself liberally, he was reminded of citrus flowers, green fields and the sun-streaked silky hair of the girl ahead. The woman moistened a white linen handkerchief with the cologne, and opening the top two pearl buttons of her white blouse, tucked it between her generous breasts.

Unable to control his blushing, Mark turned his head away. She tapped his shoulder. Why don’t you try some, too, young man? It’ll cool you off instantly.

No, thank you; I’m not hot.

Your face is red.

He scowled. From the sun.

She inched closer, her thigh touching his. He remained still, his gaze fixed to the window. Leaving the city, they had entered the dusty, punishing road between Izmir and its nearest village. He knew that the surrounding slopes were full of unexplored holes, ancient remains, and barrows, all to be dug up and studied one day.

Young man! she demanded his attention again, indignant, You didn’t tell me your name.

With a resigned sigh, he turned and looked at her. After a brief hesitation, he replied, Mark.

"Just Mark?" She arched a shapely, dark eyebrow. No last name?

For no reason that he could think of, his mouth dried, his throat burned and not trusting his voice, he remained silent.

I am Anika, she declared, Anika Alkibiades. She smiled, yet the look in her eyes had a speculative quality, as if curious about his reaction to her revelation.

When his expression remained blank, her hand came to rest on his thigh. Pleased to meet you, Mark.

Likewise, he snapped curtly, returning his attention to the window. I apologize for not being talkative.

Pausing, he waited for her retort. When none materialized, he felt slightly guilty about his bad manners. Her hand left his thigh. Relieved, he leaned back in his seat, closed his eyes and after a while, was lulled into sleep.

Two hours later, they disembarked at a bus stop and walked into a small, decrepit roadside cafe crowded with men from the village. The bus was going to stay here for only five minutes, just enough time to buy something cool and get back on the road. Remembering the silky haired girl, his inquisitive gaze searched for her. But she was not around, must have preferred to stay on the bus. Disappointed, he stared at the entrance into the cafe, willing her to appear there.

Anika caught his wistful look and attempted to reclaim his attention by placing her manicured hand upon his arm. Ignoring her touch, he shook himself free, fished his shirt from his rucksack and put it on. Striding out of the cafe, he headed for the bus. But Anika remained close to him. As they reclaimed their seats, he realized he had forgotten to buy a soda. But his thirst had left him; instead, he was feeling extremely restless, almost ready to burst out of his skin.

Anika launched a one-sided conversation, rambling from topic to topic. After a while, her streaming words soothed his psyche and as they continued to drive on a bumpy road within the sun-splashed, verdant landscape, his eyelids grew heavy. He barely noticed that she was speaking about her house in Istanbul, and that she sounded very enthusiastic.

It’s on Prinkipo, an island overlooking the Marmara Sea... shaded by towering pine trees... Prinkipo means Prince, and it’s the largest of the four islands on....

The words island and sea brought back his yearning to be diving in the Aegean. His thoughts wandered. Ever since his arrival in Turkey, he was obsessed with the sea. No wonder though, for his childhood had been spent in a brick, row house in Brooklyn and the sea had meant a day on the crowded, over-noisy beach of Coney Island. Besides, burning with the need to break out of his oppressively middle class Jewish neighborhood and the peer pressures to conform, he had had no time for anything but to study, working hard toward his emancipation from his demanding family. Soon after his bar mitzvah, he had begun struggling to pay for his schooling and private expenses through a string of part-time jobs. From grilling burgers in McDonald’s, to pumping gas, to bouncing the drunks in an Italian bar at Sheepshead Bay.

What’s all this nonsense? How can you make a decent living as a grave-digger? his infuriated father had demanded to know, You really expect to support your future wife and children with that crap?

Father! Archaeology is not just digging in graveyards, he had rebelled. But the unearthing of vital material legacy left behind by forgotten people.

Forgotten people, eh? his father had sneered, then, fury reverting to disappointment and hurt, he had declared, "You may forget about help from me, son! I didn’t ruin my eyes for twenty five years cutting diamonds in a dark and narrow cubicle, so that you can go and squander my life-savings unearthing forgotten people’s garbage."

His thoughts switched to the matter that had been bothering him lately. Wasn’t it strange how the Foundation seemed to have deserted the project? Especially after the lengthy red-tape war with the Turks for permission to excavate this ancient trade vessel. Then they had assigned Mark, the young archaeologist debuting in Ebla, as part of a four-man crew. He had arrived here five months ago, sans the three others who were experts in undersea archaeology. Yes, they had simply failed to turn up. Neither had the Foundation, named after Poseidon, the Greek god of the sea and of mariners, bothered to give him an explanation as to why. After wasting a whole month waiting, he’d begun trying to clear off the ship’s mound on his own. After all, he had figured, no one had fired him, nor revoked his permit….

The magnificent pines on my property, Anika’s voice pulled him out of his introspection, are a sight to behold! I wish you would visit me.

Suddenly something flashed in the periphery of his vision, his head swung around, his eyes flew wide open and his gaze was riveted upon her arm. He held his breath. Something on that smooth, plump, olive-skinned arm... a bracelet... about two inches wide, gold, antique-looking. Shuddering, he bit his lips. He felt drawn toward it by a strong pull of energy. Completely awake now, he reveled in the bracelet’s intricate design. Why hadn’t he noticed it before? Could it be that the swift turn of her arm had caught the sun, igniting its almost unearthly glow?

His mind reeled, searching for data. Then he recalled having seen something similar in Ankara’s Archaeological Museum. Yes, sir-ree, a bracelet dating to the First King of the Hittites. But had it been made of gold? No. Carved in