The Secret of Hagia Sophia: The Thrilling Story of the Discovery (With a Bit of Literary License) of an Important Piece of Byzantine Art, Lost for over Four Hundred Years

By Anthony Joseph Sacco Sr. JD

Private Investigator Matt Dawson is enjoying a quiet breakfast at his home in Cheyenne, when a ringing landline shatters his tranquility. The Dean of the Archeology Department at Brown University, Providence, Rhode Island is calling with a job proposal that transports him to the Southern European city of Istanbul and immerses him in the four-hundred-year old deadly secret of Hagia Sophia.

• Language: English
• Publisher: WestBow Press
• Release date: Aug 9, 2018
• ISBN: 9781973615439

Anthony Joseph Sacco Sr. JD

Anthony Joseph Sacco Sr. holds a bachelor of science (BS) degree from Loyola University, Maryland, and a doctorate of law (JD) degree from the University of Maryland, School of Law. Sacco is the author of three fact-based fiction novelsLittle Sister Lost, The China Connection, and Return to Darknessand a biography, Echoes in the Wind. A prolific writer of political, religious, and social commentary, his articles have appeared in the Baltimore Sun, the Washington Times, the Catholic Review, Voices for the Unborn, and the Wyoming Catholic Register. Recently, he did an eight-article series on the Birds of Wyoming for the Wren Magazine. Dr. Sacco presently lives in Cheyenne, Wyoming, with his wife, Carol, and their dog, Axl. He often quips, I wasnt born in Wyoming, but I got here as soon as I could. You can read interesting articles of current events on his blog at http://myturntosoundoff.wordpress.com/ and view his website at http://www.saccoservice.com/.

Book preview

THE SECRET OF

HAGIA SOPHIA

The Thrilling Story of the Discovery

(with a Bit of Literary License) of an

Important Piece of Byzantine Art,

Lost for Over Four Hundred Years

Anthony Joseph Sacco, Sr., JD

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Copyright © 2018 Anthony Joseph Sacco, Sr., JD.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

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www.westbowpress.com

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Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

ISBN: 978-1-9736-1542-2 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-9736-1544-6 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-9736-1543-9 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2018900647

WestBow Press rev. date: 07/16/2018

Contents

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

About The Author

This book is dedicated to the Holy Spirit, as in God, the ….. He has always been there for me, even during the few times when I wasn’t seeking Him.

AND

For Carol, my beloved wife and best friend – thank you for the wonderful years.

Also by Anthony Joseph Sacco, Sr. −

Fact-Based Fiction:

Little Sister Lost

Available in Hardcover and Trade paperback

The China Connection

Available in Hardcover and Trade Paperback

Return to Darkness

Available in Hardcover and Trade paperback

Echoes in the Wind

A biography - available in Trade paperback only

To Order:

A copy of Little Sister Lost, The China Connection, or Return to Darkness, please contact WestBow Press at 1-812-650-0910.

To order a signed copy, please call the author at 307-638-9338.

To Order:

A copy of Echoes in the Wind, please contact iUniverse, Inc., at 1-800-AUTHORS

To order a signed copy, please call the author at 307-638-9338.

To Order

A copy of The Secret of Hagia Sophia, please contact WestBow Press at 1-812-650-0910

To order a signed copy, please call the author at 307-638-9338.

DEËSIS – Def.

A tripartite icon of the Christian Eastern Orthodox Church showing Jesus, usually enthroned, between the Virgin Mary and Saint John the Baptist.

DEËSIS – Def.

In Byzantine art and Eastern Orthodox art generally, the Deësis is a traditional iconic representation of Jesus Christ Pantocrator, enthroned, carrying a book, and flanked by the Virgin Mary and Saint John the Baptist, and sometimes other saints and angels. Mary and John and any other figures are generally shown facing toward Jesus, with their hands raised in supplication on behalf of humanity.

HAGIA SOPHIA – Def.

From the Greek, Holy Wisdom. Latin, Santa Sophia. Turkish, Ayasofya. This is the name for a former Christian patriarchal basilica (church), later an imperial mosque, in Istanbul, Turkey. From the date of its construction in 537 until 1453, it served as a Greek Orthodox cathedral and seat of the Patriarchate of Constantinople, except between 1204 and 1261, when it was converted to a Roman Catholic cathedral. The building was a mosque from 1453 until 1931. It was then secularized and opened as a museum on February 1, 1935.

PROLOGUE

August 4, 2013

Istanbul (formerly Constantinople), Turkey

Ebussuut Cd near Sultanehmet Square

Noon, Eastern European Standard Time (EEST)

"Allahu Akbar! Our God is greatest." At noon the residents of the ancient city of Istanbul and the many tourists who travel long distances to visit, hear the competitive cry of the Dhuhr, the second Muslim prayer of the day.

The sun is situated directly overhead at the noon hour on this August day. It beats down unmercifully on Sultanehmet Square. Marking the other end of the Square, the museum-church of Hagia Sophia, or Ayasofya in Turkish, stands in haughty grandeur, anticipating the daily onslaught of tourists from many nations. Ranked as one of the twenty-five most beautiful buildings in the entire world, it was once a Greek Orthodox Church. Later, it was the Byzantine Catholic Church of the Holy Wisdom. But after the Muslim Turks, led by Sultan Mehmet II, captured Constantinople at the end of May 1453, by order of the Sultan this church became a mosque and later still, in 1934, by order of Mustafa Kemal Ataturk, a museum.

Two landmarks, the Blue Mosque and the museum-church of Hagia Sophia, are connected by attractive flower gardens linked by cobblestone paths, native shrubbery, large, glistening fountains, and stone benches upon which Turkish couples can be seen relaxing with their young children. Nearby, teen-aged boys practice kicking a worn soccer ball, as visitors from other countries stroll the square, blissfully unaware of the House of Islam’s (dar al-Islam’s) war against the rest of the world (dar al-harb), or aware but unwilling to face the fact that such a war might even occur in this day and age. But it was now in progress for the third time in history. The violent nature of Islam and the stifling dominance of Sharia, the political, legal, and religious system under which a number of Muslim Turks live, and under which the Caliph and all the Imams of the Muslim nations scheme and plan for the entire world to someday live, is largely unknown to them. Their denial allows most of these travelers to enjoy themselves despite the violent state of the world’s two warring camps.

This is one of the best places in the entire city to hear the Muslim call to prayer, scream the travel magazines, their ads aimed at tourists, enticing them to spend their dollars or rubles. So come to Istanbul during Ramadan, which begins this year on July 9th and will end on August 7th.

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August 4, 2013

Istanbul (formerly Constantinople), Turkey

Ebussuut Cd near Sultanehmet Square

12:15 p.m., Eastern European Standard Time (EEST)

Several blocks north and west of Hagia Sophia, a stocky, thirty-year old Russian clad in camo garb and in need of a haircut, stands guard inside the first-floor entrance of an abandoned warehouse. He holds an Avtomat Kalashnikov rifle in his stubby hands. A former member of the FSB, Russia’s new internal security agency, his assignment is to use the rifle to prevent anyone but his fellows from gaining access to this dowdy building in Istanbul’s suburbs. Unknown to the Turkish authorities, the old warehouse has been commandeered by a band of Russian Mafia which had come to Istanbul intent on locating and stealing certain art from the museum-church of Hagia Sophia, and also to set up a distribution point for receiving quantities of cocaine and heroin from Asian distributors and passing them on to suppliers in the city, who would load the drugs aboard unmarked trucks for delivery to users there and across the border in Greece. The sad, incessant demand from addicts there needed to be satisfied.

The Russian checked the weapon in his hands. Designed by an obscure Russian engineer named Mikhail Kalashnikov in 1947, the AK-47 rifle was immediately recognized for its durability and reliability. It catapulted its inventor to fame and fortune, and quickly become the weapon of choice by troops of the former Soviet Union until the demise of that nation in 1991.

And the world soon became aware of it. A model equipped with a thirty round banana clip was acquired from unscrupulous gun dealers and sold to the Taliban and Al-Qaeda for use in Iraq and Afghanistan. It was also obtained by the military wings of Hamas and Hezbollah in Lebanon and Palestine, by Boko Haram, many Mafia families, and numerous street gangs in various nations.

Inside the spacious storage area on the first floor of that warehouse, two more men lounged in the shadows. They, along with Fyodor Kolodenko and their leader, Yevgeny Burgasov, had entered this sprawling city in the beginning of the summer. One more Russian made up their team; Andrei Zlotnikov. A former KGB operative who had been unable to find work after its demise, Zlotnikov had emigrated from Moscow several years before and had found a job as a bouncer in a night club, where he could put his hand-to-hand combat skills to good use. He now maintained a home in the city. But he had not opened that home for use by his friends.

All of these men were armed with Makarov PM 9x18, nine mm remodeled gas pistols, standard military issue for the Soviet army between 1971 and 1991. The weapons were easily obtained from former soldiers willing to part with them for a price, as long as spendable Russian rubles were offered. Better yet, they were untraceable by the authorities if used for nefarious purposes.

One naked bulb dangling from the rafters by a black cord provided the only light. Except for several metal folding chairs and a scarred wooden table, the space was barren of furniture. Toward the back, partially hidden in the dim light, tarp-covered bales of white powder in plastic bags awaited the attention of these men. Almost a ton of cocaine destined for customers in Istanbul, northern Turkey, and southern Greece, would be distributed over the next week, at a profit so huge as to make George Soros, Bill Gates, and Warren Buffet seem like pikers.

A male in his mid-sixties, with thinning gray hair, clad only in a cotton T-shirt, boxer shorts, socks and shoes, was tied to a chair in the center of the room. His wrists and ankles were bound by cheap clothesline rope. Hakan Osman, the assistant director of the museum-church of Hagia Sophia was a Muslim Turk who was extremely knowledgeable about the complex history of his subject. His passion for it and his focus on it had sustained him throughout his career. He had cultivated these two qualities well into middle age, and he had been rewarded for his diligence with success. In fact, Hakan Osman was next in line for the Director’s job. But that was not without its complications because that position was occupied, and the tension between him and the man who presently held the position, Rafi Azizz, was obvious to the staff.

Just now, however, something out of the ordinary and quite frightening was taking place. Because of his job as assistant director of Hagia Sophia he had been caught up in events which would soon put an end to his upward mobility, his career … and his life.

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August 4, 2013

Istanbul (formerly Constantinople), Turkey

Ebussuut Cd near Sultanehmet Square

12:25 p.m., Eastern European Standard Time (EEST)

Osman had been severely beaten. His face and head showed the results of fists applied too diligently. The night before he had given up straining against the ropes that bound him because they cut into his flesh.

He did not know who his abductors were. Where they had come from was a mystery. But he knew that they spoke Turkic fluently; articulate men who did not use the street vernacular of the local thugs.

They had snatched him off the street in front of Hagia Sophia late on the previous day, in plain view of site seeing tourists. One of the abductors had hit him with something; not hard enough to cause a concussion, but hard enough to render him unconscious for a while. Then they had thrown him into the back of a dirty white van and driven here. But because he had listened carefully to their chatter when they thought he was still unconscious, he now understood why they had grabbed him and were holding him in this place.

His kidnappers had left him alone at first, isolating him the entire night. He had slept fitfully. Isolation usually creates in a prisoner a desire to talk. But to the frustration of his captors, Osman, a strong-willed individual, had suppressed that desire and remained silent. This morning, the beating had begun. That was not the worst of what was about to happen to him. The museum-church would soon be in need of a new assistant director.

These six men were part of one of the largest and most powerful Russian Mafia bands, with about five thousand members spread across the young Russian Federation. Three of its members, Yevgeny Burgasov, Fyodor Kolodenko, and Andrei Zlotnikov, were gathered around Osman. They carried the same Makarovs in shoulder holsters as the guard at the door, but theirs held eight round magazines and were equipped with sound suppressors. It was they who had been interrogating their prisoner.

When will you start telling us the truth, Hakan? their leader, Burgasov asked. Tall and dark complected, with a carefully trimmed Van Dyke beard, he pointed an accusing finger at Osman. We know you were there.

Osman ran his swollen tongue across his bruised lips. He noticed that the tips of Burgasov’s fingers were blackened, perhaps by years of handling crack cocaine. You are wrong. I was not with Whittemore’s team when they began work in Hagia Sophia in 1931. It was not until 1934 that they claimed to have discovered its location. Besides, many authorities now believe the team’s claim was fabricated so that the flow of grant money would not dry up.

Fyodor Kolodenko listened without a trace of expression and believed not a word of what he heard. Lying will not help you, he snarled.

"I am not lying. I swear by Allah and the Prophet, himself. It was my father who was there with Whittemore. Do you not have eyes to see? I am not that old. And those who were there are probably all deceased by now."

Bah! Burgasov spat. You expect us to believe that?

Osman glared at his captor for a few moments before turning his head away. "Believe what you like. It is true, nevertheless."

Burgasov stepped closer. "Suppose what you say is true. Where can we find your father? Where is he living?"

My father … disappeared in 1954. No one knew what happened to him. I was just a few years old then. My mother petitioned the court to have him legally declared dead seven years after he disappeared. She had thoughts of re-marrying, but she died a few years later.

Both parents dead? How convenient, Burgasov said, showing a flash of anger. Reaching down, he grabbed Osman’s T-shirt, dragging him partially upwards against the rope that bound him to the chair. Tell us! Where is the canvas of the Deësis image of Christ?

Osman closed his eyes against the blows he thought would come: I do not know. I swear.

He did not think of himself as particularly brave. But his mind, only partially engulfed by the paralyzing fear that he was about to die, was still processing, although much slower because of the beating he had endured. His head snapped up. What did he just say? Does he think he is searching for a canvas? Do these people really not know? Well, I will tell them nothing, he thought. They intend to kill me anyway because I have seen their faces. Either way; tell them or not, I am a dead man.

Osman! Burgasov shouted, his voice echoing off the rafters high above. For just a fraction of a second a flash of madness glinted in his eyes. "You are not listening. Even if you were not there; even if it was not you but your father as you claim, you know something. Of that I am certain."

No! I know nothing. While my father was with us, he never talked of the work that was done. Never.

Burgasov glared. I do not believe you, he said coldly. Istanbul was not his home. He did not like the Turks. He much preferred Moscow. For that matter, Istanbul was way down the list of all the other places in which he had spent time. But because of the kind of work he did for his Mafia bosses, he had no permanent home; and he had not had one, or a family, for at least two decades. Reluctantly, he had become a nomad. And also reluctantly, as the balance in his Swiss bank account had grown, he had come to understand and accept that fact. In his leisure moments, and at night before sleep overtook him, he visualized his retirement to a place of sun-drenched beaches. Perhaps the Mediterranean, or the Caribbean, or even the South Pacific, surrounded by beautiful, hot women and an unlimited supply of excellent vodka.

It is true, Osman said. Whittemore swore all of them to secrecy. His entire team of archeologists, historians, craftsmen, and restorers. My grandmother told me that my mother often told her that.

So. You admit that your father spoke of this matter to others? Kolodenko said triumphantly. Dressed in dark flannel trousers and a blue oxford cloth, button-down shirt, the others called him ‘The Professor’ because he could have passed as a tenured professor at any European university. He removed his horn-rimmed glasses, examined them, and pointed them at Osman. I thought as much. And we believe you know a lot more than you are letting on.

Osman bit his lip. He had been careless; blurted out a response without thinking. Well, it did not matter. He understood that his fate had already been sealed.

Remaining silent will not help you, either, Burgasov snapped. Tell us. Before I instruct Kolodenko to work on you again. What else did you hear?

Osman shuddered. He was a Muslim, but he had no desire to take another beating in order to please Allah. And he simply did not want to think about what this wild-eyed Russian would do to him if he remained silent. From his brief time as their prisoner he felt that the man was … not completely right in the head, and that he would carry out his threats. He also knew to an absolute certainty that even though he was older, a widower, and even though he was hurting and yearning for an end to the pain these men were inflicting upon him, he wanted to live. But what could he do? Maybe … if I told them some things that did not matter; things that were unimportant, but which, while they thought about them, perhaps even looked into them, might give him a chance to stay alive long enough to escape? He decided he had nothing to lose by trying.

I do not know much about this … Deësis. But I have heard that Whittemore’s group was using a map left by a pair of Swiss architects. It showed the location of many Icons. Some of them were destroyed by the earthquake of 1894. But one of the items on their map was called the Deësis.

Kolodenko glanced over his horn-rimmed glasses at Burgasov to see if he had his chief’s permission to speak again. Who has possession of this map now? He asked.

I do not know, Osman said. The Swiss worked in Hagia Sophia almost a hundred years before Whittemore. Perhaps the Whittemore team obtained it from them. And perhaps they returned it to the Swiss government later. It may be in their possession. Or perhaps the Turkish government has it. They completely supported the Whittemore effort.

Did the Turkish government provide any of the financing? Burgasov asked. His bosses in Moscow would want to know that.

No, Osman replied. I do not think so. Reconsidering, he added, "It may have provided some. According to our records, it did have complete control."

Burgasov leaned over and slapped Osman’s face with an open palm. Again. Why did you not tell me this before?

Osman attempted to blink away sweat, but otherwise did not answer.

Tell me something else, Burgasov said after a minute of silence. The code to the front doors. The security system code; what is it?

Osman thought for a moment. I do not know. I swear.

You do not know? Burgasov said. A ridiculous answer, you the assistant director.

It is true. Only the director himself has the code, Osman said.

The Deësis? Let us go back to that, Burgasov said. What else can you tell us?

Whittemore’s team had access to the Swiss architect’s map and notes; a map and notes prepared a long time ago, back when the Swiss were searching for Byzantine art works lost for almost half a millennium.

Ahh! Burgasov said. See? I knew you possessed more information.

"The Byzantine Institute was also involved, somehow, Osman said. The map and notes may have been deposited there for safekeeping."

That can easily be checked, Burgasov said. We have a contact on the faculty.

And do not forget the Nazis.

Burgasov’s eyebrows shot up: The Nazis? What about them?

Osman’s swollen lips curled in contempt. You know nothing of Deësis history. Or you would know that Germans stole art work worth millions of dollars from the Jews.

The leader of these kidnappers pulled up a chair and sat but did not remove any of Osman’s restraints. "I know that much," he responded. "Everyone knows that much. But how does that connect to the Deësis?"

Gentilii di Giuseppe, an Italian Jew and wealthy collector of art. He is the connection. He lived in Istanbul, but died just as the war was beginning. Much of his collection was displayed here. A few years later some of those pieces were removed. They were taken to Paris and hidden in the underground vaults of the Sacré-Coeur Basilica so the Nazis would not find them. The Deësis, if it exists at all, may have been among them.

What do you mean ‘if it exists at all’?

I mean if it is not just wishful thinking on the part of a few fanciful Christians.

"Where did you hear of this?"

A rumor. Only a few in the art world are familiar with it, Osman lied. "The works of Girolamo de Romani were prominent in Giuseppe’s collection. One, ‘Christ Carrying the Cross Dragged by a Rascal,’ was, by itself, worth millions."

Burgasov’s gaze was fixed on the ceiling. He had stopped listening and did not seem to be in the moment, his mind pondering what he’d been hearing and what his Moscow bosses might want him to do next. He shrugged, turned to Kolodenko, whom he considered his second in command, and spoke in Russian. Our people in Moscow are paying for this Turkish excursion; financing the expenses for the six of us. They want results. If success is not forthcoming, they will be unhappy. They do not tolerate failure. He gestured with a thumb toward Osman. We will get nothing more from him.

Perhaps we should call the Turkish Terror? Kolodenko said." He was referring to a doctor in Istanbul of such unusual cruelty that he reminded those who knew him of the atrocities of certain Nazi doctors during the late 1930s and early 1940s.

Dr. Mirza?

Yes, Kolodenko responded. We pay him enough in cocaine to be on stand-by. A needle in this man’s arm? Sodium Thiopental. A quick-acting barbiturate used as a truth serum. The chemical does not lie. Mirza will administer a very controlled dose. It would only be a matter of an hour or two and we would have what we want.

Burgasov shrugged. I had not thought of that. Very well. Call Mirza and order him to come immediately. There is nothing to lose by trying that, next. Osman may or may not know where the Deësis is. But even if he does not, there is still important information we can gain from him.

Like the security code to the front entrance? Zlotnikov asked.

Yes, Burgasov answered. if we had it, we would not need to break in and risk setting off an alarm that would summon the police.

I agree. And after that? Kolodenko asked.

"After we have the information we want? You will take him out, Burgasov said, gesturing toward Osman again. He has seen our faces. Kill him."

Andrei Zlotnikov spoke up; Wait, Yevgeny. Istanbul is a no-hit territory, is it not? I thought we all agreed on that? No killings here. Nothing to bring the police down on us. If we kill him they will hunt for his killer and might discover our drug operation.

We did agree, Andrei. We have spent considerable time and effort building this warehouse up as a cocaine distribution point so our distributors would know where to come. So we will not turn it into our ‘murder house.’ He thought for a few seconds. You are right, he said and left his chair, walked a few steps, and stopped. Another thing. We have not yet found the artwork we were sent to find. We cannot leave Istanbul. We have been ordered to stay for a while longer. So we will kill him somewhere else in the City. The Cisterns will provide that place. Two in the chest and one in the head. Then, dump his body in the sewer over near the Basilica Cistern. The rats are numerous there. They will do the rest."

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August 4, 2013

Istanbul (formerly Constantinople), Turkey

The Basilica Cistern

4:30 p.m., Eastern European Standard Time

Fyodor Kolodenko pulled Hakan Osman roughly from the passenger seat of his Volvo sedan. Why be gentle? He thought. He is a dead man. He simply does not realize he has not quite reached the point of lifelessness.

He pushed Osman toward the door leading to the Basilica Cistern, the largest of several hundred cisterns that lay beneath the city. Osman’s wrists were tightly bound with plastic flex cuffs. It was late in the day. No tourists were left on the premises to witness the arrival of a man about to be killed with a man who was about to kill him.

Fyodor Kolodenko! Osman said, with the flat, expressionless voice of a person devoid of hope and ready for the hereafter. "I have seen the scroll called the Sijjin, where the names of those who are to be sent to the fires of Hades are written. Your name is there and it is for this act, if you go through with it and others like it, repeated by you over and over in the past, that you will be punished."

Quiet, Kolodenko said. "You lie. No one has ever actually seen the Sijjin." He did not deny that he had killed repeatedly in the past. Opening the door, he nudged Osman forward several times, until the two stood alone on a platform at the base of a statue sculpted centuries ago to honor Medusa. The head was upside down. I know nothing of your Muslim holy book. And, nothing you can say will deter me. You are a dead man walking. Reaching inside his Harris tweed sport coat, he drew his Makarov.

Do you not have even a small bit of a conscience left, Fyodor? Is there nothing I can say that will cause you to release me?

By way of an answer, Kolodenko pulled the hammer back into the cocked position and pointed it at Osman’s head. Conscience? Consciences are for losers, Osman. But I will give you a moment to plead with Allah to save your own soul. That is the best I can do for you. He lowered the pistol and turned his back to Osman.

A few seconds passed. Kolodenko, aware that an important buyer would arrive at the warehouse that afternoon, was anxious to get back to the others, to assist with the transfer of a half-ton of cocaine destined for the markets of Eastern Europe. He turned again. Are you finished praying? Very well. Dos Vidanya, Osman! Raising the pistol again, he squeezed the trigger twice and two hollow-point bullets, tightly grouped, struck his victim. Osman’s body collapsed where he had been standing.

Kolodenko grunted, holstered his pistol and rolled the body over with a foot. Satisfied that Osman was dead, he stepped around the corpse, grabbed it under the arms, and dragged it to the edge of the platform on which he was standing. Below, dirty water had gathered, standing shallow and black, perhaps for years, accumulating mud, garbage, and … rats, hundreds of rats, writhing, whipping and lashing, striking at each other, waiting.

Filthy creatures! Kolodenko said aloud, glaring down at numerous long-tailed rodents. "Here is a much undeserved meal for you. He pushed Osman’s body over the edge. Enjoy," he said. Turning, he headed back the way he had come.

CHAPTER 1

Tuesday, August 20, 2013

Cheyenne, WY

2812 Foothills Road

7:10 a.m., Mountain Standard Time (MST)

The August breeze topping the Medicine Bow Mountains east of Laramie on its trek from the north, kissed the steep slopes, gently crossed the valleys and bathed the city of Cheyenne with clean, crisp air. Foothills Road, a wide, tree-lined residential street, ran in a lazy S curve east to west in the northeast section of the capital city. All the windows of the Dawson home were open on this pleasant Wyoming morning; the central air conditioning unit dormant at the moment because of the unseasonably cool temperature.

Matt Dawson was sitting at his dining room table sipping his first coffee of the day and happily preparing a bill for a client with whom he’d become friends. Will we still be friends after she sees this? He wondered.

His land line rang. The lead pencil broke. He brushed the broken piece of lead away and gazed at the offending phone. Who’d be calling this early? He wondered.

Fully dressed in jeans and a green, short-sleeved polo shirt open at the neck, he carefully placed the cup back in its saucer and moved his yellow legal pad and a copy of The Washington Times aside, after a quick glance at the compelling, front-page headline.

But he made no move to answer the phone.

Because he and his wife, Karen, were gourmet coffee lovers, they tried to enjoy a morning cup or two of a special brand to kick-start their day. Coffee, a hearty breakfast, and The Times were what Matt really enjoyed on these lazy summer mornings. That routine put him in just the right disposition to take on his day.

The phone continued to make itself known.

He didn’t like being interrupted. He didn’t like it because it shifted the morning ambiance. Further, he’d read somewhere that breakfast was the most important meal of the day. That bit of health information made sense to him.

Finally resigned that his morning routine was about to be delayed for a while, he rose and approached the phone.

The ringing continued, insistent, ominous.

You’re being silly, he thought. The name and number dancing in the base unit’s light emitting diode (LED), yellowish-green against a black background, was that of Brown University: the Archaeology Department.

Brown University? That’s in Providence, Rhode Island, he thought. He reached for the offending instrument and frowned. I don’t know anybody there. It’s just after nine a.m. on the East Coast. Probably a telemarketer. Or maybe a new client? It might be a new client. He advertised for clients on the Internet with good results because the ad was seen all over the country.

He summoned his best business voice. Mutual Investigative Services. He still used the name of his business selected for him years ago by his eldest daughter in one of her frequent bursts of creativity. This is Matt Dawson.

Mr. Dawson, my name is Warren Curtis. The voice on the other end of the line belonged to someone authoritative and very sure of himself. I’m the Dean of the Archaeology Department here at Brown University. We’re a major research university specializing in discovering and studying archaeological treasures of the ancient world and the Middle Ages. Perhaps you’ve heard of us?

I’ve heard of the school, Mr. Curtis, Matt answered peevishly but truthfully, but other than the facts that it’s part of the Ivy League, hasn’t had a good football team in years, and it’s located in Rhode Island, I don’t know anything about it. He took a sip from his coffee.

Well, that’s regrettable but it can’t be helped, I suppose, Curtis said. You’re correct that the school is in the Ivy League, but I can’t help that bit about the lousy football team. Doing his best to mask a mix of annoyance at Matt’s comment and disappointment that the person on the other end of his line didn’t know much about the school, he continued. "I’m calling you on behalf of the Department because I … we, need a competent private investigator to help us out. I don’t know any. John Phelps at Phelps Capital in Hunt Valley, Maryland is a graduate of Brown University. He’s also a major donor. I asked him if he could recommend anyone. Told me you’ve done a lot of work for him over the years."

John Phelps? Yes, Phelps Capital’s been a regular client for years. Asset search and recovery work. John’s a good man. He paused. Then; I’m at a bit of a disadvantage, Mr. Curtis. I’m not a graduate, I’m not a donor, and I’m a long, long way from Rhode Island. May I ask why you’re calling me?

Well, I was getting to that. We recently received information about the existence of a famous but long missing piece of artwork. We need someone to find it for us.

Sounds interesting. What kind of artwork?

Are you familiar with the Deësis image of Jesus? Curtis asked. Without waiting for Matt’s answer, he continued: "Last we or anybody heard, it was displayed in the Church of Hagia Sophia in Istanbul, Turkey. But those in the know in the art world believe it was removed from there either just before or during World War II. We’d like you to go over to Istanbul, find out who took it, and track it down for us."

Istanbul? You mean the one in the country of Turkey?

Well, ah, yes. Turkey’s the only country that has a city with that name. It used to be called Constantinople, you know.

I’ve never been to Istanbul, Turkey, Matt said, preparing to hang up. "Or Constantinople, either. Full disclosure might be helpful, here. I don’t know my way around over in those places. Don’t have any contacts there, either. Are you sure you want me for this job instead of an investigator from that neck of the woods? One from Salzburg or even Athens, which is closer? Save you a bundle on travel expenses."

"We did consider that. In fact, there are those on the Board of Trustees here who believe we ought to toss this into the hands of a government agency and let them deal with it. But I’m not one of them. As a somewhat conservative individual, I don’t have a naïve faith in the ability of government to solve complex problems important to ordinary people. So I don’t want to go to Washington with this. And I don’t want to use a foreign investigator on it, either. For a number of reasons, I’d rather have an American investigator work on it. Is there a problem? I know you have a passport. But is it up-to-date?"

Yes. That’s not a problem. Has anyone attempted to follow the paper trail for this piece of art?

Paper trail? I don’t understand?

I’m talking about information written about it or investigations to locate it done by others over the years, and then written up in newspapers and periodicals, and stored in repositories. Or microfilm records at major libraries in cities around the country. I’ll bet the library there at your university has some articles in its files.

We never thought of it. But I can get you plenty of that kind of information. I’ll call the library staff and have them work on it this afternoon. Also, I know some people at the Byzantine Center in Boston who probably have a file on the Deësis an inch thick because it’s such an important piece of Byzantine art. And because the fact that it’s been missing so long is such a huge mystery. A phone call this morning can get their information updated and delivered here by UPS or Fed-EX tomorrow.

"That would be helpful. If I take the case, any documents you can gather might lead me to live sources of information about it."

Does that mean you’ll do it?

"No. It doesn’t. Let’s address my other concern. As I said, I’ve never been to Turkey. Here’s everything I know about it. It’s a secularized Muslim country, one of the few Democracies in that part of the world, a member of the NATO Alliance for years, has a long-standing feud going with the Kurds, and it’s currently in the news because some fundamentalist Muslims who want to live under sharia Law are demanding a ‘return to Islam,’ whatever meaning they attach to that."

Curtis cleared his throat. That’s more than several investigators I’ve spoken to know about Turkey. You’ve just made me more certain you’re the man for this job. As for fundamentalist Muslims, I guess they feel their more modern brothers have moved away from the words of the Koran and the example of Muhammad.

"That might not be a bad idea. To move away from some of the words of the Koran, I mean. Like the ones instructing them to ‘kill all the infidels wherever they are found.’ They’re setting off bombs over there. Killing and injuring people."

"Yes, there is that, Curtis said. Muslims are quite emotional about so many things."

If you want to change people’s minds about something, killing them or blowing off an arm or leg is not the way to do it.

I didn’t want to get into the politics of the area with you, Mr. Dawson. But I agree. We in the West seem to have grasped the concept a long time ago, but people in the Muslim world are still having a difficult time with it. So they resort to IED’s; Improvised Explosive Devices is the term our military uses to describe those weapons. The tactic has thrust the entire Islamic world into the headlines and into public consciousness over the past twenty years, because setting those things off is what they do to terrorize the locals into submission.

Works well for them, Matt quipped. A few people in each village walking around without an arm or a leg? Tends to get the attention of the others.

And a certain forced loyalty, too, Curtis said. But I digress. We’ve looked into your background. Seems you’ve worked well on overseas missions.

Matt stiffened. "I noticed a minute ago you said you knew I ‘have a passport.’