Prologue
- August 12, – 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, 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 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 everything 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,
notwithmentioning 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, 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 declared 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 hips 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.