Slipping back under the ramp, he cautiously followed it in the other direction until it made an angled turn. There was more illumination in the area than he preferred, but the bend offered a point of concealment as a staging area for attack. He started to pull himself up a support beam when he detected a new set of footsteps pounding down the stone stairs. A car horn honking on the street blared in the background.

“Miss Maria, we must leave at once,” shouted a male voice in Turkish. “The police are beginning to search outside of Topkapi.”

Pitt crept back into the water as the woman broke into a run in his direction. Hearing her pass overhead, he held perfectly still, listening as she began climbing the stone steps. Nearing the top, she hesitated for a moment, then a shrill voice boomed through the cistern.

“I shall not forget you!” she shrieked.

The sound of her footsteps fell away, and the car horn ceased honking. Pitt sat still in the cold water, listening to the eerie echo of the falling water droplets. Satisfied that the assailants were in fact gone, he climbed onto the ramp and made his way to the end, calling out Loren’s name along the way.

His freezing wife appeared from behind one of the columns and waded to the ramp, where Pitt hoisted her up. Though her hair was a mess, her dress soaked, and she shivered with cold, she still looked radiant to Pitt.

“You all right?”

“Yes,” she said. “Are they gone?”

Pitt nodded, holding her hand as they walked down the ramp.

“Nasty people,” she said. “I wonder how many they killed during the heist.”

Pitt could only speculate. “Did they hurt you?” he asked.

“No, but they clearly weren’t afraid to kill. They didn’t seem to care at all when I told them I was a U.S. Congresswoman.”

“They must have less regard for politicians here than in America.”

“Did you give her the bag?”

“No, I’m afraid she had to leave empty-handed. As you heard, she doesn’t intend to forget us.”

“Where did you hide it?”

Pitt stopped and pointed toward the crown of a marble column that rose from the water just a few feet away. Wrapped around a high-mounted light fixture atop the column, the twisted black bag hung dangling over the water.

“It’s not hidden,” he said with a slight grin. “It’s just a tad out of reach.”

“Another cup of tea, Sheikh?”

The guest nodded slightly as his host proceeded to refill his cup with black tea. Barely thirty, he was the youngest of five sons born to one of the ruling royal families of the United Arab Emirates. A slight man, he wore a perfectly pressed, bone-white headdress wrapped with a gold-threaded agal , which barely hinted at the multibillions of petrodollars that his family controlled.

“The Mufti’s movement appears to have a sound footing in Turkey,” he said, setting the teacup down. “I am pleased at the progress you have reported.”

“Mufti Battal has a devoted following,” the host replied, gazing toward a portrait of a wise-looking man in black robe and turban hanging on the far wall. “The times and conditions have been conducive to expanding the movement, and the Mufti’s personal popularity has enhanced its appeal. We have a real opportunity ahead to change Turkey and her role in the world. Achieving such change, however, requires considerable resources.”

“I am committed to the cause here, as I am committed to the Muslim Brotherhood in Egypt,” the Sheikh replied.

“Like our Egyptian brothers, we will unite in the way of Allah,” the host replied with a bow.

The Sheikh rose and crossed the high-rise office, which looked and felt like the interior of a mosque. Small kilim prayer rugs were aligned in an open space, facing a tiled mihrab aimed at Mecca. On the opposite wall, a high bookshelf was filled with antique copies of the Qur’an. Only a huge illuminating picture window warmed the otherwise austere and reverent interior.

The Sheikh moved to the window and admired the panorama before him. The office building was situated on the Asian bank of the Bosphorus and offered a breathtaking view of old Istanbul on the European shore, just across the slim waterway. The Sheikh stared at the towering minarets of the Süleymaniye Mosque in the distance.

“Istanbul has an earnest respect for its past, as it should,” he said. “One cannot attain greatness without building on the past.”

He turned to his host. “My brothers are all Western educated. They wear British-made suits and crave sleek automobiles,” he said with disdain.

“But you are not like them?”

“No,” the Sheikh replied thoughtfully. “I attended the Islamic University at Madinah. Since an early age, I have devoted myself to Allah. There is no greater purpose in life than to expound the words of the Prophet.” He turned slowly from the window with a distant look.

“The threats to our ways never cease,” he said. “In Cairo, the Zionists bomb al-Azhar, yet there is no global outrage.”

“Mufti Battal and I are outraged.”

“As am I. Such affronts cannot be ignored,” the Sheikh said.

“We must strengthen the foundation of our house to withstand all outside forces.”

The Sheikh nodded in agreement. “As you know, I have been blessed with a sizable fortune. I will continue to support the way of the Sunnah here. I share in the wisdom of Istanbul in venerating our past.”

“Upon it, we will build great blessings to Allah.”

The Sheikh eased toward the door. “I will arrange the transfer of funds shortly. Please pass my blessings to Mufti Battal.”

“He will be both grateful and delighted. Praise be to Allah.”

The Sheikh responded in kind, then joined an entourage waiting for him outside the door. When the Arab contingent had left the foyer, the host closed the door and returned to his desk, where he removed a key from the top drawer. Stepping to an inconspicuous side door, he turned the lock and entered an adjacent office nearly three times the size of the former. The room was not only large but also grand in appearance, and nearly the opposite in ambience. Brightly lit, it featured a stylish mix of contemporary art and classical oil paintings, unique tribal floor coverings, and nineteenth-century European furniture. Accented by overhead spotlights, the room’s prominent features were opposing banks of built-in shelves, which were loaded with expensive antiques and relics from the Ottoman era, including porcelain vases, detailed tapestries, and jeweled weaponry. In the center of one shelf was the collection’s show-piece, a gold-threaded tunic on a mannequin in a glass-enclosed case. A placard inside indicated that the tunic had been worn by Mehmed I, an Ottoman Sultan who ruled in the fifteenth century.

A petite woman with short black hair was seated on a divan, reading a newspaper. Her presence stirred a touch of annoyance in the man’s face, and he walked past her without saying a word. Reaching a carved desk near the window, he peeled off a keffiyeh and black robe, revealing a sport shirt and slacks underneath.

“Your meeting with the Sheikh was productive?” she asked, lowering her paper.

Ozden Aktan Celik nodded in reply.

“Yes, the nitwit runt of the royal litter has agreed to another infusion of cash. Twenty million, to be exact.”

“Twenty?” the woman replied, her eyes widening. “Your skills at persuasion are impressive indeed.”

“Simply a matter of playing one spoiled rich Arab off another. When our Kuwaiti benefactor learns of the Sheikh’s contribution, he will be forced to exceed it out of ego alone. Of course, your recent visit to Cairo helped up the ante.”

“Amazing how the Zionist threat can be milked for such profits. Just think of the money that would be saved if the Arabs and Israelis ever kissed and made up.”

“They’d each find another scapegoat to antagonize,” Celik said, taking a seat behind the desk. He was a well-proportioned man, with thinning black hair combed back on the sides. His nose was wide, but he had a strong face, and would not have looked out of place on the cover of Gentlemen’s Quarterly magazine. Only his dark eyes hinted at a personality quirk, dancing constantly in a pirouette of emotional intensity. They twitched with anger as they focused on the woman.