“Does he have a chance to win the election?” Braxton asked with rising dread in his voice.

O’Quinn nodded. “Our assessment is that he could have a real shot at it. And if the Turkish military should sustain his election, then all bets are off.”

An Air Force colonel seated at the table gasped. “A fundamentalist takeover of Turkey? That would be an unmitigated disaster. Turkey is a NATO country and one of our strongest allies in the region. We have a variety of military resources in the country, including tactical nuclear weapons. The Air Force base at Incirlik is critical for our operations in Afghanistan.”

“Not to mention the listening posts on their soil we use to monitor the Russians and the Iranians,” added the CIA man.

“Turkey is currently a key transfer point for supplies into Afghanistan, as they were for Iraq,” grieved an Army major seated beside the colonel. “Loss of those supply lines would jeopardize our entire Afghan campaign.”

“We foresee all kinds of potentially disastrous scenarios,” O’Quinn added quietly, “from a closure of the Bosphorus, and its flow of Russian oil and gas, to an emboldened Iran. The entire Middle East would be affected, and the impact of such a change on the balance of power is nearly impossible to predict.”

“Turkey has been a quiet friend and trading partner of Israel, exporting large quantities of food and fresh water, among other things,” the CIA officer said. “If Turkey and Egypt were both to make a turn toward fundamentalism, it would heighten Israel’s isolation. In addition to emboldening Iran, I would fear a greater aggression from Hamas, Hezbollah, and other frontline adversaries of Israel, which would only lead to greater violence in the region. Such a turnabout in ruling power could in fact become the trigger point that we have long feared, the one that sparks World War Three from the heart of the Middle East.”

The room fell silent as Braxton and the others digested the words with quiet dread. The general finally shook off the uneasy tension and barked a stream of orders.

“O’Quinn, I want a full report on this Mufti Battal on my desk first thing in the morning. I’ll also need an executive summary for the Presidential Daily Brief. We’ll reconvene here Friday, where I expect a full assessment from both State and CIA. Assign whatever resources are necessary,” he added with clenched teeth, “but don’t let this get ahead of us.” He slammed his briefing book shut, then glared at the CIA man.

“World War Three?” he hissed. “Not on my watch!”

The call to morning salat drifted through the open hotel window, waking Pitt earlier than he would have preferred. Leaving the warm comfort of Loren’s side, he rose from bed and peered out the window. The black-tipped minarets of Istanbul’s Sultanahmet Mosque scratched a hazy sky just a few blocks away. Pitt noted wryly that the Islamic call to prayer no longer came from a muezzin shouting from the heights of the minaret but rather from loudspeakers situated around the mosque.

“Can you turn that racket off?” Loren mumbled from beneath a blanket.

“You’ll have to take it up with Allah,” Pitt replied.

He closed the window, then gazed through the pane at the towering architecture of the nearby mosque and the blue waters of the Sea of Marmara just beyond. A large contingent of freighters was already assembling in line, waiting their turn to sail up the narrow Bosphorus Strait. Loren materialized out of the bed, slipping into a robe and joining her husband at the picture window.

“I didn’t realize that blaring came from the mosque,” she said a bit meekly. “It’s quite beautiful. Built by the Ottomans, I presume?”

“Yes, in the early seventeenth century, I believe.”

“Let’s go have a look after breakfast. But after last night’s excitement, that may be all the sightseeing I’ll be up for today,” she said with a yawn.

“No shop-till-you-drop at the Grand Bazaar?”

“Maybe next time. I want our lone full day together in Istanbul to be relaxing.”

Pitt watched a red freighter chug off the shoreline, then said, “I think I have just the ticket.”

They quickly showered and dressed, then ordered breakfast brought to their room. They were readying to leave when the phone rang. Pitt answered and spoke for several minutes, then hung up the receiver.

“It was Dr. Ruppé, calling from the airport. He wanted to make sure you were okay,” he explained.

“I’d feel better if you told me the police had captured those criminals.”

Pitt shook his head. “Apparently not. Rey is a little irate, as the local media is blaming the break-in and murders on an anti-Muslim movement. Apparently, some valuable jewelry was ignored at Topkapi in favor of several Muhammad relics.”

“You said murders in the plural,” Loren remarked.

“Yes, there were a total of five security guards killed in the ordeal.”

Loren grimaced. “The fact that several of the murderers were Persian-looking didn’t clue the police in another direction?”

“The police have our account. I’m sure they are operating under a different scenario.” Deep down, Pitt wasn’t so sure but hid his anger at the thought of his wife’s kidnappers escaping scot-free.

“The other news, according to Ruppé,” he continued, “is that they kept our names and involvement out of the paper. Apparently, there is widespread outrage at the theft, which is being viewed as a deep insult to the Muslim community.”

“Even after our near-death experience, that’s okay with me,” Loren mused. “By the way, what exactly did they end up stealing?”

“They made off with a battle standard that belonged to Muhammad. Apparently, the outrage would have been even more magnified if you hadn’t liberated the second black bag.”

“What did it contain?”

“A cloak of Muhammad’s, called the Holy Mantle, along with a letter written in his hand. Part of what is known as the Sacred Trusts.”

“It’s terrible that somebody would try to steal such relics,” Loren said, shaking her head.

“Come on, we better go see the rest of this town before anything else disappears.”

They exited the lobby of the hotel and entered the bustling streets of old Istanbul. Pitt noticed a man in mirrored sunglasses staring at Loren as he passed on his way into the hotel. Tall and sporting a near-ballerina figure, Loren seldom failed to attract the male eye. Dressed in light slacks and an amethyst blouse that nearly matched the color of her eyes, she looked vivacious despite the turmoil of the night before.

Walking down a block or two, they stopped and peered in the window of an upscale rug shop called Punto of Istanbul, admiring an elegant Serapi carpet that hung on the wall. Strolling to the end of the street, they crossed the Hippodrome, a long, narrow park around which the chariots raced in the Byzantine era. Just beyond was the mosque of Sultan Ahmet I.

Completed in 1617, it was the last of Istanbul’s great imperial mosques. The exterior featured a rising cascade of domes and semi-domes that climbed in height and grandeur until culminating in a massive central dome. By the time Pitt and Loren had entered the mosque’s arched courtyard, most of the morning worshippers had been replaced by camera-toting tourists.

They made their way into the prayer hall, its expansive interior dimly lit by high banks of stained-glass windows. Overhead, the curving domes were covered in a maze of intricately patterned tiles, many in shades of blue, which gave the building its nickname, the Blue Mosque. Pitt studied an archway filled with familiar-looking floral tiles, which were manufactured in the nearby city of Iznik.

“Look at that design,” he said to Loren. “It’s nearly identical to the pattern on the ceramic box we pulled from the wreck.”

“You’re right,” Loren agreed, “though the coloring is a little different. Congratulations, it’s more evidence that your wreck sank around sixteen hundred.”