“The photos are less than twenty-four hours old,” Giordino said, noting a date stamp on the image.

“Captain, how’s your secure satellite phone working?” Pitt asked.

“Fully operational. Do you want to make a call?”

“Yes,” Pitt replied. “I think it’s time we call Washington.”

“O’Quinn, good of you to come by. Please, step inside and grab a seat.”

The intelligence officer was startled that the Vice President of the United States greeted him in the second-floor foyer of the Eisenhower Executive Office Building and personally showed him into his office. Washington protocol surely dictated that a secretary or aide escort a lesser being into the sanctified lair of the Number Two. But James Sandecker was that rare breed who had little use for such pageantry.

A retired Navy admiral, Sandecker had been responsible for founding the National Underwater and Marine Agency decades earlier and building it into a powerhouse oceanographic unit. He surprised everyone by passing the reins to Pitt and accepting a vice presidential appointment, where he hoped to further the cause of protecting the world’s oceans. A small but fiery individual with flaming red hair and goatee, Sandecker was known in the capital as a blunt and outspoken man who was nevertheless highly respected. O’Quinn had often been amused during intelligence briefings to see how quickly the Vice President could dissect an issue, or individual, in order to get to the heart of the matter.

Stepping into the large office, O’Quinn admired a collection of antique oil paintings, featuring old ships and racing yachts, which lined the paneled walls. He followed Sandecker to his desk and took a seat opposite of him.

“Do you miss the sea much, Mr. Vice President?”

“There’s no shortage of days that I’d prefer to be sailing something other than a desk,” Sandecker replied, reaching into a drawer and jamming a large cigar between his teeth. “Are you monitoring events in Turkey?” he asked pointedly.

“Yes, sir. That’s part of my regional assignment.”

“What do you know about a nutcase named Ozden Celik?”

O’Quinn had to think a moment. “He’s a Turkish businessman who’s been associated with members of the Saudi Royal Family. We think he might be involved in helping to finance the fundamentalist Felicity Party of Mufti Battal. Why do you ask?”

“He’s apparently been up to a few other things. You’re aware of the Israeli tanker ship that went missing two days ago?”

O’Quinn nodded, recalling mention of the incident in a daily briefing report.

“The vessel has been observed at a small shipping facility controlled by Celik a few miles north of the Dardanelles. I have reliable word that this Celik was behind the recent theft of Muslim artifacts at Topkapi.” Sandecker slid a satellite photo of the tanker across his desk.

“Topkapi?” O’Quinn repeated, his brows rising like a pair of drawbridges. “We believe there may be a link between the Topkapi theft and the recent mosque attacks at al-Azhar and the Dome of the Rock in Jerusalem.”

“The President is aware of that possibility.”

O’Quinn studied the satellite photograph.

“If I may ask, sir, how did you acquire this information?”

“Dirk Pitt at NUMA. Two of his scientists were killed by Celik’s men and a third kidnapped and taken to the same facility,” Sandecker replied, pointing to the photo. “Pitt got his man out, and he discovered a container of plastic explosives at the facility. An Army supply of HMX, to be exact.”

“HMX is the explosive compound identified from the mosque bombings,” O’Quinn said excitedly.

“Yes, I recall that from your presidential briefing.”

“Celik must be acting on behalf of Mufti Battal. It’s clear to me that the anonymous mosque attacks, utilizing our explosives, are an attempt to incite fundamentalist outrage across the Middle East, and particularly in Turkey. Their goal must be to sway public opinion in order to sweep Battal into office.”

“It’s a logical motive. That’s why this hijacked Israeli tanker is cause for concern.”

“Have we contacted the Turkish government?”

“No,” Sandecker replied with a shake of his head. “The President is worried that any action on our part could be construed as American meddling in the election outcome. Frankly, we don’t know how deep Battal’s tentacles may reach into the existing government. The stakes are simply too high, and the race too close, to risk a potential backlash that might throw the election to his party.”

“But our analysts tell us that the Mufti stands an even chance of winning anyway.”

“The President understands that, but he nevertheless has ordered absolutely no U.S. involvement until after the election.”

“There are backdoor channels we could use,” O’Quinn protested.

“It’s already been deemed too risky.”

Sandecker pulled the cigar from his teeth and examined the chewed end. “It’s the President’s mandate, O’Quinn, not mine.”

“But we can’t simply look the other way.”

“That’s why I called you here. You have intelligence contacts in the Mossad, I presume?” he asked.

“Yes, of course,” O’Quinn nodded.

Sandecker leaned over his desk, his bright blue eyes boring into the intelligence officer.

“Then I would suggest that you consider calling them and telling them where their missing tanker is located.”

Rudi Gunn had completed repairs on the faulty AUV sensors by dusk, shortly before the Aegean Explorer reached its survey grid some twenty miles southeast of Çanakkale. The AUV was deployed, and the ship’s crew resumed their round-the-clock tracking schedule. By the time the midnight shift went on duty, the bridge had emptied to just the ship’s second officer and a helmsman.

The ship was cruising at a slow speed to the north when the helmsman suddenly gawked at the radar screen.

“Sir, a vessel has suddenly appeared off our port beam, less than a quarter mile off,” he stuttered excitedly. “I swear, she wasn’t there a minute ago.”

The bridge officer glanced at the radar scope, seeing a small amoeba of yellow light nearly merge with the center point, which represented the Aegean Explorer .

“Where on earth did she come from?” he blurted. “Right twenty degrees rudder,” he quickly ordered, fearful that the unknown vessel was on a perpendicular heading.

As the helmsman turned the ship’s wheel over, the officer stepped to the port bridge window and peered outside. The moon and stars were concealed by low clouds, draping the sea in darkness. Expecting to clearly view the lights of the nearby vessel, the officer was surprised to see only black.

“The fool doesn’t have her running lights on,” he said, searching the sea unsuccessfully for a shadow. “I’ll try her on the radio.”

“I wouldn’t advise that,” barked a crisp voice with the hint of a Hebrew accent.

The officer turned in shock to find two men dressed in dark camouflage entering the bridge from the starboard wing. The taller of the two men stepped forward, exposing a lean face blunted by a lantern jaw. The intruder stopped a few feet from the officer, leveling a light machine gun at his chest.

“Have your helmsman resume his course,” the commando said, a stern look from his dark eyes expressing his will. “There is no danger to your vessel.”

The officer reluctantly nodded to the helmsman. “Resume original heading,” he said. Turning to the commando, he stammered, “What are you doing on our ship?”

“I’m looking for a man named Pitt. Bring him to the bridge.”

“There is no one aboard by that name,” the officer lied.

The commando took a step closer.

“Then I will clear my men off and sink your vessel,” he threatened in a low voice.

The officer wondered if it was an idle threat. But a gaze into the battle-hardened eyes of the commando left no doubt that it was a possibility. Nodding sullenly, the officer relieved the helmsman at the wheel so he could retrieve Pitt. The second commando immediately fell in step behind the helmsman as he exited by a rear stairwell.