Byzantine Gold by Chris Karlsen Read Free Book Online Page A

of the building.
    Jafari’s apartment was on the third floor. The wood around the door’s frame and lock was chewed from previous burglaries. Darav removed a mini-crowbar he’d hidden in a pocket of his cargo pants. He used the site with previous scar marks to pry the lock. A cheap mechanism, it popped with ease. The crowbar was overkill. A credit card would’ve accomplished the job. Darav cleaned up the fresh splinters on the floor, entered the apartment and relocked the door.
    Darav took a plastic grocery bag from under the sink in the kitchen and began sorting through Jafari’s desk. Any documents and photos pertaining to other dives he’d participated in, Darav put in the bag. In the bottom drawer was a locked fireproof metal box. Darav picked the lock and found Jafari’s passport, Egyptian birth certificate, and two envelopes containing Euros and Egyptian Pounds. Everything in the box, he put into different pockets. The paperwork from MIAR lay in a stack on the side of the desktop. Darav stuffed the communications in the bag. A silver framed picture of Jafari and an older couple sat on the corner of the desk. Darav studied it for a moment. He didn’t bear much resemblance to the younger version of Jafari. From the team photos posted in MIAR’s online newsletter, the now, more mature Jafari, looked the most like Darav.
    Once he gathered what he thought might be useful, Darav stored the bag and hid behind the door. He thought again about the waiter in Marmaris. When his people completed the raid in Cyprus and sold the artifacts, he’d use some of the cash and return to Marmaris. He’d hunt down the waiter and tape a grenade to his insolent mouth.
    Shuffling footsteps came from the wooden stairs that led from the last landing. Four apartments were on Jafari’s floor. Darav drew the Ka-Bar knife from his pants pocket, opened the blade and waited. The floorboards in the hallway creaked as the person came closer. The footsteps stopped outside Jafari’s door and Darav readied as the key slid into the lock.
    Jafari stepped inside, his back to Darav, and closed the door. Darav clamped his hand over Jafari’s mouth, yanking his head back simultaneously. He brought the blade down into the soft hollow of Jafari’s throat and twisted the knife, staying with him as Jafari flailed and dropped to the floor, choking on his own blood. When he felt the death shudder, Darav removed the knife.
    He took a towel from the bathroom and covered the front of his clothes and then returned to the living room. An excess of caution was needed, blood on his shirt or pants would attract attention. He knelt next to the body. In person, Jafari’s face was noticeably narrower than Darav’s and he was thinner-lipped. Darav would have to grow a beard to hide the differences, he thought as he checked for tattoos and any other identifying marks but found none. 
    Darav used the same towel to clean his fingerprints off the metal box, which he left open on the desk.
    In Jafari’s bedroom, he used the towel as a barrier against leaving prints and pulled out dresser drawers, tossing their contents on the floor and bed. He scattered photos and mementos from the boxes on the closet shelf so it looked as though Jafari had interrupted burglars who then killed him.
    Finished, Darav cracked open the front door and peeked out, checking that no one would see him leave. He stepped into the hall but stopped and went back inside. He rifled through the desk one more time and found Jafari’s address book. He’d have the desk clerk at his hotel page through it and find the address of Jafari’s parents. Darav knew their names from Jafari’s Facebook page where he’d posted a picture of the family in his profile. He’d pay the clerk to write a brief note of condolence from Refik Mahir and mail it from Turkey. Mahir was the MIAR project leader on the Byzantine shipwreck site. He’d include a line stating MIAR was informed of the tragedy by fellow