The Pythagorean Solution Read online

  THE PYTHAGOREAN SOLUTION

  JOSEPH BADAL

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Text copyright © 2003 by Joseph Badal

  Previously published by Suspense Magazine

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Published by AmazonEncore, Seattle

  www.apub.com

  Amazon, the Amazon logo, and AmazonEncore are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.

  eISBN: 9781503930056

  This title was previously published by Suspense Magazine; this version has been reproduced from Suspense Magazine archive files.

  OTHER BOOKS BY JOSEPH BADAL

  STAND-ALONE THRILLERS

  SHELL GAME

  ULTIMATE BETRAYAL

  DANFORTH SAGA

  EVIL DEEDS (#1)

  TERROR CELL (#2)

  THE NOSTRADAMUS SECRET (#3)

  THE LONE WOLF AGENDA (#4)

  SHORT STORIES

  FIRE & ICE (UNCOMMON ASSASSINS anthology)

  ULTIMATE BETRAYAL (SOMEONE WICKED anthology)

  DEDICATION

  In memory of John J. & Glyda W. Badal

  Your love, encouragement, and guidance made all the difference.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  First, I want to thank Sara, John, and Robert Badal for their continuous support and encouragement.

  The critical feedback I received from John W. Badal, Marie Badgley, Heather Buckman, Julie DuBois, Nick Franklin, David Livingston, Larry & Shirlee Londer, Nick Pica, Karla Ponder, Stuart & Rosalie Sherman, Rick & Peggy Story, Liz Wertheim, and Susan Wilson made “The Pythagorean Solution” a better read.

  Many thanks to Frank Zoretich, Editor Extraordinaire. The red ink helped.

  My appreciation to Rod Thompson for his advice.

  Thanks to Steve Brewer and Parris Afton Bonds. You told me it would happen.

  A special thank you to Tony Hillerman who read my manuscript and told me, “I love it!” and then wrote a blurb.

  My deepest appreciation goes to John & Shannon Raab at Suspense Publishing for their creative input and diligence in re-releasing “The Pythagorean Solution.”

  Finally, my thanks go to the citizens of Samos, Greece. Your wondrous ability to make a stranger feel welcome and your glorious history inspired this book.

  PRAISE FOR JOSEPH BADAL

  “Crisp writing, masterful pacing, and characters to genuinely care about. This is what top-notch suspense is all about.”

  —Michael Palmer, New York Times Bestselling author of “Political Suicide”

  “ “Ultimate Betrayal” provides the ultimate in riveting reading entertainment that’s as well thought out as it is thought provoking. Both a stand-out thriller and modern day morality tale. Mined from the familial territory of Harlan Coben, with the seasoned action plotting of James Rollins or Steve Berry, this is fiction of the highest order. Poignant and unrelentingly powerful.”

  —Jon Land, bestselling and award-winning author of “The Tenth Circle”

  “Joseph Badal has surpassed his own high standards once again. He pulls out all the stops in his new standalone thriller “Ultimate Betrayal,” a tale of crime, espionage, family tragedy, family ties, and ultimately justice and redemption.

  “He is the master of the cinematic thriller, in the best sense of the term. His trademark short chapters from multiple points of view take readers on a rocket ride into the worlds of military service, government agencies, law enforcement, family bonds, and organized crime. If you haven’t read a Badal thriller before, “Ultimate Betrayal” is a great first step in immersing yourself in his body of work.

  “So put on a pot of coffee and fasten your seat belt.”

  —Robert Kresge, former CIA officer and author of the Civil War spy novel “Saving Lincoln” and the Warbonnet historical mysteries

  “Joseph Badal has done it again. “Ultimate Betrayal” packs action and revenge into an international conspiracy thriller you won’t soon forget. Read it!”

  —Steve Brewer, author of “Firepower”

  “Joe Badal keeps getting better and better. He knows how to spin a multi-viewpoint thriller without losing the reader, and he knows the international stage so well that he can take us to both exotic and down-home places in a story that flows effortlessly. And uniquely, he can ratchet up the action to a fever pitch without burying us in pages of techno babble. “In this tale of “Old World vengeance without New World remorse,” you’ll love the good guys and hate the bad guys—just as it should be.”

  —Steven F. Havill, author of the Posadas County Mystery Series

  “Filled with unexpected twists, unconventional allies and a master-mind villain who makes hired killers look like kindergarten teachers. “Ultimate Betrayal” is Joseph Badal’s best book yet. A must-read for anyone with a craving for a fast-paced, action-packed, beautifully constructed thriller.”

  —Anne Hillerman, author of “Spider Woman’s Daughter”

  THE PYTHAGOREAN SOLUTION

  JOSEPH BADAL

  CONTENTS

  PROLOGUE

  LAST YEAR

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  CHAPTER FORTY

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

  CHAPTER FIFTY

  CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

  CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

  CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE

  CHAPTER SIXTY

  CHAPTER S
IXTY-ONE

  CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO

  CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE

  CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER SIXTY-SIX

  CHAPTER SIXTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER SIXTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER SIXTY-NINE

  CHAPTER SEVENTY

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-FIVE

  EPILOGUE

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  “EVIL DEEDS”

  “TERROR CELL”

  “THE NOSTRADAMUS SECRET”

  “THE LONE WOLF AGENDA”

  “ULTIMATE BETRAYAL”

  “SHELL GAME”

  PROLOGUE

  MARCH 13, 1945

  “Thank you, Allah, for the Great War,” Mehmet Arkoun intoned once again in the privacy of his cluttered cabin, while he prepared to return to the deck above. Clothes lay draped haphazardly over a chair, on the bunk, even on the floor. He frowned at the day-old dregs of Turkish coffee in the mug in front of him. This place needs a woman’s touch, Mehmet thought. He twisted one end of his mustache while he stared at his image in the small, ornately framed mirror fixed to the bulkhead. He smiled at himself and felt a sudden warm wave of satisfaction overwhelm him.

  Every day he praised Allah for the World War, and especially for Nazi generals and Swiss bankers. Before the war, his life had never been as good. He knew he would still only earn pennies ferrying peasants and produce around the Black Sea, the Aegean islands, and Turkish ports. Maybe he would still pick up a little extra cash smuggling opium and black market goods. But, in the four years since 1941, he had become a wealthy man—thanks to his German and Swiss clients. He kicked at one of the sealed metal boxes the German general had loaded aboard the Sabiya and wondered what each box contained.

  He fastened the buckles on his slicker, then turned and looked at the Swiss francs piled high in his open safe and daydreamed about the future Allah prepared for him. This one last shipment would suffice. He would build the grandest house in Finike, on the Turkish coast, and finalize arrangements for his marriage to Sabiya, the daughter of that ignorant goat herder, Mustafa Barak.

  Mehmet could never understand the tricks Allah played. How could a girl as beautiful as Sabiya have a father as ugly as Mustafa? He gazed at Sabiya’s framed photograph tacked to the bulkhead next to the mirror and imagined the feel and warmth of her lush body. The silken feel of her long, black hair. The hypnotic allure of her hazel eyes.

  While his boat rocked in heavy seas, Mehmet scooped up his gloves and counted the things he had already done for Sabiya’s ungrateful, camel dung-of-a-father: Repairs to their shack-of-a-home; the gift of twenty young goats and two fine Akbash guardian dogs; the renaming of his ship after Mustafa’s daughter. And now the ungrateful bastard wanted a thousand Turkish pounds to give his permission to marry Sabiya. I’ll give him his money, Mehmet thought, but that will be the end of it. If he asks for one thing more, I’ll kidnap his daughter and not pay him a lira.

  He envisioned Sabiya lying next to him while they watched the sun set from the balcony of the home he would build on the shore of the Mediterranean—when someone pounded on his cabin door.

  “Kaptan, Kaptan, please come. The storm has gotten worse.”

  Mehmet calmly crossed the room. He carefully placed the ship’s log in the waterproof safe on top of the high stacks of Swiss francs and the letter from the German general. He closed the safe door, turned the handle to lock the mechanism, and spun the dial. Then he fastened the buckles on his rubber boots and slipped on his gloves. He staggered across the rocking cabin floor and opened the door to the companionway. In the narrow space, his ashen-faced first mate stared at him with fear-rounded eyes.

  “Calm yourself, Ali! What could the sea throw at us that we haven’t seen before?” Mehmet said. “Besides, my friend, Allah will watch over us.”

  He patted Ali’s shoulder reassuringly, slowly stumbled down the companionway, and struggled to keep his balance against the boat’s violent pitch and roll. Followed by Ali, Mehmet climbed the companion stairway to the Sabiya’s main deck just when a mighty gust of wind tore a hatch cover loose and sent it spiraling into the pitch-black night like a kite torn from its string. Mehmet shuddered when a wave washed across the deck and dumped thousands of gallons of seawater into the aft cargo hold. In that instant, he knew the Sabiya could be doomed if they didn’t cover the hatch and engage the pumps.

  “Rouse the crew,” Mehmet screamed at Ali. “Close off that hatch and work the bilge pumps.” Then he ran up to the wheelhouse and yelled, “Metin, what’s our position?”

  The navigator shot Mehmet a forlorn look. “Kaptan, I didn’t realize until a few minutes ago, but the compass is broken,” he said, his voice breaking. “I’ve used incorrect readings for hours. With this storm, I can’t see the stars or the coastline to navigate. I don’t know where we are.” He shrugged. “My best guess would be east of the Island of Samos.”

  Mehmet cursed both Metin and the storm under his breath. “You’d better pray we are well east of that island. The reef off Pythagorio would crush this boat.”

  While he watched Ali and a crewman jerryrig a cover for the open hatch, Mehmet jerked a flare gun from its holder on the wheelhouse wall and stepped out into the howling wind and driving rain. The Sabiya continued to sway violently in the heavy seas. His breath caught in his throat when he noticed the boat’s booms touch the sea at the same time the boat tipped starboard. Then the Sabiya rolled in the opposite direction. It took all of Mehmet’s strength to hold onto the wood rail attached to the outside of the wheelhouse. He raised the flare gun and pointed it skyward.

  A giant swell suddenly approached on a collision course with the Sabiya’s bow. It rushed at them with incredible speed, like a dark, marauding monster. Mehmet yelled at Ali to hold onto something, but the wind scattered his warning over the deafness of the sea. The massive wave crashed against the Sabiya and lifted her twenty feet, twisted her around a full ninety degrees, and rolled a deluge of water over her main deck. He held onto the upper deck rail in a death grip and watched water carry Ali and a crewman over the side. The motion of the boat lifted Mehmet in the air. He lost his grip on the rail and slammed onto the deck. He moaned as air was forced from his lungs.

  After the swell passed over the ship, the sea and the storm seemed to calm a bit, although the sky all around them appeared ominously black. Mehmet’s lungs filled with air. He gasped and tried to get his feet under him, when a fearsome sight filled his eyes and heart with horror. A wave twice the size of the one that had nearly capsized his boat only moments ago charged directly at them. But this time the Sabiya’s starboard side sat directly in the wave’s path. Mehmet saw with painful, desperate clarity that his ship, his remaining crewmen, and he and his future were doomed.

  In that split second, before the watery dreadnought overwhelmed the Sabiya, Mehmet Arkoun thought about the money in his safe and Sabiya Barak’s beauty. He snagged a loose line as the swell rolled the boat over on her side and carried her a great distance. He tried to scream, to shout at Allah to save him, but the force of the sea tore the line from his hands. A great, crushing weight slammed down on him and drove the air from his lungs once again. He felt himself spin out of control and then crash into the sea. Above him the Sabiya rolled as though in slow motion, a black mass that almost appeared to hover for an instant. Then he sank below the surface of the roiling sea and slammed into a wall of rocks. The water twisted him. The last thing he saw was his ship catapult toward him.

  LAST YEAR

  APRIL 21

  CHAPTER ONE

  Butros Pengali looked like a Turkish Ichabod Crane—with style. Slicke
d black hair, bushy eyebrows, sharp Roman nose, thick mustache, and a long neck with a prominent Adam’s apple. He wore rimless wire glasses perched on the end of his nose, had an ascetic look, and rarely showed any emotion. Butros lived an austere existence on a civil servant’s pay. His only extravagances were the clothes he wore. He believed that clothes made the man.

  Butros’ stomach vibrated with excitement. He realized that good fortune had just come his way. He adjusted his reading glasses, opened a desk drawer, and removed the file that he had created twelve years ago—immediately after the call from Switzerland reached him at the Turkish Maritime Bureau. He looked at the label and ran his finger over the name typed there: SABIYA.

  Butros knew his co-workers considered him a drudge; but little did they know he was about to become a very well-to-do drudge. He chuckled under his breath and went through the facts: The Sabiya was a Turkish-registered and -crewed tramp steamer; captained by a Turk—Mehmet Arkoun; it disappeared in 1945 somewhere in the Aegean after it departed Turkey en route for the Tyrrhenian Sea. Butros wondered about the Swiss gentleman’s interest in the boat, but he wasn’t about to ask him why he wanted information about some ancient piece-of-crap Turkish steamer. Butros was being paid for information, not to ask questions.

  The man from Switzerland had given him a nice bonus each year for many years now just to keep his eyes and ears open for any word about the Sabiya. All Butros had to do was wait for someone to write or telephone the Turkish Maritime Bureau and mention the name of the long-lost boat. Candidly, Butros thought the possibility was slim that anyone would find the Sabiya. But, what the hell! He was more than pleased to take the Swiss gentleman’s money.

  He closed the file in front of him and thought, My ship has finally come in. He snickered at the play on words, but immediately stifled the laugh when he saw one of his co-workers stare at him, cleared his throat, and looked at his wristwatch. Exactly 1:00 in the afternoon. He removed his glasses, carefully placed them in a leather case, and inserted the case in the breast pocket of his navy, pinstriped suit jacket. He smoothed the sides of his hair with his hands, and adjusted his tie. Butros placed the file in his briefcase, along with the letter that had been put on his desk that day, stood, snatched his umbrella from the corner by his desk, and walked out of his Istanbul office.