The Thieves of Darkness (21 page)

But worst of all, if KC had lied about this, what else in their life was a lie? Her entire existence was brought into question.

Cindy had led her life by playing by the rules. She worked hard, went to the best schools, applied herself at work. She wasn’t perfect, she knew that too well; she had lied on occasion, even cheated on a test or two in order to maintain her GPA, but she rationalized it in the way that she always did: the means were justified by her goal, a goal created out of her desire never to endure the poverty her mother had endured.
She would never work as a maid, a seamstress, she would never want for money. If she worked eighteen-hour days, it was to achieve wealth, not a sweaty existence in a two-bedroom apartment, unable to afford anything beyond the basics of life. Though Cindy had loved her mother, she didn’t want to be like her.

But as she sat in this confined space, assessing her life, she questioned it all. Were there other ways to achieve success, other definitions of success beyond money and career achievement? What about love and children and all the storybook guidelines of real happiness? Was her thinking at the moment truly rational or was it brought on by the fear of death?

She looked at Simon, walked over, sat at his bedside, and checked his pulse. It was still strong, though the wound on his head looked bad. A bruise had begun to work its way down the right side of his face along his cheek and eye. She adjusted the ice pack, propping it against his head with the pillow.

She was filled with anger—at Iblis, at KC. She and Simon were here because of them, because of the illegal games they played, the illicit worlds they lived in.

She rose from the bed and walked to the steel door. She had seen vault doors before, in banks, in movies, but always from the outside. She looked at the brushed-steel barrier between her and freedom; there was no handle, no emergency release. There was no phone in the room, no intercom. Iblis’s men had taken her cell phone, not that it would have worked through the metal casing. There was no means or opportunity for communication.

She turned back to the door and, not out of fear, not out of panic, but out of rage at Iblis and KC, she pounded on it with both hands. Her emotions poured forth, and tears of anger flowed down her cheeks as she screamed out in frustration, “Open this goddamned door!”

She wasn’t ready to die.

The summer sun was setting, painting the earth-tone structures of Istanbul with firelike colors, the odor of scorched lamb wafting in through the open windows from the street vendors in the world below.

Michael sat on the floor of his hotel suite, Simon’s satchel in his lap. It was filled with research and maps that the Vatican had sent from his personal stores. Michael thumbed through the vast information on the Topkapi Museum, its contents and history, its security and government records.

The architectural drawings were detailed, depicting the ever-expanding palace, a structure that had been added to over the centuries. The lower floors were filled with mechanical rooms, offices, and storage rooms. There were passages through aqueducts, misplaced rooms, long-forgotten tunnels for whisking harem girls into and out of the palace. Designed by the eunuchs, they were a long-held secret that had fallen from memory.

Michael had read the letter that KC and Simon had stolen in Amsterdam, unsure of its meaning; he looked at the religious symbols of Christianity, Judaism, and Islam in the uppermost corners, which Simon had circled in red ink, unsure of their significance.

Busch and KC sat on the couch rereading what they had already absorbed. KC had made detailed notes of Selim’s mausoleum, of the
details of the interior not noted in brochures and tourist maps. She and Michael were lost in their own worlds, planning, thinking, devising. The three of them had spent the last three hours reading every piece of paper, making notes, absorbing it all, waiting before comparing conclusions so as not to influence the interpretation of the information. Through their independent review, they hoped things that were missed by one would be found by another.

It was after eight when Michael finally looked up from his stack of documents, stood, and stretched. He took several documents, including a copy of the grand vizier’s letter, from his reams of papers and tucked them in his pocket. “You guys feel like getting out of here?”

Busch put down his papers and finished off the last sip from his bottle of beer. “Thank God. I don’t know about you but I was hungry an hour ago.”

“I really wasn’t thinking about food.” Michael smiled as he opened the door.

KC finally stood, the emotional exhaustion etched in her face.

“Where are we going now?” KC asked.

“What do you say we go break into a palace?”

M
ICHAEL AND
KC walked through the lobby of the hotel and out to the waiting limo, its rear door open for them. Michael looked around for Busch, but he was nowhere to be seen.

“Think he’s in the bar?” KC asked.

Michael shook his head. “Get in the car, I’ll go check upstairs.”

KC stepped into the black stretch as Michael headed back inside.

“Michael?” KC called out.

Michael turned back.

“Lets go, we’re wasting time.”

Michael looked at her, annoyed. He wasn’t leaving his friend behind; he needed him and he wasn’t about to be bossed around by an impatient KC. But then the front passenger window rolled down.

“Quit screwing around,” a voice called.

Michael ducked his head into the car to find Busch at the wheel.

“You owe me two hundred bucks,” Busch said.

Michael climbed in and closed the door.

“I don’t need some unfamiliar driver knowing our every move. Told him I need the car for some no-questions-asked frivolity,” Busch said as he put the car in Drive.

“Frivolity? I didn’t know you knew what that meant.”

“Give me a break. I figured hookers sounded better than theft.” Busch pulled out into the heavy traffic, the limo like a lumbering aircraft carrier next to the zipping yellow taxis and local drivers. Horns blared, shaking fists emerged from car windows. Busch ignored the Turkish swearing as he glanced at the GPS displaying the Istanbul Ataturk Airport, gripped the wheel, and hit the accelerator. “I can’t promise we’ll get there in one piece, but at least we will get there.”

T
HE YELLOW
F
IAT
was like a bee among the swarm, lost and indistinguishable from its brethren. It remained five cars back from the enormous black limo, riding the steady flow of traffic along the road that ran parallel to the waters of the Bosporus.

Iblis hated himself for manipulating KC to do his bidding, using his black-hearted techniques on the one person he respected in this world. He had looked upon her as if she were his flesh and blood. She was intelligent, quick-witted, fearless. From the moment they had met, he had felt a connection. He had spent countless days, weeks, and months shaping her, molding her, imparting knowledge that he had come by through bad experiences, trial and error, police pursuits, and desperation. Of all his accomplishments, legal, ill-gotten, or otherwise, KC was his greatest achievement, the one person who filled him with pride.

Iblis reached into his breast pocket and pulled out the dog-eared photograph, propping it up on the dash. He glanced at the young woman as he had done so often, at her blonde hair, her green eyes that mirrored the smile on her face. The picture was ten years old, taken on a sun-filled day in Essex before she knew the truth about him, before KC finally glimpsed his heart.

When Iblis had found her in Venue’s office less than a week ago, he
wasn’t consumed with anger, rage, or any sense of betrayal. He was filled with a sentiment his heart rarely knew, a feeling of affection and warmth at seeing her for the first time in a decade; he was filled with pride, for she was doing what he had taught her, what he had schooled her in so many years earlier. And she was doing exactly what he wanted her to do.

He had channeled news of Venue’s possession of the letter, its purchase and whereabouts, through the Church, knowing it would end up with Simon, knowing it would end up with his thief of choice, KC. Iblis knew he could never call her up, ask for her help in stealing both the chart and the sultan’s rod; besides having a moral center, she knew him and his dark ways, his affinity for death. It had been ten years since they last spoke.

Iblis was shocked at Venue’s knee-jerk decision to have them killed for their affront. But when Venue pushed the buttons to send KC to Chiron Prison, when he paid off the warden to have her executed, Iblis had no fear for her. For he had educated her, shaped and formed her; he knew she was capable of escape. But to help tip things in her favor, he sent a picture of Simon in shackles to the Vatican along with the information regarding where he was being held and his date of execution. He found the business card of a Stephen Kelley in KC’s pocket—another lawyer, he hated lawyers—and imagining she had it for a reason, included it in his little package of info.

He figured the cavalry wouldn’t rush in for a thief, but a priest … no one would sit still for the execution of a man of the cloth.

KC was part of Iblis’s overall plan in Istanbul, one that he couldn’t fulfill without her help. He needed to ensure her escape not out of affection, but to ensure that she would supply the help he would need to pull off the two jobs in Istanbul. It was all part of his plan, a plan he didn’t dare share with Venue.

Iblis drove along the seaside road among a plethora of cabs all racing for the airport in hopes of one more fare for the night. The limo had no chance of spotting him. As he watched the black car weave in and out of traffic, he imagined what KC was thinking.

Iblis knew KC: how she thought, how she felt, what moved her and
scared her. And he used that knowledge to control her now. She would do his bidding out of fear; she would do it for her sister, just as she had taken to a life of crime to raise her. KC’s motivation had never changed. Whether it was stealing a watch to buy Cindy school books and food, or an artifact to save her life, she was motivated by the bonds of love between sisters.

Iblis’s mind refocused from its momentary sentimentality. He discarded his emotions as he had done so often, pulling his thoughts back to the task at hand. He watched the limo glide up the service road and slide through the gates of the private air terminal at Ataturk International Airport, slowing and disappearing into one of the private jet hangars. Iblis found a parking spot that afforded a perfect view of the doors, turned off the engine, and sat back.

Iblis had no doubt that KC, despite the danger her sister was in, despite the fact that her friend was bloodied and battered and in imminent danger of succumbing to his wounds, would consider stealing the chart. The chart had been her and Simon’s initial quest, the reason for her breaking into Venue’s office, for stealing the letter to learn of the chart’s location. He knew that she would recognize its greater importance, that it would be a perfect bargaining chip.

He knew that beyond the fear, beyond the desperation that filled KC’s heart, she wouldn’t play the pawn, she wouldn’t be so easily manipulated; she’d want to hold all the cards, and those cards included the chart.

Iblis found it an irresistible challenge to go head to head with his former student, to test her, to have a battle of wits. He was enthralled to see her again, his heart skipping whenever she was in his sights. But this was not a game and he had no intention of her ever truly getting the Piri Reis chart underneath Topkapi.

As much as Iblis cared for KC, as much as he actually loved her, if she betrayed him, prevented him from completing his task, he had no compunction about killing her, about tearing the lungs from her chest.

* * *

M
ICHAEL PULLED BACK
the carpet in the center aisle of the Boeing jet, exposing a large rectangular floor panel, and made quick work of the screws. He lifted up the metal door to uncover a host of electronics, reached in, and hoisted out the fake electronic pallet to reveal a four-by-eight compartment. It was a tight fit, but it held those things that could never stand up to scrutiny. Michael climbed into the small hold and handed three large black duffel bags up through the opening into Busch’s waiting hands.

Busch unzipped a bag with a gold tag, searched through reams of climbing gear, digging to the bottom, and pulled out a sheathed knife, compass, and two coils of rope. He opened the next bag to find several gun bags and boxes of ammunition.

“Jesus, Michael, it’s a good thing you don’t fly commercial.”

Michael ignored his friend as he climbed out of the belly of the jet and opened the third and final bag: It was filled with electronics and gadgets, basic dive gear, and four blocks of clay wrapped in clear plastic. Michael went through each bag, inventorying everything in his mind.

Michael sat back and thought for a moment. He stood and went to a back closet in the plane, returning with four three-foot-long leather tubes. Each had a leather shoulder strap and appeared like a satchel that held architectural drawings. He opened them to reveal a steel tube with an airtight flip top.

“Is that your everyday stolen-artifact bag?” Busch quipped.

“Very funny. They’re actually for transporting paintings; they’re waterproof and you can vacuum-seal them.”

“And you have them because…”

“Give me a break,” Michael said as he tossed them into the first duffel. He zipped each bag up and reset the false electronic panel. He spun the screws into place and rolled the wall-to-wall carpet back, tapping it down with his foot.

“Point of no return,” Busch said as he handed Michael the compass and knife.

“That was actually hours ago,” Michael said as he slipped the compass and knife into his pocket. He threw the two coils of rope over one
shoulder and a black duffel over the other and headed out the jet door.

Busch hoisted the remaining two black bags and carried them down the jet’s stairs, throwing them in the open trunk of the limo next to Michael’s bag. He closed the trunk and looked through the window at the back of KC’s head. He finally turned back to Michael.