The Thieves of Darkness (30 page)

KC looked around the room again, at the wealth, at the artifacts of lost history, her eyes finally falling upon the warning once more. Subjugation in hell. She thought on eternity, of what it would be like to be cast into the underworld, and whether such a place existed. She had been raised Catholic and held tight to her faith, in constant awareness of her breaking of countless Commandments. But as she had so often done, as Michael had so succinctly explained, she rationalized that sometimes we are forced to do the unthinkable, to break the laws of God and man to save those closest to us, despite the consequences. KC believed in destiny, she believed in heaven, and as she reflected on Iblis and Chiron Prison, she surely believed in hell and that it waited with open arms for those deserving it.

Curses be damned. KC lifted the lid of the coffin.

Sultan Selim II lay in repose. He had not fared as well as his wife. His face was sunken, caved in in sections. What little hair he possessed was gray-streaked brown, a rat’s nest of tangles. His elaborate hat had fallen to the side, half of his skull remaining within it. He wore a cloak of white
stitched with gold thread, a green sash wrapped around a nonexistent waist. His withered body was but a husk of shattered skeleton.

And clutched in his bony hands was the rod, grasped like a scepter, on his chest. The core of the rod, formed from dark wood, carried a maroon hue that shimmered under KC’s light. And as described, two snakes rose along the shaft, intertwining on their rise, their heads flaring outward and their ruby eyes locked in a deadly stare-down, their silver viper teeth poised, ready to strike.

KC had never robbed the dead, had never thought of the necromantic nature of such a deed. In any other circumstance it would have repulsed her, but this was different. This meant saving lives, it meant saving her sister and Simon.

She reached into the coffin with both hands and wrapped them about the rod. She slowly lifted, the skeleton resisting as if he was fighting from the heights of heaven or the depths of hell. And it frightened her; she was fearful that, however improbable it sounded, the dead king would sit upright and kill her with his bony hands.

But then, with a cracking sound, the sultan relinquished his prize. KC lifted the rod, examining it more closely. The snake heads were detailed right down to the scales of their skin. Their red eyes seemed to flicker with life as she stared.

And all at once she felt dizzy, overcome with nausea. She was surrounded by death, having to slip into hell to save the life of her sister. It was becoming too much; her mind was fogged into confusion as she stared at the corpse before her, as she thought of lying with Selim’s dead wife, of staring into the eyes of this hideous serpent.

She fought to refocus, averted her eyes, and quickly stuffed the rod into the leather tube that Michael had given her, sealing it in the airtight cylinder within, vowing never to look at it again.

Busch sat in the limo, under the long shadows of Hagia Sofia, the a/c on high as it fought back the heat of the Istanbul summer night. Across the street, the VIPs continued to pour in for the celebration: dignitaries, royalty, Istanbul’s captains of industry, all heading up the blue carpet into Topkapi as if they were heading into the Academy Awards.

Busch continued to try to reach Michael on the radio to warn him of Iblis’s entrance into Topkapi, but to no avail. It wrecked him that the small man had slipped away from him so easily. He longed to get his hands around the skinny neck of the man who had so ruthlessly kidnapped and beaten his friend, who had kidnapped KC’s young, innocent sister.

The rear door of the limo flew open and a dirty, grimy KC slid onto the backseat. She laid the blue duffel and her large Prada bag of supplies on the floor, took off her hat, and shook out her long blonde hair.

“Well?” Busch said.

KC held up and waved the leather satchel, finally laying it on the backseat.

“Where’s Michael?” KC grabbed a glass from the bar, filled it with ice, and poured herself some water. “I can’t reach him on the radio.”

“Not out of there yet.”

“Where’s Iblis?” KC crawled across the back of the limo, leaned over the front seat, looking through the windshield, scanning the cars outside. She took a large swig of water.

“I lost him,” Busch said, unable to look at KC.

“What do you mean, you lost him?” KC’s voice grew frantic.

“I lost him. He slipped into the VIP crowd and disappeared into Topkapi.”

“Jesus, does Michael know?” KC scooted to the back of the limo, pulled out her radio, but heard nothing but static. “Iblis is going for the chart; he’ll kill Michael to get it. How could you let Michael slip into such danger?”

“You don’t think I’m dying here? I couldn’t get into that party if I had an invitation. I’ve been trying to reach him for over a half hour now. Remember, he is my friend.”

“I know,” KC said. “I should have gone with him.”

“Michael knows what he’s doing; he can take care of himself. I know him.”

“Yeah, and I know Iblis.” KC spat out her teacher’s name as if it were poison.

KC tore off her black jumpsuit without regard for Busch or modesty. She grabbed the bottle of water off the bar, poured it on a napkin, and ran it about her face and arms, wiping away the dust and death she had carried back from the coffins and tombs. She quickly applied her ruby-red lipstick and brushed on a subtle eyeshadow, thankful for a face that didn’t require heavy makeup. She reached into her Prada bag and pulled out the long Oscar de la Renta gown she had bought in the hotel boutique, midnight blue and stunning. She slipped into it, the gown hugging her contours like a second skin. It was slit up both sides, revealing more leg than Busch thought was humanly possible. It was perfect, not just in a haute couture way, but functional, unrestricting to the legs, allowing her mobility for actions not typical in society functions.

“I knew you’d find an occasion to wear that dress,” Busch said.

KC ignored Busch as she ran a brush through her blonde hair; she took off the Tiffany necklace Michael had given her, tucking it into a
small jewelry bag, exchanging it for a diamond choker and diamond stud earrings. She affixed the jewels, slipped on a pair of three-inch Prada heels, picked up her purse, and opened it.

The purse was custom-made, its interior waterproof, filled with pockets that stored her polymer lockpicking tools, several glow sticks, money, a thin knife that looked like a nail file, and in one sealed compartment, a twelve-diamond necklace of silver with a blue sapphire pendant in the center. She had had it for over five years now, stolen from a German businessman who would proffer it to young girls, luring them with its promise of things to come, only to ship them off to the Southeast Asian sex-slave market. Upon stealing it along with his computer files from his Berlin penthouse, she had contacted the police and provided his information to the families of his victims. He was dead by morning.

She had held on to the necklace in case she ever needed its universal currency to bribe her way out of trouble. It revolted her every time she looked at it, and, she’d resolved not to sell it except in the most dire circumstances. She dropped in her lipstick, tucked her radio, cell phone, wallet, a miniflashlight, her long black shirt, and her pair of lightweight flats in and zipped the bag up. She grabbed the leather satchel containing the rod—her prize from the tomb—and tucked it under her arm.

“What the hell you bringing that for?”

“It’s my ticket in,” KC said as she opened the door.

“In?” Busch looked across the street to the celebrants entering Topkapi. “You can’t go in there, especially with that,” Busch said as he pointed to the narrow case.

“You don’t think so? Watch me.”

KC stepped from the car and slammed the door behind her.

Busch shook his head in anger. “Michael always picks the stubborn ones.”

KC
HAD TRANSFORMED
herself from a grimy, dust-covered thief to a woman of model caliber. She carried herself like royalty, projecting an air of confidence and celebrity as she strode across the street
and straight up to the blue carpet. Heads turned, a collective murmur hummed, trying to figure out who the statuesque blonde with the deep green eyes was.

KC walked right past the flashing cameras and paparazzi and straight up to the security detail as if this were her own party.

“Good evening, gentlemen.”

Three guards manned the airport-sized metal detector. They were dressed in the tan outfits and black-brimmed hats of the local police. They wore unrelenting stares upon their faces and Glock pistols upon their hips.

“I don’t have my invitation,” KC said in apology as she opened and reached inside her purse.

“I’m sorry, miss, but—”

KC handed over a flipped-open billfold, presenting her ID along with a picture badge. The lead guard took it and examined it closely. “The European Union…?”

KC smiled, her friendly look disarming and practiced over many years of deceit. An expert in the use of her feminine charms, she glanced at the guard’s badge. “Yasim,” she said, addressing him by name, speaking in the familiar to relax his attention, “I’m presenting this on behalf of Ulle Regio of Switzerland, the president of the EU, repatriating this artifact as a token of welcome to Turkey from the European Union collective.”

The two subordinates looked at their leader as he motioned KC to open the case.

KC flipped open the latch and lifted the cover, displaying the snake-head staff, its head with silver teeth and ruby eyes dazzling beneath the bright security lights.

KC continued to smile as she fought the sudden sickening feeling in her stomach; the rod that she had sworn not to look upon again stared back at her, filling her with dread, making her skin crawl. She hoped it was not an emotion felt by the guards. “The embarrassment for all if I do not present this will mean the end of my career.” KC hoped the insinuation of lost jobs was carried in the subtext.

Yasim stared at KC, his look conveying no emotion. KC never broke eye contact or diminished her disarming smile. The moment dragged on until Yasim finally averted his eyes, looking back at KC’s ID. He closed the billfold and handed it back, nodding KC through. “Please behave yourself. Neither of us wishes to experience a career-ending moment this evening.”

“Thank you.” KC smiled at the man as she closed the case. Yasim waved KC around the metal detector and she walked through the welcome archway into the Courtyard of Janissaries.

KC entered the reception and followed the crowd as they moved toward the Gate of Salutation. The walkway was lined in flaming torches, their orange glow painting the ancient buildings a golden hue, sending tendrils of black smoke dancing skyward.

As KC approached the second gate she broke off to the left and stepped beyond the lamps’ illumination. She reached into her purse, feigning a makeup break, and scanned the area. The crowds were all heading through the arch of the Gate of Salutation and into the second courtyard where the main festivities were taking place.

KC watched as a team of guards made their rounds, scanning the crowd, looking for anything unusual, but KC knew much of it was for show, the guards relying on the diligence of their brethren at the entrance. The body of people here tonight were not the ones to be concerned with; they were not the rabble-rousing, unlawful bunch that gave pause to civil society. At least, KC thought, most of them weren’t.

KC headed left into the shadows, taking the familiar route that she had ventured upon with Michael the night before. The shadows were deep and were made all the darker by the glowing torches along the walkway. She wandered along, her eyes flitting back and forth as she kept an eye on the movement into the party, on the guards who were half enamored of the celebrity of the moment, doing everything to avoid being seen. She finally arrived at the shadowed corner where the thirty-foot wall that wrapped around the actual Topkapi Palace abutted the archaeological museum. KC quickly slipped off the impractical heels, put them in her bag, and dug out her flat running shoes, putting them on.

She had no idea where Michael was, but Iblis was on the loose and not many knew him better than she did. She knew of his cunning, brilliant mind, she knew of his lethal approach to achieving success, and she knew he was somewhere within Topkapi, racing for a head-on collision with Michael. Two thieves, two different approaches, one avoiding harm to others at all costs and one harming any and all in pursuit of winning no matter the cost.

KC had been so consumed with worry for her sister, with fear for Simon, she had put aside her own wants and needs, but her heart came racing to the forefront as soon as she heard that Michael might be in danger. She couldn’t let him come to harm; he had so selflessly saved her, and had never hesitated in helping her break the law to save her sister. This in spite of the danger and risk involved, where being caught meant the possibility not only of prison but also of death. And now the threat of death hung over three people. A friend, a sister, and … She realized she could no longer hide her feelings for Michael.

Risk be damned, KC thought, looping the strap of the leather case over her head and shoulder, and doing the same with her purse; she dug her fingers in and began to climb the wall.

M
ICHAEL EMERGED
from the chapel, crawling through the three-foot hole, and shone his light about the cistern, the quiet and solitude made more apparent by the echoing of the drops of water slipping off the ceiling. So much of the world was hidden, so much of it just steps away from unaware society. And it wasn’t just in Istanbul, it was the same in much of the world: Rome, Moscow, Shanghai, the American West. Much of it was mercifully lost to the modern world, for once breached, the unleashed secrets of the past would bring nothing but trouble.

As Michael looked back at the hole leading into the hidden chapel, he knew he had unearthed things meant to be hidden. There would be no disguising the breach, no hiding the recent destruction and theft. It pained him that he had opened history only to lay it to waste, but in life there were some things that carried greater weight.