The Thieves of Darkness (31 page)

Michael checked and rechecked the vacuum seal on the tube that contained the chart and jumped back into the five-foot-deep cistern. The chill of the water shocked him back to the moment. He held his light above his head and slogged back toward the first wall, the sound of his aquatic disturbance reverberating around him.

Arriving at his exit wall, he took a quick breath and slipped under the water, gliding through the five-foot tube to emerge in the main section of the cistern. As he broke the surface, his light exploding around the cavernous room, the air left his lungs in shock. He aimed the beam ahead and saw the rope, his means of departure, floating atop the water, cut from its perch above. He shone his light up to the hole in the ceiling where he had entered, a wasted search, for he knew he would find nothing there.

Without a moment’s hesitation, Michael dove under and swam back through the tube. He surfaced once again in the antechamber, quickly shining the light on the wall thirty yards away, tucked his flashlight into his belt, and began swimming as fast as he could. Trudging through the water would prove too slow to allow him to escape. There was no doubt in his mind that he had securely tied the rope to the backhoe; when it came to safety he never made mistakes. It hadn’t fallen by accident.

Without breaking stroke, Michael snatched the light from his belt and dove into the tunnel of the next wall. The tube was longer, a slight current fighting his advance. Confined and dark, over forty feet, it seemed to never end, until he burst through to the surface. He never left himself with only a single means of egress, and he was determined to make it to the second exit. He fought back the thought of who had cut his cord and where he was, knowing that if fear entered his mind it would lessen his chances of success.

Michael emerged into another cistern anteroom. But this one was far different. It was tall and narrow, reaching upward twenty-five feet, where shafts of light pierced through a ceiling grate. It was a well, leading up into the heart of the Turkish Baths of the harem. The well was part of the cistern that provided a constant supply of cold, fresh water
back in the days of sultans and their multiple wives, only to be forgotten, as so much had been lost to memory.

There were three tubes at seven-foot vertical intervals up the side wall. Three feet in diameter, they protruded several inches from the main wall, spaced far enough to make the climb difficult, with leaps and precarious handholds, but difficult was always better than impossible.

Michael stared up at the grate in the ceiling, three by three; it was easily large enough to get through if he could detach it from its setting. Michael climbed up into the first tube, glad to be out of the water, and he fought against the involuntary shivers that struggled to bring his temperature back up to normal. The cold of the water had sapped his strength, cramped his muscles, and removed any sense of feeling from his fingers—and all combined to make his climb even more precarious.

Michael reached into his dive bag and withdrew a screwdriver and the small crowbar, affixing them to his belt next to his knife so that the tools would be easily accessible once he completed his climb and available for breaching the grate of the harem proper. Michael sealed his bag and stood precariously on the upper lip of the first pipe. He extended his arms upward, his fingers just shy of the next tube. He took a deep breath, focused, and leapt up, his fingertips just catching the lip of the second tube. His forearms burned as he hauled himself up, pulling up into the pipe, where he collapsed, leaning against the rounded wall of the tube.

Michael rose to his knees, rechecked the tube, resecured the bag at his waist, and leaned out of the pipe, casting his gaze from the pool below to the grate above that would lead him out of this pit.

And then, suddenly, he heard a sound, subtle at first, then growing, approaching with a roar like thunder. All at once, great gasps of air blew through the tube where he sat, a gale wind upon him, blowing his brown hair about his face. The pounding sound was coming from the tube, and not just from the one where he sat, twelve feet above the water, but from all three tubes. Hurricane winds whistled through the
pipe, up through the cistern anteroom and out through the three-foot grate. Michael knew what was coming.

Without hesitation, he leaped out of the shaft, falling fast but not fast enough, as a torrent of water exploded out of each tube, knocking him in midair against the wall. He tumbled down head over heels into the pool below, three tremendous waterfalls pounding into his body. He was churned about like a rag doll, with no sense of up or down. He struggled to breathe against the splashing water and mist, his lungs burning as he coughed, expelling the water that had entered his throat.

The water level rose quickly, rising above the first tube, turning the lowermost tube’s escaping water into a deathlike Jacuzzi, spitting Michael haplessly about.

Michael tried to swim down through the rapidly rising waters, only to be churned around like flotsam. The volume of water was tremendous, pounding him about in the midst of its cacophony of sound and unrelenting pressure.

The leather tube and his neoprene dive bag conspired to pull him in two, each object taking on a life of its own and trying to pull away from his body in opposite directions.

The water climbed rapidly up the walls, overtaking the second tube, carrying Michael’s bobbing body upward toward the grate. He would reach his destination but not as he wanted; he would never be able to unscrew and open the grate as his body was tossed to and fro.

The water built up into slurry, bubbles churning, currents pulling his body up and down. He kicked for the surface only to be sucked down again, feeling assaulted by thousands of blows. He struggled to stay afloat but there was no doubt that, despite his efforts, he was drowning. His lungs were on fire, white spots moving around the periphery of his vision. He fought with every ounce of his being; he couldn’t fail KC, he couldn’t let her down.

And then out of nowhere, someone grabbed him, pulling him toward the surface. Michael’s head violently rammed into something, but he paid it no mind as he gulped air, as he finally found the oxygen his straining lungs craved.

The water around him was a roiling froth as he slowly got his bearings. The water had slowed its rise a foot short of the ceiling. Michael realized his head had rammed the grate that, minutes earlier, had been twenty-five feet above him. He grabbed tight to the metal cross rods, holding on as he continued to be stirred about in the churning waters.

“You must be Michael,” a voice said.

Michael looked up through the grate to see a man crouched down, looming over him, dressed in black tie with a white dress shirt, the sleeves rolled up. His hair was slicked back and carefully groomed. He was beyond thin; the veins on his forearms and neck were pulsing in unison. His tanned skin accentuated ghostly, pale blue eyes, creating an appearance two steps short of human. There was no question he was staring at Iblis.

“So, KC’s dating a thief,” Iblis said.

Michael glared up at the man, surprised at his American accent.

“You’ve got quite a resume, Mr. St. Pierre.” The roar of the churning waters almost drowned out his words.

Michael struggled to breathe as the water splashed his face.

“I needed KC’s assistance, but I never imagined she’d bring help. Y’all not only found the chart quicker than I expected, but saved me from getting my hands dirty.”

Michael saw a small coil of rope on the floor beside a tan briefcase, and he could just make out a host of tools scattering the floor.

Iblis walked around the polished metal grate, circling Michael like a bird of prey.

“I knew she had resources in the Vatican, but … who knew she was sleeping with another thief? What, did she dangle a little bit of flesh to get you to do this? Get you to risk your life for a little roll in the hay, for a little taste of booty?”

Michael suddenly pulled himself up with his right hand and lunged with his left, in a vain effort to grab Iblis. But Iblis merely smiled and stepped back, laughing at Michael’s anger, at his aggravation, at his arm protruding from the grate in the floor.

“Offended because I hit the nail on the head? Or protective of your
bonny lass?” Iblis taunted, his voice filled with vitriol. “What do you know of her? She’s just another tall blonde piece of ass to someone like you. I’m the one that plucked her off the street. If anyone gets to claim her, it’s me. I made her, shaped her, built her. If anyone holds her heart in his hand, if anyone holds her life in the balance, it’s me.”

Despite his near drowning, despite the futility, Michael tore at the bars. “You touch her and I’ll—”

“You’ll what?” Iblis said as he stomped on Michael’s fingers, crushing them into the metal grate.

Michael instinctively released his grip, to be pulled under the roiling waters, spun about the whirlpool like a rag doll, his mouth and nose filling as his lungs emptied of air. The two bags affixed to his body, though secured, whipped and smashed against him like errant shutters in a storm.

And with a sudden focus he thrust his hand above the surface to grab the metal grate, once again pulling himself up into the narrow pocket of air.

“Enjoy your swim?” Iblis leaned his face close to the bars, taunting Michael. “Have you ever had to discipline a child, to punish someone you care about? Maybe I should just take KC away from all of this, set her soul free.”

Michael grabbed tight to the bars with both hands and pulled himself up into Iblis’s face. “Don’t you touch her. If she so much as has a broken nail, I’ll find you—”

“What?” Iblis exploded, his voice echoing off the marble walls. He took a moment, regained his composure, and, finally, softened. “Did you think you could best me? I’d be very surprised if this was her idea.”

Michael crushed the bars in a white-knuckled grip, his frustration overflowing as Iblis laid bare his plan.

“She knows me,” Iblis said. “She knows the risk of betraying me, and knows full well what the price would be, what would happen to her sister if she didn’t follow my instructions to the letter.” Iblis paused. “You know what I think? I think it was your idea to try to steal the chart and
trade it for Simon and Cindy. The two-bit idea of an arrogant, overconfident, second-rate thief.”

Michael shook the bars in total rage, coughing uncontrollably as the water splashed up over his face.

Iblis took a moment, studying Michael, looking at the cauldron he was immersed in. “Have you ever had blood on your hands, Michael? Well, tonight, the ultimate price will be paid; someone must die for your ineptitude and lack of caution.”

Michael pulled his face up flush with the bars as the water continued to whip his body about. His eyes filled with rage as he growled, “Without this chart, you have nothing.”

Iblis leaned in close; Michael could smell his foul breath through the grate as their eyes locked.

And without warning, something clamped Michael’s left arm. Michael was so enraged, so drawn into the stare-down with Iblis, that he never saw the handcuff slam around his wrist, the other end affixed to the grate. Michael instinctively pulled against the restraint, kicking back and forth in the water, but it was useless.

“Relax,” Iblis said in an oddly calm voice. “It’ll keep you from sinking. Now, I’d like that tube on your back.”

He turned away from the small man, as if that would keep the tube out of reach. Michael grabbed the strap of the case in his right hand and pulled it from his back, holding it under water as far from Iblis as he could in his restrained condition. He held tight to the grate with his left, cuffed hand, fighting to steady his body as the water continued to roil about him, tossing him to and fro.

Suddenly, Iblis thrust his arm into the water, trying to snatch the tube from Michael, who fought to hold the buoyant tube down and away from Iblis.

Iblis withdrew his arm from the water and smiled, long and with no sense of humor. “So you know, the police will be called, given a complete description of you. A breach of the palace will be reported, inferences will be made about robberies and potential harm to the guests upstairs. Even if you get out, there’s nowhere to go. And I’ll tell you,
they are not going to be happy with what you’ve done, stealing such a significant artifact, part of their heritage, on the night all the world’s eyes are focused on them.”

Without warning, Iblis again stomped on Michael’s hand, crushing his fingers. Michael automatically released his grip to once again be thrust about in the churning pool, fighting to keep the water from invading his lungs, his left wrist bloodied and throbbing from its awkward handcuff restraint. He willed himself to survive as exhaustion took over his body.

And then Iblis began unscrewing the grate from its perimeter anchor points. Michael once again grabbed the grate, gulping air, but he could do nothing but watch. His left bicep throbbed; it was past the point of failure at trying to hold his body steady and above the surface. He held the tube below him with his right hand, wishing he could somehow weigh it down, drop it into the depths, but it was more than buoyant, fighting to stay above the water as much as his lungs were, as if it were fighting to get away from Michael and into the hands of Iblis.

Iblis made quick work of the grate, removed the final screw, and pulled the small iron-barred barrier sideways, yanking Michael to the left. Michael could see the strain in Iblis, the grate far heavier than he expected. He moved the three-foot-by-three-foot iron square, angling it, but he had no intention of pulling Michael out.

Without a moment’s hesitation, Iblis dropped the grate through the hole, inexorably dragging Michael by his handcuffed wrist downward to what would surely be his death—but before he sank away, Michael was once again pulled toward the surface, this time by his right hand, or rather the strap of the tube that he held tight to.

Michael broke the surface and, with sudden terror, realized Iblis held the other end of the tube. It was a tug of war, a challenge that if Michael was to lose, so would they all. Michael held tight to the tube’s leather strap while his other arm was pulled nearly out of its socket by the heavy grate affixed to his wrist, which fought to drag him to a watery death. He was trapped between two hells.