The Thieves of Darkness (11 page)

Unlike his brethren of the cloth, Venue had seen evil firsthand on the streets: He had seen it in the hearts and minds of the underworld. He had seen it in his own heart … and he had heard the maddening voices in his head. And with himself as the perfect example, he believed that evil could be defeated, darkness could be buried and replaced with light. Voices could be silenced, madness could be cast away. But evil was an equal and opposing force, one that created balance, one that should never be ignored.

* * *

T
HE MORNING SUN
was beginning to wash through the stained-glass windows of the chapel, deep reds and purples painting the marble altar as Venue knelt in silent prayer, thankful for his life, for his deliverance.

It was the last prayer to God he would make.

Father Oswyn approached him from behind. He stopped and waited for Venue to turn.

“Father?” Oswyn said, without making eye contact. “Will you please come with me?”

Venue followed him through the church, through the rectory, into a large, intimidating conference room that smelled of incense and leather. Six priests sat around the table. Two chairs sat empty on opposing ends. Venue and Oswyn took their seats in opposition. None of the other six would make eye contact as Venue sat in bewilderment.

Without a word, Oswyn began laying books upon the table—books on witchcraft and the occult, devil worship and druidism.

“
Troubling
is a word that comes to mind, Father,” Oswyn began. “So much you hide from us, so much you hide in your heart.”

Venue looked about the table, momentarily staring at each of the seven priests who faced him, his eyes finally coming to rest on Oswyn. “So you go through my personal effects and condemn me for my reading?”

“It is what we have found in your heart that troubles us.”

“We cannot shut our eyes to the evil that is in this world, surely you see that,” Venue said. “Evil is not defeated through silence. Knowledge is power.”

“But we do not seek power.” Oswyn paused, the moment hanging in the air. “And that is troubling.”

“You condemn me for reading!” Venue exploded. “You all sit here in judgment of me for looking behind the curtain; you are blind to the evil, the darkness in this world.”

“We are not blind, Venue.” Oswyn pulled out a folder and laid it upon the table. “Father Nolan made some inquiries.”

Venue stared at the file; he did not need for it to be opened to know what it contained.

“To say what he found is troubling would be a great understatement.”

“The police are here,” the eldest priest mumbled, though he did not make eye contact.

“Would you like us to hear your confession?” Nolan’s voice quivered in fear.

Venue turned to him, unsure if he should be amused or angered.

“You should know that your crimes, in concert with your outside interests, have brought us to this point. Your actions have left us no choice. Not only are you to be removed from the priesthood, but for the acts you have committed, for the deceptions you have promulgated, for the evil that is in your heart that we fear you shall spread in the Church’s name … you shall be excommunicated from the Church.”

Oswyn’s words were like a lightning bolt through his soul. He was being kicked out of the only real family he had known, the one place in his life that he had called home.

And in that instant, Venue’s heart turned black. Rage filled his soul. He stared at each of the priests with hate-filled eyes. If the Church didn’t want him, if God turned his back on him, there were other places to go. There were alternatives.

Two policemen silently entered the room. Not a word was spoken as they flanked him and led him toward the door. Venue turned back and looked at each of the elderly priests, committing their names and faces to memory. He didn’t know how, but he would find a way, he would avenge himself on the men who had destroyed his life.

Michael looked up at an enormous wall fifty yards wide, thirty feet high. Battle-hard and imposing. Two armed guards in military dress flanked the twenty-foot arched entrance. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

KC smiled a disarming smile.

“This is Topkapi Palace,” Michael said.

“Actually, it’s a museum; the sultan packed his bags a long, long time ago.”

“Tell me this isn’t where your chart is.”

“Let’s just take a look.”

“You’re really going to go through with this?”

KC raised her eyebrows and walked toward the enormous mouth of an entrance. Michael watched her a moment and reluctantly followed.

“Just pretend it’s a game.”

“KC, you know better than that,” Michael said angrily.

“Humor me?”

Michael was beginning to become annoyed with KC’s English accent. Not that he disliked it; in fact, to the contrary, he liked it too much, and it had a tendency to soften his judgment. “After you.”

The Imperial Gate to Topkapi Palace was an enormous granite and carved marble edifice. The archivolt that sat above the twenty-foot
entrance was inlaid with exquisite gold Arabic calligraphy and the monograms of Sultans Mehmed II and Abdul Aziz I. The central arch led through a high-domed passage exiting into the first courtyard of the compound, a 190-acre world surrounded by a battle wall over one and a half miles in circumference and capped with imposing toothlike merlons. It was dotted with twenty-seven towers and enveloped a world that had stood still for centuries.

Topkapi Sarayi—meaning “Cannongate Palace”—was once the grandest of all palaces the world had ever known, housing over four thousand people within its walls during the height of the Ottoman Empire. With the fall of the Empire in 1921, it had been converted to a museum by government decree and had opened its doors to the world by the end of the decade.

For strategic reasons, Topkapi was built atop a hill at the tip of a historic peninsula where the waters of Marmara, Bosporus, and the Golden Horn meet on the European side of Istanbul. It was constructed on the site of the Byzantine Acropolis and an ancient monastery at the behest of
Sultan Mehmed the Conqueror
in
1459
. The world’s most experienced craftsmen had come from far and wide, using rare materials, with cost considered no object. Completed in 1465, Topkapi was the Ottoman Empire’s first step in recapturing the former glory of Constantinople.

With an asymmetric, nonaxial design, Topkapi Palace was far different from European palaces. Though immense, Topkapi was constructed of many smaller interconnected buildings with warmer, more comfortable living spaces, unlike the grand halls and chambers of its European counterparts. The design was not balanced around a central axis but rather grew off in varying tangents in all directions.

The layout was based on a concentric design with four courtyards tucked one within the other, a design from the age of Constantinople that was carried into many of the castle designs of Europe, a design that provided far greater fortification and protection for the ruling monarch. Topkapi’s first circle, called the Courtyard of Janissaries, was a giant park that included museums, churches, and tranquil gardens.

Michael and KC walked past the Byzantine-era church, Hagia
Eirene. Built in the sixth century, it was one of the few churches not converted to a mosque following the Ottoman conquest of Constantinople. They continued past the stone and marble Imperial Mint and up a wide, open walkway under a canopy of cypress trees.

KC disappeared into a squat brick building and emerged moments later, tickets in hand. She pointed to an ornate Romanesque marble fountain tucked in a corner. “Executioner’s fountain. That’s where they washed their hands and swords after public beheadings.”

Michael looked at her with raised eyebrows, trying to stifle a laugh at her morbid description.

“Big, razor-sharp swords—”

“Let’s go.”

“—they would stuff the heads with cotton and straw and put them on marble stanchions for display. Kind of like the penalty box, except the penalty was forever.”

“Thanks.” Michael couldn’t help smirking. “You’ve been here before.”

“Three times, actually.”

“And you’re dragging me here because…”

“Not because I enjoy your company.” KC smiled. “I need to see two things.”

“You’ve been here three times.”

“But that was before we saw the letter.”

“What did the letter say?”

“Ah, I knew I could make you curious.” KC turned and headed up the stone walkway.

They strolled along a park path that was bordered in trees and came to an enormous gate that looked as if it had been imported from a German castle. Seventy-five-foot turreted octagonal towers sat on either side of the large granite arched entrance. The central structure was capped with merlons, the arched opening looking as if it concealed a drawbridge, all incongruous with the rest of the Ottoman-flavored architecture.

As Michael and KC walked through the arch, under golden Arabic
lettering, they were thrust back into the twenty-first century. Before them sat a security detail of guards, scanners, turnstiles, and metal detectors, as if they were entering the White House.

KC presented their tickets with a friendly nod and smile. She and Michael were looked over and motioned through the body scanners.

“I always love this part,” KC said.

Michael remained silent.

“What’s the matter with you? You, for once, are actually a tourist. Sit back and enjoy it. And lose the puss face, it makes you appear ten years older.”

Michael shook his head in futility.

As they entered the formal grounds of Topkapi Palace proper, Michael felt transported back in time. Before him was a world of granite and marble buildings, quiet gardens, enormous porticos, walkways covered in elaborate, tile-laden overhangs supported on detailed marble columns. The roofs of many of the structures were dark earthen blue, a color brought about by the patinated lead covering. Checkered arches of sandy pink marble and white granite accented the buildings and added a taste of the Middle East. Flocks of tourists milled about, enraptured by their surroundings, speaking in hushed tones as if in the presence of gods.

The influence of architects and artisans from such far-off lands as Persia, Rome, Hungary, Albania, and Greece had contributed to the constantly evolving scheme of the palace that was the home of the sultans of the Ottoman Empire. There was no uniformity to the overall design, it was more organic, growing up and out in fits and starts into a host of interconnected buildings that exceeded over seven hundred thousand square feet.

Michael and KC walked in the shade of the Italian cypress, the dark green trees lining the walkway that meandered through what was once considered the garden of paradise. They headed toward the Tower of Justice, the tallest structure of the palace. The high steepled building of marble was capped with a room wrapped in windows from which the sultan could look out upon the breadth of his vast domain. The bluegray
patina of the oxidized lead on the tower could be seen from all of Istanbul and spoke of the sultan’s far-reaching power.

A wide, elaborately tiled awning supported by columns of green marble and pink basalt sat directly below the tower. The grand Turkish architectural style of the Divan was something that had been echoed throughout the city and had become one of Turkey’s signature styles.

As Michael looked around, he couldn’t help being overwhelmed at the minute detail, the intricacy of the smallest tile; the craftsmanship and design was like nothing he had ever seen in all of his world travels.

Michael pulled his eyes from the varied buildings of the second courtyard and turned to KC. “So are you going to tell me where we’re going? Where is this so-called chart?”

“You don’t think I can do this,” KC said with a self-assured smile. “Do you?”

“You have to know your mark better than you know your own reflection in the morning mirror. Look around, KC,” Michael said as he subtly pointed to the five guards in their line of sight who walked the grounds. “Without knowing everything about what you’re stealing and who you’re stealing it from … No, I don’t think you can do this.”

KC looked at her watch and took off in a brisk walk as if she were late for a train. “Let’s go.”

Michael stood there a moment, confused and amused by her sudden purpose of direction. He finally took off in a jog after her.

They headed across the central courtyard to a short building that spanned the northern edge of the second courtyard. Michael and KC walked under a golden awning and passed through the Gate of Felicity. Constructed in the fifteenth century, the monumental gate was the entrance to the inner, third courtyard of the strictly private and residential areas of the palace. Back in the days of the Empire, no one could pass through it without the authority of the sultan.

The sultan used this gate only for special ceremonies, when he used to sit on his golden throne observing his subjects and officials as they performed their homage and paid him respect.

KC led Michael along the cobblestone path of the third, inner courtyard
through more gardens to a long monumental arcade. She made her way along an arched colonnaded portico to a large, elaborately carved dark wood door and, with Michael right behind her, headed into the Topkapi Treasury.

As KC and Michael entered the first salon, they passed a large case containing the medieval armor of Sultan Mustafa III, an iron chain-mail suit encrusted with gold and diamonds, along with an elaborate sword and shield. They passed a second case, containing Korans whose detailed covers were decorated with pearls and jewels and had been for the personal use of the sultans. There was the ebony throne of Sultan Murad IV, inlaid with ivory and mother-of-pearl. Displays of pots and solid jade vases, gold Egyptian candelabra, a 1700s gold water pipe, the diamond-studded walking stick of Abdul-Hamid II, a gift from Kaiser Wilhelm. In the room’s central case, holding great interest to a horde of Frenchmen, were dozens of heavily decorated military items.

KC and Michael continued into the second salon, known as the Emerald Room, which contained a glittering display of aigrettes—ornamental headpieces—and pendants decorated with emeralds, diamonds, and other precious gems.