The Thieves of Darkness (18 page)

“You’re kidding,” Busch said. “The tomb’s in there?”

“Actually…” KC pointed to three small domed buildings on the southeast of the main structure. “Selim’s tomb has its own building in the center there.”

The smell of almonds and honey filled the air as Venue stirred his custom blend of tea. There were no servants here, no secretaries, employees, or accountants.

The town house, on the Prince’s Canal in Amsterdam, was a brick residence whose existence he shared with no one. Its ownership hidden under a labyrinth of corporations and aliases, it was his sanctuary, a place to hide if his world collapsed, a place where he stored over five million in euros, five million in diamonds, and a cache of weapons. There was a fallout shelter, built during the year he experienced extreme paranoia. Filled with six months’ worth of food and water, it lay ready in the event he needed to appear to have fallen off the face of the planet. There was a server backup of all of his corporate computer files that sat behind an impenetrable firewall along with hard copies of his leverage files: a set of documents that would lay waste not only to his competitors but also to his employees. It was what he affectionately called his fear file, the file that people hoped never was revealed to their loved ones, the police, or the government.

He pulled out the first file: It was on one of his attorneys, Ray Jaspers, an integral part of his organization who had helped him in achieving his fortune. While the file contained a detailed curriculum vitae it was also filled with information on his predilection for
gambling and teenage girls, along with a list of mob debts from his days in America. Venue picked up the next file. It was on a man he considered his right hand, a man who had yet to fail Venue in any task, a man in whose hands Venue’s future rested. As he read through the three-inch-thick accounting of criminal activities, of robberies and murders, he smiled. Venue was a man said to be devoid of emotion, but if he had a warm place in his heart it would be for someone like Iblis.

Twenty years ago, Venue had just begun to build his empire and was seeking out those who would compose the foundation of his organization, the integral pieces he would need if he were to achieve his goals. There were CFOs and accountants, tax experts and lawyers, and then there were those whose talents weren’t acquired in universities, whose skill sets were not the norm in the corporate world. Venue’s business plan, one that he had formulated during the years of his incarceration, required laws to be broken, tasks he was qualified for but could no longer be directly related to.

First a street thug, then a priest, before finally finding his calling in the world of business: In the three years since Venue had left prison, his investment firm had made over twenty million pounds. He had honed his deal-making skills, applying lessons learned from the street: pressure, intimidation, threats, and blackmail. He exploited the weaknesses of his competitors, finding the most vulnerable to prey on. He’d been looking for a kindred spirit with whom he could speak and operate in the vernacular of the street.

And so it was that twenty years earlier Venue had found himself in the corner booth of a run-down pub in Brighton, the howling winter winds off the English Channel penetrating the ill-fitting windows and doors. He looked out of place among the blue-collar locals, dressed in a three-piece charcoal pinstripe suit, hand tailored in London. He sipped a dark ale from a smudged, chipped glass as he tuned out the loud bar rail crowd who were celebrating the end of their day.

The young man took a seat in the booth across from him. He was thin, no more than five feet seven inches, and was dwarfed by Venue’s six-foot-four frame.

“Hello, Chris,” Venue said.

The skinny young man sat there, his childlike face showing no emotion as his identity was revealed.

“I know you prefer the name Iblis. I’m not really concerned with what you call yourself: Christopher Miller, Nuray Miller’s son, offspring of Rusty, or just plain old Iblis. Names are easily shed, but a man can never shed his true skin.”

“Tell me why I shouldn’t kill you right here,” Iblis said, unintimidated by the large man before him.

“Two reasons, really,” Venue said confidently, not a hint of fear in his voice. “First, I’m twenty years your senior. I can show you how to raise your game to the next level. You can run around the streets all you want, steal from this museum, that museum, or you can raise the bar and commit jobs that could net you tens, even hundreds of millions.”

“And the second reason?”

“I need a partner.”

A mousy blonde waitress, her cheeks red from the seaside breezes, placed two pints before them and quickly left.

Iblis laughed as he sipped his ale.

“I’ve been like you,” Venue continued. “I’ve done the things you have done; I’ve even served time, which you have been fortunate enough to avoid. But I can’t do the things I used to do anymore. I have an image to uphold.”

“I know what you do, how you do it. Wearing a suit just makes you a well-dressed criminal,” Iblis said. “If you disappeared, I doubt there’s anyone who would shed a tear. In fact, I could probably sell your head for a pretty good price.” Iblis laid a long hunting knife on the table. “I could kill you right here.”

“So you said. But don’t you think that if I’m wise enough to learn your real name, learn about your family, about the jobs you pulled, I would be smart enough to prevent that? Don’t you think that before I had you come to see me I would have ensured my safety and planned for your demise?”

Iblis sat there silently.

“Not to worry; if I planned to kill you, you’d already be dead.”

Iblis tilted his head and smiled in respect. “What would this partnership entail?”

Venue placed his briefcase on the sticky, notched table between them. “I would need you several times a year, primarily to steal corporate documents, information on my competitors or those I’m looking to acquire.”

“Not a lot of challenge to that.”

“No, but the reward is great. From time to time there may be some pieces of art; I do have an affinity for certain works, particularly ones that hold religious significance.”

“Ah, a spiritual man,” Iblis said.

“You don’t know the half of it.”

“I take it that the bag is on the table for a reason.” Iblis nodded to the briefcase.

“Occasions may arise when I need you to perform more serious acts, acts whose effects are permanent.”

“Killing?” Iblis leaned in.

Venue arched his brow in silent concurrence.

“I’ll pay five million dollars per year. Your time is your own, to do with as you wish, except when I need you, and when those moments arise I would expect you to drop whatever you might be doing to be at my beck and call. In addition, I will pay a bonus fee per job depending on its nature.”

Iblis sat there, his mind spinning. Venue could see it.

“You obviously already have a job in mind,” Iblis said as he pointed to the case.

“As a matter of fact,” Venue said, letting the moment hang in the air, “I do.”

F
ATHER
F
RANCIS
O
SWYN
walked out of the market in Penzance and placed the armful of groceries in the back of his Ford Taurus. He slid into the driver’s seat and drove the five blocks to the seaside retreat that had been donated to the Church by a successful accountant by the name of Miles O’Banion who had died childless two years earlier.

The whitewashed house had been built in the late fifties in hopes of a large family, with each of the six bedrooms overlooking the English Channel. But O’Banion’s wife had died in childbirth, along with their son, and he never remarried, dedicating his time to his job, the Church, and God. The house, filled with old English furniture, thick couches, and black walnut walls and floors, became a summertime center of entertainment and merriment, its celebrants overflowing the wide porches that wrapped the home. Its celebrations lasting from May Day to September 1, with a guest list that included every local parishioner, whether friend or foe. But since O’Banion’s passing the home had grown quiet. The parties stopped, and the merriment was replaced with quiet prayer.

Oswyn had come to relish the allure of the wintertime sea, the huge swells, the dramatic difference from trough to crest, the enormous waves crashing on the beach with a rhythmic pounding that lulled him to sleep at night.

While most had fled the seaside community in search of warmth and life in the city, Oswyn built a roaring fire in the stone fireplace, grabbed the latest Stephen King novel, and found himself close to peace. He had been trying to finish the book for two weeks now only to suffer constant interruption, but now that he had arrived at the O’Banion house, he finally would get through the last two chapters and be able to start that Robert Masello novel his sister had raved about.

It was a moonless night, the house dark and serene, as Oswyn took a seat in the large wingback chair by the hearth and turned on the adjacent floor lamp. He angled his body toward the warmth of the flame, listened to the crashing surf in the distance, and cracked open the book.

Leaning back in the armchair, he never saw the man approach from the shadows—the man who had waited patiently for two hours under the cloak of darkness.

A strong hand grabbed the crown of Oswyn’s head and forced his body forward in the chair. And just as suddenly the priest’s body went limp, his arms falling to his side as his book crashed to the floor. His
head fell forward at an unnatural angle, his chin upon his chest. He never felt the thin blade as it entered the back of his neck, slipping between his uppermost cervical vertebrae to sever his spinal cord.

With the loss of his nervous system, his diaphragm failed, his breathing ceased. And as the last bit of air that Oswyn would ever hold in his lungs escaped, he found the frame of mind to embrace his faith and utter a single prayer of contrition.

Suffocation came slowly but accelerated with a vengeance; though his body could no longer feel, his head felt as if it would explode. Darkness swept in from the corners of his eyes; white pin lights, like shooting stars, darted along the blackness as it consumed him. And as Francis Oswyn’s soul prepared to escape its corporeal binds, the last thought that danced in his head was not of his sister, or his long-dead parents, or his Church, or friends. Oswyn’s last thought dwelled on the fact that he would never know how that damn Stephen King novel ended.

W
ITHIN THREE MONTHS
the six other priests on Venue’s list were dead. There was nothing left behind, no fingerprints, no witnesses. The authorities found no evidence in any of the slayings, as the country and Europe grew rife with rumor that a serial killer was targeting priests. Theories abounded—everything from Protestant retribution to the devil himself pulling the plug. But after seven victims, the killings stopped, and the investigation inevitably became a cold case.

I
BLIS SAT IN
Venue’s brand-new office in Amsterdam on the fourth floor overlooking the Emperor’s Canal. The large bald man’s company and reputation had grown dramatically over the six months since they first met, with more than thirty employees filling the offices and cubicles, grinding out millions for their boss.

Venue slid a wire confirmation across the desk to Iblis. “Seven million. Don’t spend it all in one place.”

“I’m going to get myself a large summer place in Istanbul,” Iblis said with a smile.

“Different,” Venue said. “I’m more partial to the Italian Riviera, myself.”

“We each have our favorite flavors.”

“If you do go down there, perhaps you could locate something for me.”

“What would that be?”

“A sea chart, more of a rumor really. I only have bits and pieces on it.”

“You mean a map?”

“Some people might call it that.”

“Which leads to …?”

“Not entirely sure. It’s not a priority at the moment, more of a pastime, a curiosity. Like I said, I only have bits and pieces.”

“Well, when you want me to put those bits and pieces together…” Iblis rose from his chair. “Call me.”

“One other thing before you go.” Venue stood, walked over to the TV in the center bookcase, and hit the VCR. “I think we make a good team, but I want to make sure you understand that I own the team.”

Iblis looked at him, confused, as the video began to play. And as it did, rage washed over his face.

The video showed various images of Iblis: stalking his priestly victims, entering the house in Penzance. Some of the images were still photographs, many of the shots in green nightscope, each leaving no question of Iblis’s identity.

“I always find it best to deal in fear.” Venue looked down on Iblis through his cold, emotionless eyes and walked over to him, physically towering over his employee. “From my perspective, it is the best motivator, particularly when the fear is for one’s survival.”

“Why would you do this?” Iblis said, his breaths coming like a racehorse’s. “I did your job without question. Killed the men you wanted killed.”

“I want to make sure we have an understanding.”

“What is that?” Iblis did everything he could to stop himself from snatching the knife from his pocket and slitting Venue’s throat.

“That you will remain loyal.”

“You don’t buy loyalty with fear,” Iblis whispered through a clenched jaw.

“And yet I believe I just bought you.” Venue smiled. “You see, we are two sides of the same coin. Do you think for a moment that I don’t know you have taken your own safeguards against me? Do you think that I am foolish enough to think that you have not kept evidence that would implicate me in the murder-for-hire scheme involving the seven priests who destroyed my life?”

Iblis sat there without a word.

“You do not have to admit things, but I want you to know that I have had twenty more years of experience in bending the wills of men; I know breaking points and limits and I play a damn good game of chicken. You should be aware that I never lose. So we understand, just so we are clear, I believe we have a very fruitful future together, one that we’ll both benefit from.”