The Thieves of Darkness (28 page)

Michael looked upon the altars, the symbols of faith, at the crescent moon and star, at the Holy Cross and the Star of David, pondering the wisdom of the man who had built this chapel and the insight of those who clandestinely swept worshippers through its doors. He wished that their understanding and tolerance might be heard more resoundingly.

Millions upon millions had been killed in the name of God, by people who believed that the almighty being was on their side. Michael wondered if God really was a Yankees fan or whether he preferred the Red Sox; whether he lined up with the communists or the capitalists. He wondered who God listened to when soldiers on both sides prayed for victory or whether he had grown tired of those who battled and killed in his name and turned a deaf ear to all. Michael shook himself out of his philosophical reverie. Whatever the case might be, the wisdom of the overseers of this room had led them to close it up, to hide it from the world, and to hide a greater secret somewhere within.

As he walked about the room, scanning the five-hundred-year-old religious artifacts, the intricately detailed wall painting of ancient Constantinople, the exquisitely tiled artwork upon the rear wall, he found no safe, no chamber. The ground was of solid rock, the walls of granite. It was a sanctuary carved from the earth. Each altar was of solid stone, the pews and chairs of cypress, the carpets of tightly woven wool, the organic materials standing true for half a millennium.

Michael stared at the rear wall, at the beauty of the mosaic tiles that covered a large section of the back of the chapel. There were three images, pictures rendered in stunning detail. The first was of lush gardens, centered on two large fruit trees, their green leaves seeming alive within the ceramic design. Around the trees, beyond the garden, were cities, thriving metropolises of the past. There were no cars, no trains,
but there were three-masted ships sailing waters of incredible blue, the pyramids of Egypt off in the distance, the thriving world around Jerusalem, Mecca in all its glory, Rome when it had not yet crumbled.

It was a rendering combining various holy eras of the ancient world: images from five hundred years ago, from a millennium ago, from before the time of Christ, all depicted as a giant time-spanning world of peace joined by the seas, by the ancient ships that sailed her waters.

As Michael looked up at the tile masterpiece, the blue skies above the world faded into nighttime darkness. Star-filled skies gave way to what could only be described as heaven, tranquil, serene, the supreme promise of salvation. Angels mingled with men and women. Clouds floated among the masses, a peaceful gathering of the best of humanity, a depiction of all races, all creeds and colors. Priests and imams, rabbis and monks. Muslims, Christians, and Hindus; Buddhists, Jews and Celts, all gathered as if in supreme understanding of eternity. And it filled Michael with optimism. He didn’t know why, but the fact that this artist’s rendering, this mosaic from history’s past, depicted what so many thought of as an ideal filled him with hope.

But it all washed away as Michael’s eyes were drawn to the third and final piece of art. It sat below the rendering of man, beneath the cities and people. It seeped out of the darkened earth into an utter manifestation of hell, a world of singular evil, a land filled with people overcome by suffering, weeping, holding the dead. Dark creatures lurked in shadows, their yellow eyes peering from the darkness. A world of blazing heat and bone-cracking cold, of torment and anguish. Bodies broken, limbs torn away and cast about, cities aflame, rivers filled with corpses floating upon the blood of the dead. Giants holding swords dripping with crimson, severed heads attached to their belts.

Michael was overcome by nausea; he keeled over, his hands upon his knees, swallowing, trying to catch his breath. It was as if the depicted evil had suddenly invaded his mind and heart. What would drive an artist to create something of such darkness was something Michael couldn’t—wouldn’t—grasp. And the horror of it shocked him back to the moment.

It finally occurred to Michael where the chart was hidden, and it broke his heart. For what he had to do was surely an act against God, against one of man’s truly great creations, against a depiction of realms that stirred humanity’s base emotions, a work of art that truly captured man and his destiny. A work of staggering accomplishment that would never be seen by the modern world.

Michael removed a ten-inch chisel and hammer from his bag and walked to the tiled mosaic.

He laid the chisel upon the center of the wall and raised the hammer high. He closed his eyes, asked for forgiveness, and with all of his strength brought the hammer down upon the chisel and struck it hard.

The city of Jerusalem shattered, spiderweb cracks erupting up and out through the ancient worlds as if God himself were destroying mankind. The tiles fell to the floor in a glass-shattering crash. Again and again he smashed the masterpiece until its center had fallen away.

At first he thought it had been a useless gesture, a needless marring of the room, but then, as he brought his flashlight closer, he saw it. It was faint at first, an outline in black, blending with the earthen wall. It was pitch, the dark tarlike substance, waterproof and sticky, used for roofs and boats. As Michael ran his hand along the dry surface, he could hear the hollow behind the wall. He ran his chisel along the perimeter. It was a two-foot-by-two-foot section, the black organic substance forming a watertight seal. Michael made quick work of the pitch and revealed a wooden box. He pried it from its confines, removing it and placing it upon the floor. The box was made of cypress, coated in black tar, brass hinges at the rear. The lock was nothing more than ornamental, easily popping off as Michael pried at it with his chisel.

He slowly lifted the lid, his breath held tightly in his lungs. Filled with anticipation, he laid the lid back and picked up his light, shining it upon the contents. The box was dry; its waterproof seal had remained true, preserving the objects before him. Michael reached in and pulled out a handful of coins. They were of gold and silver, copper and tin. Stamped faces of sultans, of kings. There were Roman coins and Egyptian
tender. Michael reached in again and withdrew a rolled-up chart—coiled and bound, made of tanned and supple animal skin. Michael cut the cord and slowly rolled the chart out, finally exhaling.

He looked at the chart. It was large and detailed, with notes and legends upon the perimeter.

And Michael’s heart sank. This was not the second half of the Piri Reis map. This was not the map that would free KC’s sister or save Simon. It was a chart—of that there was no doubt—but not the goal of his search. It depicted cities and routes. It was of Europe and the Middle East. It was a chart that led the world to the holiest lands of the three major religions. Mecca, Jerusalem, and Bethlehem; Medina, Mount Sinai, and Hebron. It was a chart that pointed man to the places where one could be closest to God, to Allah, Yahweh on earth.

Michael sat back, overwhelmed at his failure. He had pieced it together from Simon’s notes and KC’s research. He hated relying upon others, and his stubborn way of solitary action and responsibility had never failed him, but now, without the time to confirm information himself…

Michael refocused; he wasn’t about to give up.

He looked up at the tile masterpiece above and without hesitation jammed his chisel into heaven. The tiles of angels and saints fell away. Where the star-filled realm once stood was now nothing more than rock face and a recess covered in pitch, where a second box rested.

Michael knelt over the second case, wasting no time in reverie, and smashed off the lock. He lifted the lid and gazed in. But this time it was worse. He stared at books and scrolls. He removed an ornate Bible, meticulously created before the age of printing presses. Its leather cover was adorned in rubies and sapphires, its Latin pages illustrated with painstaking detail. There was a Koran, exquisite in design, its Arabic wording elegant, and a giant scroll, a Torah, wrapped in cloth and sealed with golden end caps.

As Michael looked upon them, confusion skittered in his mind. He could not grasp the reason for hiding away these Holy Scriptures; while exquisite and surely of great value, they were far from unique. And the
chart, upon first review, didn’t appear to be earth-shattering in detail, didn’t seem to reveal any great secret.

But then KC’s words echoed in his mind.
Maps. Guides
. The holy books were the maps to heaven, the charts that, if explicitly followed, would lead one to one’s final reward, to redemption, to everlasting life. They truly were maps. Just as the chart in the first box led to earthly destinations, these charts would lead to the celestial.

Michael suddenly understood the meaning of the artwork upon the walls, the reverential depiction of the worlds found through the use of the guideposts within.

And then it hit him. A sense of pain and dread such as he had never felt in his life. There was no doubt where the western half of the Piri Reis map was hidden.

Michael looked at the final depiction, the final pieces of tiled art that sat beneath heaven and earth. He longed for the images he had just destroyed, wishing for their holy depictions to wash away the nightmare that would be before him for months to come as he stared at the depiction of hell.

KC watched as the two guards walked lazily by on their half-hour rounds, oblivious to her presence and intentions. She counted off a minute and emerged from the shadows of the Hagia Sophia wall, pulled two small black boxes from her bag, and laid them opposite each other across the main sidewalk. She pushed a small button on top and lined them up until the high-pitched beep sounded in her ear, confirming that the unimpeded laser beam was aligned. She hit the button again, resuming the silence, activating its invisible barrier.

She sprinted to the circular building containing the tomb of Selim II and placed another alarm pair twenty-five feet from the door. As she turned the box, the alarm sounded in her ear, this one higher-pitched and louder, more dire. It would provide her with only seconds’ warning, but a short warning was far better than a sudden surprise.

As ancient as the structure before her was, the lock was as modern as they came. Though it was covered in a worn green patina, giving the impression of age-old lead, the inner workings of the Caprice wheel ball lock were mechanically advanced. Known as a pickless lock, advertised as unbreakable, it was all the rage, but as with any security software, nothing was impenetrable. KC slipped the flat mirrored key into the narrow cylinder; she held it in place as she pushed the rear button, which activated the polished sensors, which in turn fed back the laser
release. Her key had cost her fifteen thousand euros in Germany and she wasn’t very happy when she learned that Michael had bought this particular one for $3,500 for his security business back in New York.

The key turned easily and the lock slipped open with a thunking echo.

She quickly slipped through the door, closing it behind her, and reset the lock. She laid the blue duffel and her bag on the ground, turned, and stared at the elaborate room. Tiled and graced with beauty, it was an elaborate tribute to a man whose accomplishments paled next to those of his father and grandfather; they paled, too, next to those of his grand vizier, whose accomplishments he so often took credit for; they were nothing compared to those of the wife who was buried at his side, who rose in prominence as their son Murad III ascended to the vacated throne of his father. But he was a sultan, the ruler of the largest empire in the world. And this room was his tribute.

KC stood before the coffins, each covered in a green shroud. There were forty-four in all, and while the thought of the sultan’s and his wives’ remains didn’t disturb her, the small child-sized coffins did. Children, brothers and sisters and sons, murdered to prevent their growing up to steal the throne. Murder in the name of stability of the empire, a practice more common in the Middle Ages and ancient times than anyone was willing to admit. Paranoia was common among kings and sultans, pharaohs and emperors, all living with a wary eye for those around them. For once you were at the top, there was nowhere to go but the grave. There were no elections, no orderly presidential transitions of power; there was only succession through death.

But Selim II was felled not by sons or brothers, not by his viziers or admirals, nor by poison, sword, or dagger. It was by accident; his sultanship was felled by a fall. He succumbed to injuries sustained from an undignified drunken tumble in the royal baths in 1572.

It took four years to construct his tomb, a seemingly long time in an age when a king or sultan could marshal thousands to construct a palace in three years. The tomb was designed by the great architect Mimar Sinan, who designed over three hundred of the Ottoman Empire’s
greatest structures, including the Topkapi Harem, Selimiye Mosque in Edirne, and the Suleiman Mosque in Istanbul. Living to the age of ninety-nine and a close friend of the grand vizier, Mehmet Pasha, he was considered one of history’s greatest architects and was often compared to Michelangelo.

The bodies and coffins were moved in under cover of darkness and the tomb was finally opened in 1577 for the viewing public.

KC slipped off the green coffin shroud to reveal an ornate sarcophagus made of stone and carved cypress. Its cover depicted Selim II dressed in a large turban and royal robes, standing upon a great mountain, his kingdom spread before him, his subjects prostrate in worship.

KC worked her way around the tomb, examining it, assessing it. It was truly fit for a king. Set upon granite block footings, it was the work of craftsmen who must have toiled months to create it. She looked about the room, wondering if such tribute, such craftsmanship, was afforded his wife and children, whether he even cared about those who surrounded him in the afterlife.

Growing curious, she removed the green coffin shroud from the tomb immediately to the left, the tomb of his first wife, Nur Bana, who died eight years after her husband. It was much simpler, made of carved cypress, its top adorned with the image of her sultan, an image of Topkapi and Hagia Sophia.