The Thieves of Darkness (33 page)

It had only been five seconds, but his lungs were already burning. Between the struggle above and the struggle below, Michael knew he had less than thirty seconds before his air ran out, before he involuntarily gasped and flooded his lungs with death.

Michael reached for his belt, thankfully finding the screwdriver,
and clutched it tightly in his right hand. He pulled it from its holster and reached up toward the handcuffs. He closed his visionless eyes and tried to imagine the dexterous maneuver he had performed so many times in daylight without the encumbrances of water and pressure, of sightlessness and currents. Michael’s chest was on fire, his wrist bloodied and numb; desperation was taking over as he struggled to keep his hand calm and accurate.

He quickly guided the thin blade up his arm to his wrist and jammed the screwdriver in the edge of the cuff’s arm slot, only to miss, the screwdriver’s blade digging into his palm. Michael focused, ignoring the raging current, ignoring the pain in his hand, within his lungs. He focused his mind and thought of nothing but the lock. He tried again, slowly, like threading a needle, and this time the slim blade slid in, pressing the catch away from the teeth, releasing his wrist.

And with the grate no longer attached, with his body free of the anchor, Michael was violently sucked into the tube with the ever-escaping raging waters.

He was banged against the walls of the forty-foot-long pipe, his head and body careening off the sides before he was finally squirted out into the pool of the cistern’s anteroom. Michael broke the surface, his mouth wide as he gulped the misty air. He gasped as the adrenaline shakes took over, quavering his hands, chilling him, as the blood slowly returned to his skin.

Michael floated on his back, his eyes closed, regaining composure, his mind clearing, though the pain throughout his body fought to distract him. Iblis had gotten the better of him. Michael hated himself for thinking he was in competition with the guy, that it was a race to get to the chart, when all the while Iblis had been waiting for Michael to do the heavy lifting, and then simply snatched it from Michael’s hands.

He didn’t know what he would tell KC, but he had time. With the access to the harem flooded, his ropes cut away, he would have to find another way out. At least she was safe, he hoped; he imagined she was already out of harm’s way in the safety of Busch’s protection.

Michael finally opened his eyes, looking around, surprised that his
glow sticks still carried light. As much as he wanted to get out, he was glad to see the room; it meant that he was still alive.

And then he heard a sound, echoing off the walls, slogging toward him. Michael sprang to his feet in the neck-deep water and came face to face with KC.

Both were soaked; exhaustion filled their faces.

“You okay?” KC whispered, her voice beyond tired.

“Yeah.” Michael nodded.

They stared uncomfortably at each other as a host of emotions ran through their eyes. Both beaten and fatigued, neither reached for the other, the lack of physical contact magnifying the uncomfortable air. The silent moment dragging on until Michael finally snapped back.

“What the hell are you doing down here?” Michael tried to contain his confusion. “You’re supposed to be with Busch.”

“I came to help you,” KC said.

“I don’t need help.” His words were as much a challenge as a rebuttal.

“Really?” KC said in disbelief, lost for words as she looked at Michael’s battered and soaked body.

“I was doing just fine before you got here.”

“Yeah,” she said facetiously.

“Did you get the rod?” Michael asked.

KC turned and removed the tube strapped to her back, holding it out as a prize. “Did you find the map?” KC fired back.

“Yeah…” Michael began to say, but didn’t continue.

“In there?” KC pointed at the broken wall leading to the chapel.

Michael nodded.

“Well…” she looked at Michael’s body, seeing no evidence of the chart.

“Well…” Michael said defensively as he unconsciously ran his hand over the neoprene bag at his hip.

KC’s eyes grew stern. “Iblis?”

“Don’t worry.”

“Don’t worry?” KC turned her back on Michael and looked at the lost world around them, the water rushing in from the pipe, stirring up
a frenzy. “How the hell are we going to get my sister back now that he knows we tried to steal the chart?”

“Relax—”

“Don’t tell me to relax,” KC said, her back still turned.

“Iblis may have the chart, but what he really needs”—Michael pointed at KC’s leather tube as he lowered his voice to a calming tone—“is in your hand. He won’t risk your not turning it over. Cindy and Simon are fine as long as you hold on to that.”

KC stood there without acknowledging Michael, looking at the leather tube in her hand that held her sister’s and Simon’s fate.

“First things first,” Michael continued, trying to keep them on track. “We’ve got to get topside.”

KC turned back toward Michael. “I’ve got that covered.”

“Oh, really?” Michael tried to temper his skepticism with a smile.

“Really,” KC said, as if that were obvious. “I’ll have us out of here in no time.”

Michael grinned as they resumed the silent stare that they had greeted each other with.

“Of course,” Michael finally said as he turned away in disbelief and headed to the far wall and the exit pipe. Without another word, and half ignoring KC, he floated on his back, the current carrying him toward the five-foot tube that was now acting as a drain.

KC restrapped the leather tube to her back and followed, trying to contain her anger.

As Michael approached the pipe, he took a deep breath and went under, quickly getting sucked through the tube feet-first, his hands held out, deflecting him from hitting the sides. He was spat out, ejected into the main cistern. The world was pitch black; no glow sticks left glowing in here. Michael reached into his bag and pulled out his flashlight, its beam exploding off the walls as he flicked it on. He turned around, shining the light in the direction of the wall to see KC come rocketing out like a log from a flume, rubbing the water and her blonde hair from her face as she surfaced. Michael couldn’t help smiling, thinking of her love of extreme sports, wondering if this qualified.

She stood and pulled out her flashlight, flipping it on, and saw his smile.

“What?” KC spat out. There was no question his smile pissed her off.

“Nothing,” Michael said in amusement. He and KC began sloshing through the shoulder-deep water in the cistern, both shivering in the chilled waters.

“You know, before we walk out the front gate,” Michael said without stopping or even turning to KC, “we need to actually get out of here.”

There was no response from KC as they continued.

Michael finally stopped and turned around, facing her.

“What?” KC said, exhausted by the verbal sparring.

Michael’s body language asked the question.

Without a word KC shone her light up and down along the hose that ran from the water and disappeared into the ceiling.

“Okay, well, halfway home.” Michael nodded in surrender and smiled.

B
USCH SAT IN
the limo, apprehensive. The last of the VIP partygoers had long since moved inside, the paparazzi departed to get a drink and regroup so they would be energized and lying in wait for the inevitable drunken stumble of the society ne’er-do-wells.

The world had seemed to calm a bit, a hush falling over the ancient section of the city as the buzz and revelry of the party disappeared behind the walls of Topkapi, when suddenly a host of police cars came careening in, skidding to a stop at the entrance. Eight cars disgorged a team of thirty cops, guns drawn, moving in various directions but with total purpose. Teams of four ran east and west along the perimeter as four teams ran into the palace grounds.

Busch’s heart pounded in his chest. He knew they could be there for only one reason.

M
ICHAEL AROSE OUT
of the hole, climbing hand over hand up the rubber hose. He crested the lip and rolled onto his back, catching his
breath. He cast his eyes up and behind him to see KC crouched in the shadow of the backhoe, quietly staring at him.

“Don’t tell me that wiped you out…” KC whispered, her words half-serious.

“Don’t start.” Michael hopped to his feet and looked about the darkened courtyard. The party noise—music sounding a lot like U2 competing with the idle chatter and laughter—washed over the Gates of Felicity, which acted as a partition between the second and third courtyards. This was one of the true inner sanctums of the sultan and his family back during the height of the Ottoman Empire, a sanctuary seen only by the sultan’s family and most trusted associates. To their left were the treasury and the Costume Museum, with the white marble Library of Ahmet III in front of them. The two guards still stood within the Gates of Felicity, their backs to the third courtyard, unaware of the thieves seventy yards behind them.

As Michael and KC scanned the grounds, listening, feeling the air, they found there were no other guards or cops, but they both knew that wouldn’t last.

“So,” KC whispered as she headed toward the northeast marble wall where a large black iron door sat at the end of a walkway. She looked over her shoulder at Michael. “Time’s ticking.”

“Where’re you going?” Michael pointed at the wall behind them. “We go over the wall out the back.”

“We go through the harem,” KC retorted.

“We’ll get lost in the harem.”

“We’ll get caught going over the wall. Even if we get over and make it to the streets, look at us. If some cop sees us, we’re done.”

Michael looked down and couldn’t argue: The two of them were a waterlogged mess. “And I suppose there is a change of clothes inside the harem?”

KC tilted her head and smiled.

With sudden agreement, Michael walked past KC along the cobblestone path toward the iron door.

Without missing a step, KC reached into her bag, withdrew a leather billfold, and opened it up.

“Nice,” Michael said as he looked over her shoulder at a set of thin angled black tools, each no longer than a pencil. “Custom?”

KC nodded. Her lockpicking tools were twelve years old and, ironically, had been a gift from Iblis—not that she would acknowledge that fact. They arrived at the large black door; Michael bent and already had a pick in the door lock. “I make mine myself.”

KC shook her head as she put the billfold back in her purse.

Michael briefly stopped, unsealed his black dive bag, reached in, pulled out two rectangular slabs the size of a pocketknife, and passed them to KC. Without a word, and as if they had practiced, she leaned her ear to the door and ran the two magnets along the top of the jamb, stopping as she heard a slight click and releasing the first magnet with a pop as it adhered to the metal frame. She continued tracing the door, running the second magnet down the side of the jamb until she heard the second sensor of the alarm react. She released the magnet to the jamb, its attractive properties holding back the alarm contact on the other side. It was one of the simplest of feats: a fifty-cent magnet overriding a thousand-dollar contact switch.

Michael turned back to the door and, with a dexterous hand, pushed the small internal pins of the cylinder’s mechanics back, releasing the lock, and opened the door.

The two slipped into a darkened hallway. To their right were the apartments and the Courtyard of Favorites, those who held the sultan’s interest above all, some of whom bore sons and would go on to become his wives.

As Michael and KC headed deeper into the harem of the palace, they found themselves in a virtual Ottoman labyrinth; countless hallways, hundreds of rooms. None of the arched halls looked familiar from their tour the previous day.

They passed the Imperial Hall, the maroon, blue, and gold banded space where the sultan sat upon his throne and watched all forms of
entertainment, be it readers of verse, European actors, Far Eastern magicians, Eastern minstrels, Indian snake charmers, or African magistrates with lions, zebras, and other exotic animals.

Michael and KC raced past stairs, along blue-tiled hallways, past columned arches of white and maroon marble, none of which had been on the tour schedule. They picked up speed as they ran through the columned Courtyard of the Black Eunuchs and finally arrived at an open hallway whose small windows looked out upon the palace grounds and the evening’s party.

They both looked out at the large reception.

“We can’t go out there looking like this,” Michael said, alluding to their wet condition.

KC scooted around the corner and pulled her blue dress from her bag. Mercifully, it had stayed dry in the watertight seal of her bag, but the wrinkles were another matter. She smoothed them out as best she could and slipped it on. She brushed out her long blonde hair, tied it back, and slipped on her Prada heels. In a matter of moments she transformed herself from tomboy back to model. She hoped the wrinkles were not as obvious in the nighttime lighting and that the crowd was on their third drink, with fading vision.

Michael couldn’t help his heart skipping a beat as he saw her.

KC handed Michael her purse and the leather tube containing the sultan’s rod.

“Where are you going?”

“To get you a suit.”

KC slid through the harem door and stepped into the shadows of the Divan, the overhang and large columns serving to blot out the party lights, masking her entrance from the restricted door. She walked out from under the arch, carrying herself with confidence, and mingled with the crowd. The party was huge: 750 strong. A large dais and greeting area was set in front of the Gates of Felicity just as it was five hundred years ago when the sultan would sit upon his throne greeting the masses. A bandstand was set off to the side by the kitchens, while a large tent covered over one hundred tables, all
bedecked in white linens and fresh blue irises. Large royal blue bags sat on each table, filled with party favors and donated marketing gifts. KC casually walked to the tent and picked one up; she didn’t know what the canvas bag contained, but thought its contents might come in handy.