The Thieves of Darkness (34 page)

She turned and stared at the crowd: the power elite, easily spotted by their barely out-of-teenhood arm charms; the Armani-suited businessmen of all nationalities working the crowds, seeking deals, financing, or companionship while the politicians pressed flesh and wore never-diminishing smiles. It actually made her skin crawl as she looked around, wondering if anyone remembered what this party was about, wondering if anyone actually understood what a milestone it was for a predominantly Islamic country to be joining the European Union, an organization of predominantly Christian countries. It was truly a bridge between two worlds.

She looked toward the main gate and saw two policemen talking with the guards. As she scanned the grounds, she spotted more guards and cops paired up, milling about.

And then KC could feel the eyes upon her: not the guards, not the cops. He stood among a group of middle-aged men, all with drinks in hand, leering like panthers in the bush waiting to pounce.

KC slowly turned and caught the man’s eye. He was perfect, five-eleven, broad-shouldered, impeccably dressed in a dark Zegna suit. The Hermès tie matched perfectly with his European Union blue pocket square. She judged his shoe size at around an eleven. She couldn’t be sure, but hoped they weren’t too small. She glanced at his face and smiled before demurely averting her eyes. It was her favorite baited trap, one that worked easily on men: Show even the slightest bit of interest and they think that you want to take them right there on the spot, never imagining any other intention.

The man disengaged from his friends and headed her way, grabbing two flutes of champagne from a passing waiter. His hair was black as night, his brown eyes hidden under heavy, dark lids. He looked more terrorist than businessman in his elegantly expensive attire, but she
knew better than most that the clothes people wrap themselves in can’t hide one’s true heart for long.

The man smiled on approach and handed her the glass.

“Good evening.”

KC smiled in response.

“Jean Frank Gittere,” he introduced himself as he chinked their glasses.

“Katherine,” KC said, shielding her eyes.

“Are you here alone?”

KC nodded.

“What a coincidence.”

KC couldn’t help glancing at the wedding band on his finger.

“Have you eaten?” Jean Frank asked.

“Too much, I’m afraid. I’ll need to run extra far tomorrow.” KC softly ran her hand over her head, her movements slow, seductive.

Jean Frank smiled, entranced. He finally looked toward the band that was just starting another set. People rose from their chairs, converging on the dance floor. “May I ask you to dance?”

“Thank you.” KC smiled. “But no. I’m a terrible dancer, I don’t want you to get the wrong impression of me. Perhaps a walk?”

Jean Frank smiled in triumph as he pointed out his elbow. KC took it and they headed toward the Divan.

“Why are you here this evening?” KC asked.

“My company works closely with all of the member states; we’re a large contributor to this evening’s festivities.”

“What do you do?” KC feigned interest. They continued, slowly walking arm in arm under the overhang of the Divan, the shadows concealing his eyes as he glanced at KC’s low-cut dress. They finally stopped right in front of the entrance to the harem.

“Import-export.”

“Goods or people?” KC joked. She stopped and turned to him, looking up into his eyes, extending an invitation.

“Wine, actually,” he stuttered briefly, lost in her eyes. “Only the finest.”

“I love wine,” KC said softly, causing him to lean in to hear her.

“And you?” he whispered back. “What brings you here?”

“I’m here for my sister,” KC said in all honesty.

Jean Frank never got the chance to ask about her sister, as Michael grabbed him from behind, his forearm wrapping around his throat, cutting off the air and the blood flow to his brain. Michael dragged him through the open door into the harem, kicking and clawing, reaching back toward Michael to no avail. He was unconscious in less than ten seconds.

Michael dragged him toward a window and made sure the coast was clear.

“You love wine?” Michael said as KC closed the door.

“Give me a break, I caught him, didn’t I?”

“You looked like you were enjoying yourself,” Michael said, half in jest, half out of jealousy.

“Maybe I was.” KC leaned down and unlaced the man’s shoes.

Michael stripped Jean Frank of his clothes and quickly put them on. He dressed the unconscious man in his wet clothes and used his belt and KC’s wet shirt to truss him up.

“He’ll have some explaining to do to his wife.” KC turned to Michael, seeing him looking out onto the party.

“There are a lot of cops,” Michael said to himself. “What’s in the bag of tricks?”

KC dumped out the blue canvas party favor bag finding magazines, perfume, posters.

“I meant your other bag,” Michael said, pointing at KC’s purse on the ground.

“Besides makeup? A knife, cell phone, flashlight—not much in the help department. You?”

Michael opened his neoprene dive bag. “Detonation cord, several electronic blasting caps, transmitter, flashlight, my cell phone and radio, hammer and chisel, lost my crowbar and screwdriver in the cauldron of hell, but I still have my knife.” Michael looked out at the party.

“With Iblis tipping off the police, everyone’s radar is going to be up. We’re going to need some major distraction to get out of here.”

“Hey.” Michael could see the stress in KC’s eyes. “We’re going to get Cindy and Simon back.”

“But Iblis has the chart. What if he forgoes this?” KC held up the tube containing the rod.

“He won’t.”

“How do you know?”

Michael thought on the letter from Bora Celil, Kemal Reis’s trusted captain, of his words of warning and mystery not only about where the chart led but about the rod itself. There was no question they were linked. Venue needed both the chart and the rod to achieve whatever his goal might be. There was no question: Iblis would not leave Istanbul without the rod KC held in her hands.

“I just know,” Michael finally said. “And don’t worry about the chart, I’ll get it back.” Michael pointed to the leather tube containing the rod. “You don’t let go of that, okay?”

“How are you going to get the chart back?”

“You just have to trust me,” Michael said.

“I’m sorry,” KC finally said, her face relaxing as she considered his words. “I’m sorry I got you into all this.”

“You kidding? What else would I be doing on a Saturday night?”

KC smiled, glad that Michael had a sense of humor in the face of danger.

“Not to put too much pressure on you, but whatever we do, don’t let that rod out of your sight.”

Michael pulled a strand of detonation cord and cut it into five foot-long pieces. He inserted an electronic blasting cap in each and tucked them into the blue bag.

“Michael, people will get hurt.”

“KC,” Michael tilted his head. “I’m not going to blow anyone up. Have a little faith.”

Michael checked the knife that was strapped to his ankle, assuring himself of its presence. He straightened his tie and checked the
pockets, finding a wallet. He pulled it out and tossed it on the man’s unconscious form. Michael pulled out the small detonation transmitter from his bag, checked the kill and safety switches, and slipped it into his front pocket.

He opened his neoprene bag and took out his cell phone and the radio, tucking them into his pocket. He grabbed the spare blasting caps, hammer, and chisel, laying them on the floor next to the unconscious Jean Frank, and strung the black dive satchel over the man’s shoulder.

KC picked up the blue canvas bag and put the leather tube containing the rod inside; though it protruded, it wouldn’t attract the attention it would if it were to ride against her backless dress. She held the blue bag open to Michael, who picked up the magazines and posters and laid them atop their illicit party favors, the bag looking pretty typical for someone who was leaving a function. KC threw her purse over her shoulder, turned, and smiled.

Michael opened the harem door, allowing the music to flow in. He turned back to KC and held out his hand. “Would you like to dance?”

B
USCH SAT IN
the limo, waiting. He always felt as if he was waiting. Waiting for Michael, waiting for his wife, Jeannie, waiting for his kids. And usually he didn’t mind the wait. But since he couldn’t get the Yankees–Red Sox game on the radio—he couldn’t find any sports radio here in Istanbul, for that matter—his waiting became interminable. Michael went into Topkapi, Iblis went in, KC went in, and he had no idea what was going on. And now the police had poured into the party, no doubt in search of his friends.

His cell phone rang and he quickly answered. “It’s about time.”

“Good to hear your voice, too,” Michael said.

“Do you mind telling me what you’re doing?”

“We’re dancing.”

“Dancing?” Busch yelled. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“Listen, we’re coming out in a few minutes along with seven hundred of our closest friends. Pop open the trunk so we can spot you.”

“Shit, you’re not going to cause a problem, are you?”

“You know me better than that. But look,” Michael said, “if you see some cops on our tail, just ignore us, and get the hell out.”

“That makes me feel so good,” Busch said. “Need I remind you that I was once chasing people like you as opposed to running with people like you?”

“Paul…?”

“I’m not leaving you,” Busch said defiantly.

“And you’re not joining us in jail, either.”

The evening was winding down; the band, with loosened ties and unbuttoned shirts, was in its third set. The early birds were beginning their good-byes with kisses and feigned laughter. The night had gone off without incident. And while the police had come in with reports of a possible robbery, the suspicions were not confirmed. The treasury had been checked, the exhibition of miniatures and manuscripts inspected. Everything of value was accounted for. The police had begun to suspect that the call had come from a disgruntled employee looking to disrupt one of Turkey’s finest moments. Well, that didn’t happen; the night was a true success.

The guards had begun to relax; while posts were still manned, food and nonalcoholic drink was being passed around. All shared in the celebration of a new era, an era that had begun on an evening of secure merriment.

Michael and KC danced under an enormous blue tent. It housed the ten-piece band that played upon a riser, a sea of tables for dining, and a long wooden dance floor that was filled with the nostalgic, inebriated, and horny, each with a different goal for the evening’s outcome.

Michael led KC toward the central tent pole, which climbed thirty feet up, supporting the center of the canvas like a circus tent. Four
inches in diameter, it looked like a small white tree, ringed in small potted tulips and wildflowers.

Michael reached into the blue bag that hung from KC’s shoulder and palmed a small piece of detonation cord. He crouched, feigning tying his shoe, and as KC stood cover, he quickly looped the cord about the base of the pole where, behind the potted plants, it was obstructed from common view.

Michael stood, kissed KC, took her by the hand, and led her toward the bar, looking every bit like a married couple.

The bar was under a second tent set off to the side. More than half the bottles were empty, hardly any ice remained, and but for a single elderly gentleman, no one was there but the bartender. KC bellied up and ordered herself a Diet Coke, engaging both men in conversation as Michael stepped to the side toward a white tent pole along the perimeter. He held the blue gift bag and placed it on the ground, masking his quickly placed explosive.

Michael returned to the bar, smiled at the elderly man, and took KC by the arm. They walked about the festivities, their heads turning, looking, getting the layout of the party grounds memorized. Working their way around the open, grassy courtyard, they placed the small explosive charges in strategic locations. No one paid Michael any mind as he tucked the three remaining pieces of detonation cord in unobtrusive, out-of-the-way spots. KC was the perfect distraction, all eyes drawn to her beauty as they ignored her escort, who seemed to busy himself with his shoes and bags.

While KC was the perfect distraction, she was also impossible to miss. Yasim, the head guard whom she had confronted when she forced her way into the party, caught her eye. KC tried to avert her glance but it was too late.

The officer approached them, carrying a can of soda and a piece of cake. He wore a disarming smile, much different from his stern appearance when she had arrived. “Hello again.”

“Hello,” KC said, taking hold of Michael’s hand as she hoisted the blue bag onto her shoulder.

“Your presentation went smoothly, I trust?”

“Very well.” KC nodded and smiled.

“I’m glad.” Yasim took a bite of cake as one of his guards arrived at his side. Yasim nodded to KC. “Enjoy your evening.”

But as he turned to leave, his eyes caught the tube protruding from KC’s blue bag. He stopped and turned back. “They did not wish to keep its container?”

“No.” KC smiled her usual disarming smile. “It was just used to transport it.”

Yasim’s cordial demeanor dissolved. “Do you mind opening it?”

KC tilted her head to the side in question.

“I’m sorry, but we received a report of a robbery, yet we have found nothing stolen. I’m sure you understand.” Yasim turned his eyes to Michael. “I don’t recall you coming in.”

Michael laughed as he looked around at the enormous crowd. “You remember 750 people?”

Yasim remained silent as he placed his cake and soda on an adjacent table.

“I arrived at eight-thirty,” Michael said defensively. “Michael Paulson, guest of Tram Industries.”

“Of course.” Yasim nodded. “You won’t mind me seeing your ID, then, Mr. Paulson.” He turned back to KC and pointed at the tube. “May I?”

Yasim removed his radio from his belt.

Two police in the distance took note of Yasim’s body language as he picked up his radio and began to wander over, their pace growing swifter the closer they got.