The Thieves of Darkness (35 page)

Michael feigned exasperation as he glanced at KC. She looked at him with a soft smile, no sense of danger or fear behind her eyes as she crouched to the blue bag and wrapped her hand about the leather tube.

The two policemen arrived, their hands on their holstered pistols. They spoke in a quick burst of Turkish to Yasim, who responded while pointing at Michael.

“Sir,” the lead policeman said, “he really needs to see your identification.”

“Of course.” Michael smiled as he tucked his hand in his pocket and wrapped his fingers around the detonation transmitter.

And time seemed to slow.

KC slowly rose from her crouched position, the tube containing the rod in her hand. Her cleavage pulled the focus of the two policemen. Yasim was speaking into his radio; Michael couldn’t deny he was a man with a well-tuned intuition. The crowd noise fell away; Michael could no longer hear the band’s rendition of “We are Family.” His peripheral vision took in his surroundings: who was to his left, his right, where the openings were, where the other milling guards and police meandered.

From within his pocket, Michael thumbed back the safety on the transmitter. He looked at KC, who had risen to her full height. And as if on cue, they smiled at each other.

Real time caught up and Michael hit the switch.

T
HE FIVE CHARGES
exploded simultaneously, tearing apart the night. The three central tent poles disintegrated, the enormous blue tent collapsing upon the band, the dining tables, and the dance floor of inebriated VIPs, billowing out heaps of air as it buckled.

The tent above the bar fell on the bartender. The ice sculpture exploded in a shower of snow and mist.

Mayhem infected the crowd of 750, all reacting as one and charging for the gates. Shouts and screams filled the air as confusion reigned. There was no longer a stratification of the attendees; be they royalty, celebrity, elected official, or waiter, they were all united by the most basic of instincts as they fled to safety.

The guards at the gate were well trained. At the sight of the charging crowd they pulled back the tables and chairs, the security scanners and barriers, leaving the single exit unencumbered. Their shouts for calm were unheeded by those fearing death.

All charged, pushed, and shoved as the masses squeezed out the Gate of Salutation and raced across the wide-open Courtyard of Janissaries
toward the Imperial Gate and out to freedom. Some fell, some were trampled only to be picked up by a heroic stranger or guard who had presence of mind in a crisis.

Yasim, his partner, and the two police jumped at the explosion, instinctively ducking and covering their heads, their attention drawn to the collapsing tents and screams. Confusion ruled the moment as clouds of smoke curled up into the night sky. But as Yasim looked about, he saw no bodies, he saw no death; this attack was not an attack at all, it was a deception, an extreme distraction to draw everyone’s focus away from reality.

And when Yasim finally got his bearings, he realized the deception had worked perfectly. Michael and KC were gone.

A
T THE MOMENT
of the explosion, Michael and KC were already in a full-out sprint at the lead of the mass. And as the crowd’s shocked reaction abated, the throng grew into a full-on stampede behind them.

KC and Michael raced through the Gates of Salutation, a sea of people around and behind them, and headed across the open ground toward the Imperial Gate, their longed-for exit to freedom. But they both saw them at the same time, a phalanx of guards and police at least twenty-five strong who had raced in at the sound of the explosion. Their startled looks at the wave of people heading for them quickly shifted to an attitude of command.

Guards and police were on their radios, nodding, and then suddenly looking, scanning the crowd. Several began shouting to one another and abruptly pointed at KC, who was impossible to miss at five-foot-nine, with long blonde hair, in a blue gown.

Seeing the guards focus upon them, Michael cut right, heading for the far wall.

“I hate these things,” KC said as she kicked off her heels and broke into a barefoot dash along the wide-open lawn.

Michael grabbed the leather tube from KC’s clutched fist, threw it over his back … and they doubled their speed.

The police and guards tried to fight their way through the charging
mass of panicked partygoers. Some were knocked aside, some couldn’t get a foot forward, but five managed to pierce the crowd and ran after the two thieves.

Michael and KC made the far wall, leaping upon it and scaling the fifteen-foot façade like animals fleeing a flood. They flipped over the parapet, landing on the flat, graveled roof of the Archaeology Museum.

“Well, that was smart,” KC mocked Michael as she dug her flats out of her bag and put them on.

And as they looked back down on the Courtyard of Janissaries, they saw the five guards charging their way, guns drawn, anger filling their faces.

And without warning, the bullets erupted.

B
USCH STOOD NEXT
to the limo, his trunk open, his emergency flashers glowing as a beacon to Michael and KC. Busch had heard the explosion, and though it startled him, it held no surprise. When it came to Michael, at some point there were bound to be explosions. Though Michael preached disdain for guns and firearms, he was not prejudiced against bombs. Michael had a habit of blowing things up. He would never intentionally put someone in harm’s way, but if he could use an explosive charge to accomplish his goal he never seemed to hesitate.

Busch watched as the swarms of elegantly dressed people poured out of the Imperial Gate, flooding the streets and sidewalks. Car horns blared at the human gridlock as the panicked voices screamed and cried in relief at their survival.

Busch scanned the multitude of partygoers but saw no sign of Michael or KC. He picked up his radio and clicked the Talk button but got no response. He pulled out his cell and quickly dialed Michael, but there was no answer.

For three minutes he watched the crowd pour from the entrance, but Busch knew Michael wasn’t coming out. It wasn’t instinct that told him, it wasn’t a voice inside his head, it was experience. Michael never did anything the easy way.

The traffic was backing up fast; cars filled the streets with nowhere
to go, and the scene was dissolving into utter chaos that would take hours to disperse.

Busch slammed down the trunk lid, hopped into the driver’s seat, turned the key, hung a quick U-turn, much to the consternation of the other drivers, and headed east. He wasn’t sure where he was going, but when Michael called in a panic—there was no doubt that he would—Busch needed to be ready, he needed to be able to get to him as quickly as possible.

M
ICHAEL AND
KC raced across the two-hundred-foot-long rooftop of the Archaeology Museum, hell bent for leather. Michael was amazed at her speed; she kept up with him stride for stride as if floating above the surface.

The gunfire continued, bullets skipping along the gravel, ricocheting off the bulkheads and parapets. Three of their pursuers had made it onto the roof and were chasing them.

“They’re shooting at us!” KC yelled.

“Really?” Michael yelled back sarcastically.

“Why would cops be shooting at us? They don’t even know if we did anything.”

“They’re not cops. They’re the guards hired to protect the palace, and they failed. They think we not only stole something but blew up their heritage. We may even be terrorists in their eyes. They’re pissed.”

“Is there anyone
not
after us?” KC said through staccato breaths.

They both saw it at the same time, up ahead, the end of their proverbial road. The roof ended.

“It’s ten feet; you can jump ten feet, right?” Michael asked.

“How do you know it’s ten feet?”

“Can you make the jump or not?”

KC ran harder.

As they arrived at the parapet, neither slowed; both, in fact, picked up speed. Without breaking stride, they hit the parapet and leaped out into the nighttime air. They sailed across the ten-foot alley, neither looking down as they flew across the gap and landed upon the tarmac
and gravel roof of the Kreshien Heritage Building. They shoulder-rolled and came up in a run, ignoring the small sharp pebbles embedded in their backs.

Their pursuers were ten seconds behind when they stopped at the edge and had to restart their jump, losing precious time.

In seconds, Michael and KC were halfway across the rooftop of the Kreshien Building. “Next one’s eight feet, can you make it?”

“Just shut up,” KC said.

They hit the next parapet and flew across the eight-foot gap, this time both landing on their feet. The small flower shop building was actually half a story lower than the Kreshien. They cut across the small store’s rooftop and stopped at the edge, looking down onto an awning. Michael slipped over the side, rolled down the awning, and jumped the eight feet to the concrete sidewalk. KC landed beside him two seconds later. The gunshots stopped; there was no sound of anyone running along the rooftops, no sound of anyone chasing them.

They were in a residential neighborhood of cobblestone streets and small, stuccoed houses. Built up over the last three years, it had become a haven for the young Turkish professionals who longed to recapture some heritage living in the Sultanahmet district as in the days of the great Ottoman Empire.

“We need a car,” Michael said as they raced up the sidewalk. The street was lined with them, both sides. BMWs, Fiats, Audis—but Michael ignored them all, keeping his pace until he spotted his mark: an ’88 Buick, the blue car’s exterior clean, the wheels new.

Michael smashed the driver’s-side window; the alarm screamed in protest at him as he reached in, lifted the lock, and opened the door. KC jumped in the passenger side, closing the door behind her. The interior space offered no solace, the blaring alarm only acting as a beacon to their pursuers, who would be upon them any minute. Her hand began nervously tapping the armrest, her head spinning about.

And then she saw them, the five guards, a block away, their eyes drawn toward the car alarm. Michael tossed KC the leather tube with the rod, momentarily distracting her from her nerves.

Michael dug under the dashboard with his left hand while his right grabbed the knife from the sheath strapped to his ankle. In a fluid motion, his hands came together, a fistful of wires in one hand, the razor-sharp blade in the other. In a second-nature move, Michael quickly found and spliced the ignition wires. The car roared to life and the alarm suddenly stopped.

The guards were only fifty yards away, their guns once again drawn as they shouted Turkish commands.

Ignoring them, Michael slammed the door, threw the car into gear, and dove out into traffic. The wheels spun as they fought to grip the roadway. Cars bobbed and weaved around him as they lay on their horns.

“You couldn’t pick out a newer car?” KC said as she looked over her shoulder out the back window. Their pursuers were hauling out radios, shouting God knows what commands into them.

“Most cars after ’95 have ignition kill switches attached to their alarms; they’re dead before you even go near the wires.”

Three cop cars came squealing around the corner, fishtailing out, the large engines of the French-made Peugeots muscling the cars forward. Michael punched the accelerator, downshifting the automatic transmission of the Buick, and drove as fast as he could.

“Do you have any idea where you’re going?” KC yelled. The police were closing in, and fear filled her eyes. She had never been on the run like this; capture meant her sister’s death, Simon’s death. She gripped the satchel tighter.

Michael said nothing as he pulled out his cell phone, blindly opening it and hitting the speed dial. He flipped the speakerphone button on the Motorola, and the cell shouted out for a half ring before Busch answered. “What the hell—”

“No time. Three cops on my tail. Heading up…” Michael paused as he floored the car and whizzed past a street sign. “I’m on Atmeydani, the main drag in front of the Blue Mosque. You gotta talk me out of here.”

There was silence on the other end. “Paul?” Michael shouted.

“Two seconds, I’m waiting on the GPS.”

“We don’t have two seconds—”

“Make a right on Ozbekler, then a quick right on Katip Sinin.”

Michael spun the wheel, barely making the turn.

“How far back?” Busch yelled over the phone.

“Less than a block,” KC said, grabbing the phone from Michael.

“What are you driving?”

“Blue Buick, blowing every light and stop sign; we’re pretty hard to miss.”

“After Katip, go two blocks and hang a hard left onto Piyerloti, then a quick right onto Pertev. The street’s about as narrow as they come. Whatever you do, don’t slow down.”

KC looked back; the lead car was closing. “Turn right—”

But Michael was already turning, the wheels spinning, fighting to hold the road as they left streaks of rubber upon the pavement.

“Paul, you want to tell me what you’re doing?” Michael shouted.

“Buying you time. I’ve got no solution but I can help you get a bigger head start on whoever is trying to crawl up your ass.”

Michael spun the wheel left onto Piyerloti and quickly right onto Pertev. It was barely wider than the car, the walls whipping by, the air whooshing through the broken driver’s-side window. And the cop cars never broke formation. They were like a linear herd of horses, never straying from their path.

Michael accelerated through the intersection; he caught a glimpse of a black car flying up perpendicular to them, nearly plowing into him.

And then there was sudden screech. KC turned back to see the dark limo pull across the intersection, blocking the narrow street. The cop cars locked up their brakes, wheels smoking and crying as they all came to a sudden stop.

Michael rammed the accelerator as he bolted out onto the main thoroughfare.

As KC looked back, she could see Busch and the cops erupt out of their cars, arms flying in anger, body language screaming.