The Thieves of Darkness (38 page)

Michael held up the leather tube containing the rod. “I had put one in here yesterday just in case. I borrowed it from you this morning to change the battery.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I didn’t want to wake you.” Michael said sheepishly.

“I mean, that these had tracking devices in them.”

“Sorry, bad habit.” Michael cast his eyes down. “I have a tendency to keep things to myself. I’ve never worked with a partner before.”

“If we can’t trust each other…” KC let it hang, looking Michael in the eye. She didn’t need to finish the statement. “You put these in the tubes…” KC said, more to herself than to anyone.

“I figured Iblis would try to steal the chart from us at some point.”
Michael said as he crawled along the seat to the front of the car. “I was actually hoping he would.”

“How could you know?”

“It was more of a precaution, but a fortunate one.”

KC looked up the street at the mansion. “The chart’s in there?”

Michael nodded. “And I’m pretty sure that’s where your sister and Simon are.”

“How can we be sure?”

“We can’t, but I’ve got a way to find out.”

KC
SAT ATOP
the Kiritz Hotel, binoculars in hand, her eyes trained on the courtyard of the Blue Mosque. It was twelve-fifty, ten minutes before the Islamic midday
dhuhr
prayer, ten minutes before the time of the designated handoff of the sultan’s rod to Iblis.

The Blue Mosque couldn’t be more public; the mass of tourists would swell with the arrival of the observant Muslims. One of the greatest tourist attractions in Istanbul, it had been completed in 1609 and was named for the exquisite blue tiles that lined the walls of its vast interior. It was surrounded by six towering minarets: four fluted, narrow towers, each with three balconies, sat at the corners of the mosque, while two stood in the forecourt. The thin, pencil-like structures reaching nearly two hundred feet into the midday sky were the trademark of Istanbul as the Eiffel Tower was of Paris and the Statue of Liberty was of New York. The main structure was formed by a succession of cascading semidomes enveloping the enormous central dome that climbed into and reflected the midday sky.

This was where the palace of Grand Vizier Sokollu Mehmet Pasha once stood. Purchased and destroyed by Sultan Ahmed I to make way for his grand creation, its foundation, vaults, and undercrofts still remained beneath the historic place of worship. As KC looked upon the beautiful structure, thinking of its buried history, its rich foundation, she knew that it was here that their journey had started so many years ago. It was beneath this house of Allah that Sokollu Mehmet Pasha’s letter to his brother had originated. It was within his former palace that he
had devised his scheme to hide away the dark half of the Piri Reis map and the accompanying rod of the sultan.

KC’s eyes focused back on the present, her hands involuntarily clutching the binoculars, her blood beginning to boil, because of the image that filled her field glasses. He stood in the inner courtyard of the Blue Mosque, dressed in a white linen shirt and matching pants, looking every bit the local. He removed his sunglasses and stared across the two-hundred-yard span straight at her, right through the twin lenses into her soul.

A smile slowly creased his innocent face as he stood among the swelling congregants and tourists who passed him, all oblivious to the evil that stood not twenty yards from the holy house. He continued to stare at KC as if in challenge, as if he knew her every move. And he finally bowed: It was subtle, an Asian-style greeting, a sign of respect before battle.

KC stepped from his line of sight, picked up her phone, and dialed.

Michael answered on the first ring. “We’re a go?”

“Yeah,” KC whispered as if Iblis were standing right next to her.

“Be careful,” Michael said with genuine concern in his voice.

“You too,” KC said. “Please don’t let anything happen to my sister.”

“I’ll protect her as if she were you.”

B
USCH KNEELED ON
the backseat of the limo, watching. The barrel of the Galil sniper rifle rested on the sill of the smoked rear window. It was Michael’s, gifted to him by Simon. Michael never had the nerve or need to use it but kept it with his bag of tricks in case the need ever arose.

Busch rested the wooden stock against his shoulder, wrapped his finger about the trigger, and clutched the rifle as if it were his wife and they were ready to dance the paso doble. He rested his eye in the scope’s socket cup, the black rubber sealing out all light but for that which poured through the telescopic lens. He moved the weapon about, back and forth, getting used to the feel, scanning the streets of the upscale neighborhood. His vision came to rest on the large wrought-iron gates of Iblis’s home. Unlike many of the gates of the rich, these were not
ornamental—no fancy design, no family crest on the heavy bars, just thick double-welded iron in all its forbiddingness. Busch looked up at the three staggered video cameras, perched on tall white poles, their range of vision covering the sidewalk and gate, leaving nowhere to hide. He touched his finger against the trigger of the Galil; the laser scope responded, painting a sharp red dot on the white pole, center square to the scope’s cross hairs, and he smiled.

Busch was an excellent shot, sniper-trained for the police force, but fortunately had never had to bring the training to bear. He laughed to himself that since his retirement, Michael had caused him to draw on more of his police training than he had used in his twenty years of service.

Busch finally swept the scope back to see Michael walking up the sidewalk adjacent to the fifteen-foot stuccoed walls that wrapped Iblis’s home. He was dressed in a tan summer-weight shirt and khaki pants, a large leather bag strapped to his shoulder, which bounced against his hip with his every step. Busch moved the rifle back and forth between Michael, the iron gates, and the video cameras, truing up his site, training his eye, awakening the muscle memory that had lain dormant for so many years.

As Michael drew to within twenty-five feet of the gates, he raised his hand to his head, briefly running his fingers through his wavy brown hair, signaling Busch.

Busch twisted and craned his neck, inhaled, and, in that moment, pulled the trigger. He hit his target on the first try and held his finger against the trigger, refusing to release, as would so often be the practice.

But there was no shot, no report of the gun shattering his ears. The darkened window he aimed out of was unmarred by the shot, as there were no bullets in the gun.

It was not a mistake; he had hit his target as planned. The laser beam on the scope shone its pinpoint through the smoked rear window, 150 yards up the road, and hit the lens of the security camera dead on. He held his finger down, the invisible beam’s red dot carrying across the street and up the road unhindered, hitting its target true.

The infrared cameras were designed for both daylight and low-light viewing, providing a quality image both day and night. Therefore, the camera’s lens was highly susceptible to corruption via overexposure. The electronic video lens was overwhelmed by the rifle’s laser pointer and would provide Michael a narrow path for entry into the grounds.

M
ICHAEL WALKED ALONG
the upscale residential street. The gated mansions were scattered so as to provide the best possible views of the Bosporus and the European side of Istanbul. The area was quiet and deserted in the middle of the day. There hadn’t been a car in five minutes; not even the barking of a dog broke the stillness. Michael cinched the leather bag on his shoulder, checked the Sig Sauer pistol that rested under his shirt in the small of his back, quickly looked up and down the street, ensuring its continued vacancy, and scaled the white stucco and brick wall. He hurtled the coping stones and landed in a crouch roll within the blinded sight line of the camera.

The grounds were lush with heavy green shrubbery and bright flowers, all expertly landscaped. The house was a whitewashed Mediterranean with a barrel-tiled roof and two stories of at least five thousand square feet per floor, no doubt purchased with the fruits of Iblis’s illicit deeds.

Confirming the coast was clear, Michael dashed along the wall to a stone guardhouse that sat just inside the gates. It was small and unnoticeable, as it sat under the shade of a sycamore tree. A golf cart was parked at its side. Michael cautiously slowed and ducked under the rear window of the guardhouse; he worked his way around the small building and ran headlong into the guard.

He stood six-three, his blue blazer working overtime to contain an overdeveloped physique. But before he could react, Michael hit him square in the throat, crushing his windpipe. The man’s hands instinctively went for his neck as he doubled over, his air supply nearly cut off. Michael drove two uppercuts into the man’s face, sending him careening back into the guardhouse, where he collapsed on the hardwood
floor. Michael drew a roll of duct tape from the bag at his hip and made quick work of securing the unconscious guard.

As Michael stepped into the guard’s hut, he was greeted by a host of twenty security monitors, their blue lights providing a spectral effect in the cramped quarters. There were four lockers along the back wall; three pairs of street shoes sat on the floor in front of them. There would be at least two other guards to contend with somewhere on the grounds in addition to his friend on the floor.

The upper left monitor was awash in white light, overwhelmed by the laser scope; Busch’s aim was spot-on perfect. The other images were of both the interior and the exterior: a Romanesque pool and cabana, the gardens, the rear wall that faced the Bosporus, various living rooms and bedrooms. Each monitor was appropriately labeled, indicating its location and compass point direction.

It was the lowermost bank that caught Michael’s eye. His heart ran cold as he saw Simon lying motionless, an IV running to his arm, his head wrapped in bloody gauze.

Cindy’s image filled the next monitor. Michael couldn’t make out her face completely but her auburn hair left no doubt it was she. She sat in a large leather chair watching TV, sipping a bottle of water, fortunately appearing no worse for wear. They were both being held in a room labeled
Lower Lounge
.

Michael pulled out his cell phone and quickly dialed.

“They’re here,” Michael said as soon as KC answered. “Be careful, and whatever you do, keep your head, stick to the plan.”

Without another word, Michael hung up and dialed Busch. “Let’s go.”

The whitewashed monitor instantly refocused on an image of the wall, painting a clear picture of the sidewalk and gardens that it bisected. Within moments, Michael saw Busch jogging up toward the gate. For a six-four, 238-pound man, Busch still moved like a teenager.

Michael pushed a red circular plunger on the security console; there was a heavy click and the large iron gates parted. Busch ran through and into the gatehouse.

Busch pulled out his Sig Sauer, drew back the slide, popped out and reinserted the cartridge, and finally flipped up the safety.

“We’ve got at least two,” Michael said as he grabbed a walkie-talkie off the desk and tucked the earpiece in his ear.

“Did you all of a sudden get a gift for language?”

Michael threw him a glance.

“It’s not like you’re going to be understanding a single word they say.”

Michael’s look shut him down.

“Do you have any idea where we are going?”

“No,” Michael said as he shook his head.

“Okay, well, let’s go, then.”

They stepped out of the guardhouse and both caught sight of the golf cart. Without a word they hopped in and drove up the drive toward the house. The grounds within the high walls appeared to be around five acres, every inch of it expertly maintained. Michael drove as they headed along the front of the house and down the drive toward a six-car detached garage that sat in the back. There were three cars there: a Mercedes limousine, an Aston Martin Vantage Roadster, and a Maserati GranSport Spyder.

A man rolled out on a mechanic’s creeper from underneath the Spyder and turned a curious eye toward the two strangers in the approaching cart. The slight man, not more than 140 pounds, gradually got to his feet as the golf cart rolled to a stop. He suddenly realized he was moving too slowly and reached for the gun at his side. Busch jumped from the passenger side, instantly overwhelming the small man with his size. He ripped the gun from his hand and forced him facedown in the driveway. Michael quickly duct-taped the man, wrapping him like a Christmas present. Busch grabbed the struggling man by the waist of his pants, carried him into the garage, and stuffed him into a storage locker.

Without a word they both got back into the cart and drove around the back of the house. The view from the rear was spectacular: passing ships and yachts, sailboats with billowing white sails, the blue waters
that divided continents and connected the Black Sea with the Sea of Marmara and the rest of the world. Michael had never known that Istanbul held such beauty, such spectacular views, such utter importance to ancient world economies. Looking across the Bosporus Strait from Asia, Michael was reminded that having fixed notions about cities as urban worlds of concrete and glass was like saying New York was a one-note town.

“You would think he would have more guards,” Busch said.

“You would think—”

And the gunshot ricocheted off the front of the golf cart. Michael and Busch dove from the moving vehicle and belly-crawled to the side of the house. Michael pointed up toward the front corner of the house.

Busch rose to his knees. “Take a shot every fifteen seconds.”

“What—” Michael began to answer, but Busch was already gone, heading around the back of the house.

Another shot rang out. Michael responded, shooting up in the general direction the gunfire had come from, but he saw nothing to aim at. He hated being pinned down and hoped Busch knew what he was doing, but quickly admonished himself for doubting his friend. They had experienced more life-threatening situations than any man should. Busch had always been there for him. He might verbally abuse him for it, but Busch never hesitated when it came to protecting Michael. Michael fired off two shots at the unseen sniper, wondering where Busch was.