The Thieves of Darkness (43 page)

“Look at the bright side: Dad would be proud.” Cindy turned and stepped back into the bathroom.

KC remained on the bed, her heart pounding more than it had in the past several days, more than when she feared she would be caught in Hagia Sophia, more than when she and Michael were running for their lives. While then she had been afraid for her life, had faced the fear of losing everything she held dear, it was nothing compared to her feelings now.

She was more afraid of Cindy’s choosing to walk out of her life, to leave her. Cindy was all she had. A cell phone rang, startling KC out of her self-pity. Cindy emerged from the bathroom, walked out of the bedroom, and headed downstairs. KC could hear her answer, speaking softly. Left alone with her thoughts, KC felt suddenly alone. Cindy had already packed up physically and emotionally.

“That’s great,” Cindy said as she briskly walked back into the bedroom. “I thought I would be going back to London to fight to keep my new job; now I have to fight to get it back. Thank you for destroying not only my trust but my career.” Cindy grabbed her purse, a leather Longchamp bag, and walked back to the door, finally turning back and glaring at KC.

“Stay out of my life,” Cindy said with measured anger. And she left.

KC’s guilt was overwhelming: She had destroyed her sister’s life, her career, her trust and hope. Everything that she prayed Cindy would never face in life had happened, and it was all because of her.

KC heard the hotel door slam and walked out of the bedroom onto the landing that overlooked the great room. She looked down at the leather satchel that sat upon the dining room table. Without even being revealed to the world, it had already begun to destroy lives.

KC descended the stairs, her eyes intent on the bottle of Jack Daniel’s that Michael had left behind. She poured herself a drink and looked out the enormous windows at the minarets of Hagia Sophia tickling the sky. She thought of how peaceful and carefree one must feel standing upon the uppermost balcony, high above the city, away from life’s troubles.

She picked up the leather tube and unlaced the top; she flipped up the hasp of the internal metal tube and turned it upside down. She’d take one more glance at the object that had laid such trouble upon her shoulders, at the artifact that was so filled with secrets and had struck such fear into Simon.

But nothing poured out, nothing came forth. The tube was empty; the chart was gone.

KC’s cell rang. She plucked it from her pocket, her thoughts filled with mind-numbing confusion as she tried to figure out what had just happened. Her eyes ran over the room and back to the tube.

Her phone rang again. She looked with hope at the number, but it wasn’t Cindy calling. It wasn’t Michael. In fact, she didn’t recognize the number. She thought of letting it go to voice mail but in all her sudden confusion she flipped it open and answered.

“Hello,” she said, though her mind wasn’t focused on the caller.

“Hello, KC.”

KC’s heart suddenly went cold. The room felt as if it were rapidly closing in, constricting her lungs. Her eyes darted about nervously as the voice filled her ears. All thoughts of the missing chart vanished.

“Do you remember what I said would happen if you betrayed me?” Iblis whispered.

C
INDY WALKED THROUGH
the lobby of the Four Seasons Istanbul and straight out onto the street.

“Good afternoon, ma’am.” The doorman nodded. “May I get you a cab?”

Cindy ignored the man as if he didn’t exist while she looked up and down the Istanbul street. She spied the limo driver holding the sign that said “Ryan,” leaning against his black Mercedes just south of the hotel. With her Longchamp bag slung on her shoulder and purse in hand, she made a beeline for the car, looking every bit the society woman in her Chanel dress and Prada pumps.

“Enjoy your evening,” the doorman said.

Cindy never even bothered to acknowledge the man’s existence as she approached the driver, who held the door open. He was tall and wiry, an obvious local. She avoided eye contact and remained silent as he greeted her.

She slid into the darkened limo, the door slamming shut behind her. Three large men sat silently in the opposing seat, guns conspicuous on their laps, as the clunk of the locks echoed about the air-conditioned car.

* * *

I
BLIS STOOD WITH
a cell phone pressed to his ear. Blood ran down his arm, momentarily pooling at his elbow before dripping onto the metal floor of the police van. Each drop added to the mayhem that surrounded him.

The four guards lay in a puddle of mingled blood at his feet, all randomly twitching in various throes of death as their bodies came to terms with their souls’ abrupt departure.

In Iblis’s other hand he held a thin, four-inch metal blade. He held it like a champion clutching his hockey stick, holding it with pride after scoring the winning goal. But Iblis didn’t score goals.

With blinding speed, he had eviscerated the four policemen, quick strokes along the neck, each guard falling in turn as the crimson flood shot from their veins like water through a broken pipe, splattering the walls, the ceiling, and each other.

The thin, sharp blade had rested in an equally thin plastic sheath. A year earlier, Iblis had used his hunting knife to slice open his forearm and insert the medical plastic that he had formed into a thin knife holder under his skin. He stitched his arm up and felt as if he had wrapped himself in a security blanket as he buried his secret. The knife was tungsten, with a hair’s-breadth edge that glinted in the light of day. It was impossibly narrow and was the perfect tool for the removal of handcuffs and the picking of locked doors, and it was outstanding for rending flesh from the bone.

He had placed it under his skin in the event of emergency and had endured explaining at every security checkpoint the “metal rod” that held his ulna together, displaying the “surgical” scar that ran up his forearm as incontrovertible proof.

He had dug it out of his flesh, using his nail to burrow under the skin, digging down to the lower dermis. The pain was like nothing he had ever felt; ripping into his own skin without the benefit of anesthesia or sight proved difficult, but he actually looked upon it as an achievement. Taking pleasure in the sensation of agony it brought him, he had finally felt the tip of the plastic sheath and pulled upon it, further tearing
his skin in a ragged line. He had hoped no one in the van would hear the shredding of flesh as he extracted the bloodied sheath with a wet pop. Holding the tool he had hidden away like treasure one year earlier, he smiled at his Boy Scout–like preparation and set to work.

He had made quick work of the handcuffs, using his freed hands to carry out the execution of his unsuspecting captors. The driver had died instantly as the thin metal blade was jammed into the base of his skull, scrambling his brains. The van never moved when the light turned green.

Iblis turned to the sixth man, the boss, Detective Kudret Levant, who had taunted him so, who had chided him on his apparent guilt, not realizing for even a moment that Iblis had been set up. Iblis might have been guilty of many crimes, but the one they had arrested him for was a ruse concocted by his prodigy, KC.

Iblis was far from guilty, and he resented Levant’s accusing eyes, so he did the only thing he thought appropriate: He dug them out. Levant was trussed with his own handcuffs as his breath wheezed through the thin hole in his neck, an air slit courtesy of Iblis. Levant’s nose and mouth were stuffed and sealed with rubber surgical gloves from a med kit, barring air from passing through them. Levant would slowly die as the blood around the slit in his neck congealed, slowly scabbing over, slowly suffocating him.

The van remained in the middle of the street, ignoring the green light, its own red and blue flashing lights discouraging anyone from blowing horns or approaching the police vehicle.

Iblis clutched Levant’s cell phone tightly in his right hand, not a hint of nerves or exertion showing in his voice despite the executions he’d just carried out.

“KC,” he said slowly, “you’re going to listen very carefully to what I have to say.”

Michael emerged from the bathroom, the shower having done a world of good, bringing life back into his aching bones. He felt rejuvenated, and he realized it wasn’t just from the shower.

His heart had warmed. He felt a tingling in his stomach as he thought about KC, a feeling he hadn’t known since Mary died. And oddly, he felt no betrayal of the memory of his deceased wife. He had loved her with all his heart and she had loved him unconditionally in return. Michael knew she would be happy for him; she had insisted that he find love again, not only before her passing from cancer but in the letters she had left behind. They pleaded to his heart to reach out and find someone to complete him, to make him whole again. Michael clutched the gold wedding band he wore about his neck. He would always wear it in memorial to Mary; he would never stop loving her.

He thought himself lucky; love is the rarest of gifts, one that is seldom found even once in a lifetime. Most relationships start off as physical attraction or commonality of interests, both of which had occurred between him and KC, but true love goes far deeper than that. It is an unexplainable connection of the heart, one that endures triumph and tragedy, pain and suffering, obstacles and loss. It is something that is either present or missing—there is no “almost,” “in between,” “most of the time.” It is the unexplainable reason that some marriages
entered into after one-week courtships can last a lifetime. Its absence is why “perfect” marriages fall apart. It can’t be quantified or explained by science, religion, or philosophy. It can’t be advised on by friends or marriage counselors who can’t take their own advice. There are no rules, no how-to books, no guaranteed methods of success.

It is not defined by vows or rings or promises of tomorrow. It is simply a miracle of God, that too few are blessed to experience. And, Michael knew now, he had been twice blessed.

Michael’s cell phone broke him out of his thoughts.

“Hey,” he said as he quickly flipped open his phone.

“You guys all right?” Busch asked.

“We’re good. How’s Simon?”

“He’ll be fine. His body is in shock and he’s got about one hundred stitches in his noggin, but I venture to guess he’s seen worse.”

“Is he awake?”

“Yeah, once they pumped him full of fluids. He’s going to have to stick around here a few days while the swelling goes down.”

“He could use the rest.” Michael paused. “KC and I are on our way to relieve you.”

“Do me a favor?”

“Name it,” Michael said.

“Three cheeseburgers, fries, and a Coke?”

“Of course.” Michael laughed. “See you in a half hour.”

Michael closed his phone, threw on his clothes, and headed downstairs. He walked onto the balcony and looked out at the Bosporus and the Sea of Marmara. He tried to slow his mind, taking in the passing ships, the view of the grand city, memorizing it so that someday when someone asked about Istanbul, he could describe it beyond its underworld and back alleys.

Michael pulled out his phone again and dialed KC. The phone rang and rang but there was no answer. He still didn’t understand why women took such long showers. He didn’t bother leaving a message, closed his phone, and tucked it back into his pocket.

He took one last look at the boats upon the water that divided
Europe and Asia and headed back into his room, glad that he was looking at the world from the much-preferred perspective of a relaxed mind. He picked up the house phone, dialed room service, and asked for three hamburgers and fries for Busch, telling the concierge that he needed them as quickly as possible and that he’d pick them up from the kitchen.

He grabbed his room key and wallet from the coffee table, flipped off the lights, and walked behind the bar, where he had stashed the leather tube containing the rod.

There had been times in Michael’s life when he had felt utter surprise, but it was only on the rarest of occasions. Michael had always been a lover of chess, of strategic games in which one had to think of all possibilities, of all potentials and scenarios. He had learned to anticipate people’s actions, learned to forecast the outcomes of events as mundane as a business deal or a football game, or as complex as stealing a painting or rescuing his friend Simon from prison.

But as Michael looked down behind the bar, his heart sank. He had thought the possibility existed but had closed his mind to it. Busch had asked him how well he knew KC, but he had shut him down. Michael’s heart never lied to him, his instincts were always spot-on.

Michael closed his eyes, breathing deep, trying to still his mind and heart, which were already in a full-on race. For in the spot where he had placed the leather tube, behind the crystal and bottles of wine, there was nothing.

The sultan’s rod that KC had risked life and limb for was gone.

The hospital room was antiseptic white, the smell of bleach filling the air. Ataturk Hospital was an old building—some joked it predated the historic mosques—but its doctors were some of the best in not only Istanbul but all of Europe.

Simon lay in bed, an IV mainlining him fluids as a half-eaten sandwich sat on a meal tray by the window. His head was fully bandaged but his color was back, his face looking healthy, his slate-blue eyes full of life.

Busch sat in a cheap yellow chair that barely accommodated his large frame, his legs extended, resting on the bed.

They were both in midlaugh when Michael stepped through the door, walked in, and stood over Simon. He clutched a briefcase, his knuckles white from his overly tight grip. For a moment he looked back and forth between his two friends, before his eyes settled on Simon. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” Simon said in his Italian accent. “I’m good. Thanks. That’s twice in a week. Either you’re real good or I’m really stupid.”

“I think it’s a combination of both,” Busch interjected. “But keep in mind that the common denominator in saving both of you is always”—Busch patted his chest with both hands—“moi.”