The Thieves of Darkness (7 page)

“I’ve known her for years,” Simon continued. “She is the finest of people, Michael. She puts everyone before herself and has experienced much pain; she’s alone in the world. She needs to stop for once, put herself first. So I sent her to you; you guys are more similar than you realize.”

“What?” Michael shook his head in doubt. “That’s ridiculous.”

Busch turned toward them. “You’re just pissed.”

“Damn right, I’m pissed.”

“You’re pissed because she didn’t tell you she was a thief; you’re pissed because she hid things from you. Kind of like you did from Mary when she was alive.” Busch bowed his head as he offered the admonition. “You never told your wife what you really did for a living until after you were married. And, by the way, when you and KC spent your wonderful month together, at what point did you tell her you were once—or should I say still are—a thief? You’re just hating yourself.” Busch laughed.

Michael turned to Simon, who tilted his head in agreement.

“You guys are so full of shit,” Michael said.

“Oh, quit being pissed at the world,” Busch shot back, ribbing his friend. “You’re going to let a little thing like this get in the way?”

“What?” Michael tried to hide his nervous laughter. Busch was like a moral barometer and knew Michael better than he knew himself. When Busch had been his parole officer, he had tapped into Michael’s
heart and mind and never left. They had a brotherly relationship: They could kick the shit out of each other and five minutes later be laughing over a beer about it. As much as it angered Michael, he knew Busch’s words to be true.

“She’s a female you, Michael,” Busch chuckled. “And you just can’t handle looking in the mirror.”

KC
SAT ON
the edge of the bed in the stateroom at the rear of the plane, a white towel wrapped around her showered body. Though Michael was right about the pressure, it didn’t matter, the hot water washed away the last bits of the nightmare she just escaped from.

“Hello,” the female voice said.

KC pressed the air phone to her ear to hear over the ever-present whine of the jet. “Cindy? It’s me.”

“KC?” Cindy’s voice cracked with emotion. “Are you okay? I’ve been so worried.”

“I’m fine,” KC said as she looked at a wall mirror, her tired reflection saying otherwise.

“Where are you?”

“In a plane.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“I’m on my way to Istanbul.”

“Istanbul?” There was long pause. “How did you get out of prison?”

“How did you know …?” KC asked in confusion, suddenly sitting up.

“I’ll meet you there. I’ve never been to Istanbul. We can go shopping,” Cindy said.

“Shopping?” KC said, completely thrown. “No. I’ll be back in London in a few days.”

“Why do you need to go to Istanbul so bad? Tell me what’s going on. Are you with that guy?”

“Michael?”

“Like there’s been any other guy?” Cindy shot back. “Of course, Michael.”

“I’m in his father’s jet,” KC said as she looked about the room, still coming to grips with the luxury she was traveling in.

“He has a jet?” Cindy was impressed, but the tone of her voice suddenly shifted. “KC, I’m glad you’re all right, but we need to talk.”

“Listen, I’m fine. We’ll talk when I get back.”

“No, it can’t wait. You were in prison, for God’s sake, in some desert country.”

“How did you know that?” KC demanded.

“I’ll tell you when I see you in Istanbul.” Cindy’s voice echoed with condescension. “And you can explain to me what’s going on.”

“Do not go to Istanbul,” KC shot back, growing angry.

“You’re not my mother, KC! Don’t talk to me that way.”

“You know what, Cindy?” KC could barely contain herself. Her sister knew how to rile her up better than anyone. “I’ll call you when I get back.” KC slammed down the phone.

M
ICHAEL HAD FINALLY
calmed down. He sat in a leather chair, across from Busch and Simon, sipping a Coke as he stared out the port-side window. The stars filled the night skies as they chased the ever-setting moon into the west.

He was hoping to get a little sleep in. It was more than twenty-two hundred miles to Istanbul, and with a fueling stop in Azerbaijan, the eight-plus-hour travel time would put them in Turkey just when the world was waking up. But he couldn’t sleep until he got some questions answered.

He finally turned to Simon. “Do you mind telling me what you were stealing?”

“A letter,” Simon said as he zipped up the med kit.

“So the postal police had you sentenced to death?” Busch laughed as he headed back to the galley, his head nearly skimming the ceiling. “Give me a break.”

Simon paid him no mind. “It was a letter, a very old letter.”

“And the letter said…” Busch called out.

Simon looked at Michael; they had been down this road before. It took Simon a moment to gather himself, to phrase the words. “The letter
speaks of the location of a sea chart drawn over five hundred years ago and thought lost to time.”

“You mean like a treasure map,” Busch said dramatically. “You’re kidding, right?”

“It’s nothing of the sort.” Simon shook his head, trying to quell his annoyance. “It’s a detailed chart, meticulously painted on animal hide.”

Michael was hesitant to ask. “And this chart leads to what?”

“A mountain, somewhere in Asia.”

“Of course, where all
sea
charts lead,” Busch shouted from the galley.

“Do I want to know what’s at the end of this chart?” Michael hated asking.

“Not really.” Simon shook his head as he and Michael stared at each other.

“All kidding aside, you got the letter, right?” Busch came back with a tray of food and beer, placing it on the conference table.

“There were complications,” Simon said quietly.

Busch shook his head as he took a bite of a sandwich. “Aren’t there always?”

“It was almost like they were watching, like they wanted us to steal it.”

“Right, and then sentence you to death for it.” Busch laughed.

“Who was your unlucky victim?” Michael asked.

“Philippe Venue, a wealthy businessman with the ability to make people disappear with a single phone call.”

Michael smiled. “He didn’t realize you had friends who, with a single phone call, could find you.”

“So, what happened?” Busch said as he grabbed a church key and popped the caps of three Heinekens.

“Basically, KC and I broke in, grabbed the letter from a safe, but before we could get to the ground floor…” Simon paused. “Thank God for office building mail slots. I tucked it into an envelope and mailed it to myself in Rome before they grabbed us.”

“Simon, no offense, but you got caught.” Michael reminded him.

“That’s the thing. KC’s real good at what she does, she’s never been caught. That’s what’s got her so upset. It’s not you, Michael, it’s that she thinks she almost got us killed. She thinks we were set up.”

“Were you?”

“I don’t know.”

“But you got the letter,” Michael said. “That’s good.”

“Yeah, I also scanned it. I’ve got someone translating it now. Venue had it, though, he saw it, no doubt he made copies. He knows where the chart is and I guarantee he’s sending someone for it.”

“To steal it?” Michael asked.

Simon nodded.

“That’s why he had us sent to Chiron. So he could get to the chart first.” Simon sipped his beer. He took a moment and leaned back. “We have to steal it before they do.”

“What do you mean,
we?
” Busch said as he looked at Michael.

“Relax.” Michael turned back to Simon. “So, what are you going to do?”

“I’m going to steal the chart and destroy it.”

Michael stared at Simon, a world of conversation flowing between their eyes.

“Michael?” Busch said. “Don’t even think about it.”

“You know I can’t help you,” Michael said to Simon. “Paul is right.”

“Michael, I’m not asking you to.” Simon smiled as he hoisted his beer in toast to Michael. “You saved my life … again. I wouldn’t ask you or guilt you into this.”

“But you’re going to steal it anyway?” Michael asked rhetorically.

Simon nodded. Michael understood Simon’s determination: He was relentless, and he was not stopped by adversity, police, or prisons.

“What’s at the end of this chart, Simon?” Michael asked.

Simon quietly said, “Like I said before, you don’t want to know.”

“Okay, so
where
is this chart?” Michael asked.

“Istanbul.” Simon smiled. “It’s a beautiful city.”

Busch glared at them. “I don’t like this.”

Michael turned to Busch and smiled. “We’re just dropping him off.”

“Actually, you need to drop us both off.”

Michael turned and saw KC standing there, cleaned up, her hair once again gleaming, her face as soft as he remembered. She stood in the doorway, her confidence making her appear taller than five-ten. She wore a pair of dark blue sweats and one of Michael’s white Oxfords, neither of which had ever looked as good on Michael. Michael’s initial anger at her was lost as he stared at her, all thoughts of her deception, of her being in such danger, evaporated; all he could think of was what he had felt ten days ago. She was once again who she was when they had first met, innocent and stunning.

“What do you mean ‘us’?” Busch said, seeing Michael was temporarily lost.

“You didn’t think Simon was going to do this alone, did you?”

Michael snapped back to the present and glared at her. “No way. You can’t do this.”

“Don’t feel threatened,” KC said matter-of-factly.

“Threatened?” Michael shook his head, offended.

“You’re threatened that I’m better at this than you.”

“What?” Michael couldn’t keep the laugh from escaping his lips. “I’m not the one who just got caught with her hand in the cookie jar, who needed to be rescued from a 5:00
A.M
. death sentence. I’m sorry, I can’t let you—”

“You can’t tell me what I can and can’t do,” KC shot back.

Michael’s voice grew louder. “You’re on my plane.”

“Oh, it’s your plane now; I thought it was
dad’s
.”

Michael was doing everything not to explode. He turned to Busch, whose smile at the situation only managed to stoke him further.

“I’m going to steal this chart, Michael,” KC said. “Whether you like it or not.”

Katherine Colleen Ryan was fifteen when she stole for the first time. The man was in his forties, single, and living alone in a town house off Trafalgar Square in London. She saw him for five days straight sitting alone in the same seat inside the penny arcade, leering at all of the young girls as they came and went.

It was on a Thursday afternoon that her life changed. She had arrived at the Whistle Down Arcade with two young friends, Lindsey and Bonnie. Each bought a soda, and they were heading to the pinball room to ogle boys when the man approached Bonnie. KC had become used to men staring at her. Her height and appearance were more suggestive of an eighteen-or twenty-year-old. But Bonnie looked her age, she looked innocent and pure with her short dark hair and freckles, so seeing the man approach her made the bile rise in KC’s throat. KC pulled her aside and asked her what she was doing, but Bonnie pulled away, telling her to mind her own business. KC and Lindsey watched her take a seat with the man in a corner booth and angrily left her to her stubborn foolishness.

KC and Lindsey spent the afternoon consumed with the social jockeying of teenagers: flirting, laughing, and losing themselves in the moment. When five-thirty rolled around, they found that Bonnie had left without them and each headed home.

KC arrived home to the small apartment off Kentshire, the smell
of leftover beef stew hitting her nostrils as soon as she walked through the door. She found her nine-year-old sister, Cindy, on her bed doing homework, her dinner plate on the table next to her. Both girls had learned early on to be self-sufficient. Their mother, Jennifer Ryan, had a nighttime job working for a cleaning company in Langate, mopping floors, cleaning toilets. During the day she worked as a seamstress at the local cleaner down in Piccadilly Circus. She’d had at least two jobs for as long as KC could remember, sacrificing her days and nights to support her two girls. And she had done it alone, the girls’ father having died eight years earlier.

It was one of KC’s first memories. Not like the blurry, staccato memories from when you are a child. This was one of those first memories where it is all clear: the colors, the smells, the people, and, especially, the emotions. The winter winds howled across the frost-bitten ground of St. Thomas Cemetery in Shrewsbury, England, the swirling snowflakes feeling like shards of glass as they blew against her skin. She stood holding her mother’s right hand, Cindy stood holding her left. KC was all of seven. And what she remembered most vividly was the emotion, or really, the lack of emotion. She was told funerals were sad, a time to say good-bye to loved ones, but as KC looked up at her mother, she saw no tears, no sorrow. And though she was only a young child, she knew that something was wrong.

She had seen the man only through a one-inch piece of glass when her mother visited him in prison, and those times were few and far between. He had never even laid eyes on Cindy, who was the product of a conjugal visit.

He had died two hours after escaping prison. The subject of a countywide manhunt, he had made it only a half mile before he was killed. He wasn’t shot by the police, detectives, or prison guards; he was killed by Mickey Franks, the man he escaped with, his cellmate from Far Height Prison. They argued and her father lost, a butterfly knife was shoved in his gut, and he was doused in gasoline and set ablaze. He was the victim of fate, KC’s mother said, a karmic payback for the pain he had inflicted on them.

As the years went on, KC’s mother explained that she had needed to see the man placed in the ground. She wanted to ensure that he was dead and entombed under six feet of worm-filled earth. KC saw such bitter hate, such anger in her mother’s eyes for the man that had been their father, the man who showed up for conception and not much else.