The Thieves of Darkness (9 page)

“When I was younger, I prayed for help, I prayed that God would deliver money, a job, a break. You know what I found out? All that praying brought me nothing but false hope. And then one day it dawned on me, it was much easier to steal what I wanted and pray for forgiveness.” Iblis paused. “All the praying in the world won’t stop you from getting caught. But what I can teach you, I’ll be that little answer to your prayers when you’re on the job.”

“Why?” KC asked.

“I guess to clear my conscience. I’m a troubled man, I’ve done some bad things, real bad things.” Iblis paused; KC could see regret in his light blue eyes. “Everyone, once in a while, no matter how bad we may be, we’re all capable of doing some good.”

KC’S
FIRST REAL
job, her first real heist, was from a private home. General Hobi Mobatu was an immigrant from Africa who had amassed his wealth by pillaging humanitarian aid that was meant for the innocent, for the sick and dying subjects of his land. He carried his wealth to England, living the high life in his false general’s uniform, decorated with medals awarded to and pinned on by himself.

KC had researched Mobatu’s purchases; he foolishly bought each work of art with much fanfare, massaging his ego with the accompanying publicity. She reviewed his inventory with Iblis, who helped her select
The Suffering
by Arls Goetia. Painted in 1762, it was from the
height of the artist’s career, depicting a mother holding her sick child while a celestial war raged above them.

KC waited until the evening that the general was to be given a human rights award, an award created and paid for by himself. He left his mansion at 6:00
P.M
. and by 6:01 KC had already slipped the lock on the back door and disabled the alarm. She wasted no time, heading directly for the sitting room where
The Suffering
hung on the far wall. She disabled the frame alarm, removed the painting, replacing it with a fake, and was out of there by 6:10.

The painting wasn’t reported stolen for a month, the result of Mobatu’s lack of knowledge about what he owned. The police and private investigators canvassed the area, questioning the locals about whether they had seen anything that warm spring evening. But no one recalled a thing except for one woman who remembered a tall girl in a school uniform and knapsack walking home. The elderly lady tried to continue the conversation, hoping for company, but the police wrote her off and moved on.

The papers and the art world buzzed for weeks with news of the theft, but no trace of
The Suffering
was ever found. The painting had long since been sold to a wealthy European who held it in his private collection. Iblis had shown KC how to move it, how to be paid in untraceable currency, and how to use her ill-gotten gains without raising suspicion.

The job was like her senior thesis, a culmination and demonstration of all she had learned from Iblis. He had never asked for anything in return, which always raised her suspicions, but his sincerity always managed to quell her nerves. And so, with the completion of the job, the money in the bank, he said good-bye.

KC made sure to pay him back all of the money that he had given her; she never wanted to be in his or anyone’s debt. And though he fought her on the matter, he reluctantly accepted the funds, seeing the pride and determination in her eyes.

She was his best and only student.

* * *

KC
WAS AN
expert by eighteen. She preferred art to jewels. She hit only the well insured. Her subjects were well researched and deserving of punishment: the greedy businessman who swindled his employees; the rock-and-roll singer who violated young girls and boys, paying off their parents to avoid their pressing charges; people who were always above the law, whose misdeeds never went to trial, whose consciences were unfamiliar with the words
guilt, remorse, or pity
. She seldom did more than two jobs a year, all well planned, well executed, and without a single clue left behind.

KC
MISSED OUT
on high school, sacrificing her life for her sister’s. It was the only way they could stay together; it was the only way she could make the kind of money they would need to survive. And throughout it all she felt a profound guilt for her actions. She’d never intended to be a criminal. It tore her up that no matter how hard she tried she was like the father she never knew, the father who died a criminal. Did he start out like her, eventually becoming the horrible man who left a wife and two daughters to the vagaries of life? She wondered if he had begun as innocent as she; was his heart filled with greed or was he just misguided? And what would time do to her? Would she end up like him, dying in some godforsaken prison or in an alley with a knife in her belly?

She prayed every night for forgiveness for her moral indiscretions, praying that God would understand her motivation.

Cindy never had any idea what her sister did. She was too young when it started, thinking that the money was just there, and as time rolled on KC began to fabricate another life, a fictitious tale of a consultant who worked for the European Union giving tours and consulting with the various nations.

As a result of KC’s efforts, Cindy thrived. She grew up in a loving home, excelled in school, wanted for nothing as they moved to a nice small house outside London. And when the time came, Cindy entered Oxford, KC paying her way. KC couldn’t have been prouder.

As time moved on and Cindy went off on her own at the age of
twenty-three to pursue a career in business, KC was left alone. The house was empty, she had no education, she had no boyfriend—she had sacrificed it all for her sister. She had no other career opportunity, but she had an expertise, a gift that thrilled her, all the while filling her with remorse. But she knew nothing else.

She had no regrets. She had set out to raise her sister, to keep them together, a feat that had seemed impossible at the time, but love has a way of motivating, of creating the drive necessary to prevail. KC had become a thief, an excellent thief who was but a whisper on the wind, an unimagined ghost to Scotland Yard and Interpol.

And of all the things KC was thankful for—for Cindy’s success, for the life they created, that she had never been caught—she was thankful for one thing above all: that Cindy never knew how she did it, that Cindy never found out her sister was a thief.

Everyone on the jet was asleep. Everyone except for Simon, who stared out the portside window at the eastern horizon, at the sun slowly rising, painting the sky in pastels of purple and pink. It had been his favorite part of the day since he was sixteen. It was a fresh start, the world beginning anew, a reminder that no matter how dark life might get, nothing could stop the light of a new day.

Simon had grown up within the walls of Vatican City. His mother, a former nun, had been the director in charge of the Vatican Archives, of its history, of its dealings, of its secrets. After enduring a heinous, blasphemous assault at the hands of her estranged husband, she slipped into insanity and took her own life. With his father’s subsequent execution, Simon was left alone in the world at the age of sixteen.

He had done a stint in the Italian army, purging his anger while becoming skilled in weapons, hand-to-hand combat, and military strategy. Upon his discharge, he returned to the only family he had known: his mother’s friends, the priests and bishops who ran the Holy See, the smallest country in the world. They welcomed him back with the offer of a future. Because of his recently acquired skills and his high degree of intelligence, they proposed he assume his mother’s old job as keeper of the Church’s vast collection of religious artifacts, of its history, and as the protector of its secrets.

As the plane banked left on its final approach, Simon couldn’t help being overwhelmed as he looked down from the jet’s window on the city of twenty million, a world that had survived crusades, invasions, kings, and sultans to become a metropolis of unending beauty. The early-morning sky was a brilliant orange that provided the perfect contrast to the skyline of minarets and domes whose tips seemingly reached out to heaven.

Istanbul, Turkey, was the center point of the world, where Europe and Asia come together both literally and figuratively. Since ancient times, whether known as New Rome, the Eastern Roman Empire, Byzantium, or Constantinople, it had been the capital of some of history’s greatest kingdoms: Roman, Latin, Byzantine, Ottoman. No other city in the world could claim such a rich, diverse heritage. It had always been the axis of a vibrant culture. It was a world where all met and traded goods, philosophies, women, slaves, and religions; a world where Christian, Muslim, and Jew lived side by side, coexisting long before modern society needed to be preached politically correct tolerance; a world of beauty filled with breathtaking architecture, both ancient and new; a land filled with mystery and intrigue, fortune and glory. It was cosmopolitan and traditional, vibrant and sedate. It was truly a land where East met West, yet, of late, it had played second and third string in global politics, facing extreme opposition when it tried to enter the European Union.

Some of history’s greatest houses of worship were within the city’s confines: mosques of unequaled beauty, their towering minarets scratching the sky; cathedrals of impossible grace; breathtaking synagogues of old; palaces whose massive fortifications and elegance had not diminished over centuries.

T
HE
B
OEING
B
USINESS
Jet taxied down the service tarmac of Ataturk Airport, finally coming to a rest in the private plane terminal. Michael, Busch, Simon, and KC walked down the plane’s stairs and out into the early-morning light, taking a breath, stretching their legs, letting the sun beat down upon their faces.

A young woman exited the private terminal, pulling a Louis Vuitton roller-luggage behind her, and walked across the tarmac toward the jet. Her hair was auburn, pulled back in a severe bun. She wore a white Chanel business suit and Manolo Blahnik pumps, and looked like a child playing dress-up. There was no question that she was a beautiful girl, she just didn’t look old enough to be a customs official.

KC finally caught the eye of the young woman. She halted a moment as her breath caught in her chest, a swirl of emotions running across her face. And then the two women made a beeline for each other, quickly arriving in each other’s arms. As they hugged, you could see the relief pour from their bodies.

“What are you doing here?” KC asked, holding her sister tight.

“It’s a four-hour flight, how could I stay away?”

“I told you not to come.”

“I know.”

KC pulled back and looked into her eyes. “But I’m glad you ignored me as usual.”

The two women finally turned and walked toward Michael.

“Michael, Simon, Paul,” KC said. “This is my sister, Cindy.”

Michael held out his hand and shook hers. “It’s a pleasure.”

Cindy looked at Michael. A broad smile creased her face. “I’m not sure what to say. I’ve never met one of KC’s boyfriends.”

Michael uncomfortably smiled and nodded.

“I’m Simon,” the priest said in his slight Italian accent as he took her hand. “I’ve heard much about you.”

Cindy nodded.

Michael turned his head toward Busch. “This is Paul Busch.”

Cindy took his hand. “It’s nice to meet you.”

“Likewise.” Busch smiled as he towered over the woman, gently holding her hand in his.

Cindy was several inches shorter than KC and her eyes were dark blue, but there was no questioning the overall resemblance. Michael realized that while they might look somewhat alike, they were completely different. KC was tall and lithe, her personality alive and direct. Cindy
was refined, cultured. It was as if they had grown up in two different worlds.

Cindy took KC’s arm as they walked toward the private air terminal. Michael, Simon, and Busch looked at each other, remaining in place.

KC turned back. “You said the plane needs to go to maintenance before you can fly out, that’s what you said.”

“Yeah, I said that.” Michael smiled.

“So, let’s go have breakfast in Istanbul. You never know if and when you’ll see this place again.”

“I’ve seen enough already,” Busch said as he leaned into Michael. “I’m afraid of seeing any more.”

“It’s only breakfast; we can’t leave until tomorrow anyway,” Michael said.

“What? You failed to mention that,” Busch said, a tinge of anger in his voice.

“The plane needs maintenance every ten thousand miles. And I’m not willing to find out what happens if it’s not cared for, particularly over the Atlantic Ocean.”

“Fine, you can explain to Jeannie why I’ll be late … again.”

“Don’t worry,” Michael said as he walked away. “I’ll keep you out of trouble.”

“Why did he have to say that?” Busch said as he turned to Simon.

“So, Cindy,” Michael said as he caught up to the girls and glanced at KC. “KC mentioned me to you before?”

“She told me you weren’t very good at tennis.”

“What?” Michael said in complete surprise. “Really?”

A
BLACK STRETCH
limo drove down Kennedy Caddesi, a wide highway clogged with a sea of honking cars, the drivers all angling, swearing, and waving arms in a universal attempt to curse the near gridlock. Small yellow Fiat taxis swarmed like bees in and out of the traffic jams, far more adept at escaping the madhouse than the stretch limo. The driver pulled a tight maneuver and got off, heading toward the Bazaar
Quarter, cutting down the side streets, taking a wide berth around the traffic mess of the Istanbul morning.

The car headed past the Grand Bazaar, through a labyrinth of streets covered by painted vaults with more than four thousand boothlike shops teeming with merchandise, an amazing gathering of merchants that hadn’t changed for centuries. Here anything and everything could be found, from gold, silver, and precious jewels to antiques, leather, and fabrics; from clothes to candles, appliances to lingerie.