The Thieves of Darkness (16 page)

KC came in behind Michael and saw the carnage. While she remained silent, her mind screamed in terror. She frantically ran through the suite but found no one. Michael and KC looked at each other; rage filled their eyes before slowly slipping to sorrow and desperation.

“Who did this?” Michael looked at KC as if she knew exactly what he was talking about.

“I … I don’t know.” KC leaned down and looked at the blood. Her breathing quickened, as fear robbed her face of color.

They both looked around, scanning the room, falling into a state of mind where the senses grow acute, where everything holds a clue. As they looked about, they both saw it at the same time: the open tray to the DVD player.

Michael closed the tray and pushed the button on the DVD player. He flipped on the seventy-two-inch plasma TV and was greeted with the image of Simon lying on his back unconscious on the white marble floor where Michael now stood. The camera panned up to the tear-streaked face of Cindy, her desperate look filling the large screen as her unsteady breathing poured from the surround-sound speakers. KC ripped back her hand as she realized she was leaning on the chair that Cindy had been crying in moments earlier.

“KC.” The voice filled the room; it was deep and, surprisingly, had a southern American accent. “I’m so glad you made it out of Chiron alive. I had even money on your escaping. Impressive. The playboy boyfriend with the fancy jet, nice touch.”

The camera panned around and fell on the image of the videographer. His face was tan and childlike, his eyes an abnormal ghostly blue under perfect black eyebrows. The camera held on him and then, ever so slowly, a smile rose on the man’s face. It was a forced smile, lacking warmth, the eyes mirroring none of the facial expression’s intent. The camera finally panned back and became a wide shot, holding the image of both Simon and Cindy.

The man walked into the frame and looked at Cindy, who sat weeping and trembling in her seat. “She’s grown into quite a woman. She’s beautiful, KC, and from what I understand, successful and well educated. You must be very proud. Your mother couldn’t have done half the job that you did.

“I hate myself for what I have to do.” The man continued to look at Cindy. He reached out and ran his hand lightly over her auburn hair. “But sometimes in life, we are forced to do things some would consider distasteful … immoral … illegal. I’m sure you understand this more than most.

“You’ll steal Selim’s staff, the Caduceus, as you and Simon were planning, except you’ll do it alone.”

“Caduceus? What?” Michael looked to KC with confusion, but KC’s eyes remained glued to the image of her crying sister.

“Don’t bother with the chart,” the man said. “That’s mine. Always was mine. My challenge, my map. My little contest of skills.” The voice seemed omnipotent, like that of a narrator in the ether. The man removed his hand from Cindy’s head. His eyes suddenly focused on the camera, as if they were looking right out of the TV into KC’s eyes. “I want to make this crystal-clear. Do not go near the map. It is mine to steal.”

The man’s demeanor finally loosened and his forced, haunting smile returned. “Who knew that we would work together again? Partners, I guess.” The deep voice shook the room. “You’ll deliver the rod, the sultan’s staff, to me Friday at one o’clock in front of the Blue Mosque.”

The man walked over to Simon and crouched next to his unconscious form. He looked a moment at their friend and the small pool of blood that oozed from his head. “I’ll field-dress his wounds, but that is as far as I’ll go. His blood loss is considerable, as I’m sure you can see. Hopefully, infection won’t set in. If it does, I’d say he may last three, four days without treatment.”

The man walked back to Cindy, who looked at the camera with pleading eyes. He stood behind her and placed his hands on her shoulders, causing her to wince and quiver.

“And, KC, you know me, you know what I’m capable of, what I like to do. I like you, KC.” The man paused for emphasis. He once again stroked his hand down the side of Cindy’s head. “I love you as if you were my own flesh and blood but I have no qualms about taking everything you hold near and dear in this life away.

“You’ve got three days to get the rod. And remember, stay away from my map.”

The screen held on the image of Simon lying upon the marble, his chest rising in shallow breaths, on Cindy who sat there, her bloodshot eyes unfocused and desperate, tears marring her perfect makeup. The man reached around and touched her under the chin, gently lifting her face closer to the screen. He smiled one last smile and the screen fell to black.

Michael and KC both stood there, the silence echoing in the room, each looking at the bloodied floor, the empty chair.

“His name is Iblis,” KC said softly without pulling her eyes from the blank TV screen.

Michael said nothing, trying to process everything that had just happened.

“He’s as dangerous and psychotic as they come.” KC remained transfixed by the TV screen as if looking away would break her in two. “He’s a thief, Michael. Far better than me…”

“How do you know?”

KC sat there, the moment dragging on until she finally turned and looked at Michael. Her eyes filled with anguish and defeat. “He was my teacher.”

Iblis was not his birth name. He had chosen the Arabic name for its intimidation factor. He was actually born in Kentucky, the son of a jockey. His mother was half Greek, half Turkish, which, her husband explained, resulted in her conflicted personality. Knowing Iblis’s career, his depraved mind, most would assume he came from a troubled home, a broken home, that he was an orphan, maybe, lashing out at the world for life’s unfairness. But he, in fact, couldn’t have come from a more stable, loving family.

Christopher Miller, Sr., who preferred to be called Rusty—a nickname attributed to the fiery red hair of his youth—was a traditionalist, a man who believed in the right to bear arms and to know how to use those weapons. He taught his son, Chris, Jr., how to shoot at the tender age of seven. Young Chris could hit a soup can at fifty yards by the age of eight and was marksman caliber by ten. Rusty taught him how to hunt and live off the land. He taught him the worth of knives and their usefulness in the wilderness, for skinning and preparing food, as weapons, as tools. Rusty taught his son how to survive and how the lessons of self-reliance and survival would apply throughout his life, whether in the woods or the jungle of the city.

Nuray Miller was a raven-haired beauty, her crystal-blue eyes and tan skin echoed in the face of her son. While Rusty trained Chris in the more
physical and brutal means of survival, she taught him about the more subtle ones. She schooled him about people, about social graces, about getting what you want through gentle persuasion and implied consequences. She showed him how to move about in the different worlds that people live in, as she had done so well as the daughter of a Greek Orthodox shipping executive and a Turkish Muslim mother. She understood the subtleties of diplomacy, knew how to see the different points of view and subsequently gain the trust of all. These were lessons she imparted to Chris, and they allowed him to overcome the awkward appearance he acquired in teenhood, one that was more appropriate to a terrorist than to a kid from Kentucky. He was slight, with jet-black hair; his baby-faced beauty gave him an almost feminine appearance. He walked like a nervous dog, quick and choppy, and had an unnaturally deep voice for such a wisp of a teenager.

When Chris was thirteen, they relocated to Brooklyn, New York, where his father worked at the nearby Belmont racetrack in Elmont. And that’s where things had spun out of control. He was the outsider with the funny accent, the funny voice, and the too-pretty appearance; the kid who was laughed at for his small size and looks. He spent sixth grade alone, friendless, and the object of general derision. He never told his parents of his troubles at school. He never mentioned how he was picked on, how he was punched for fun to see how long it took for his skin to bruise.

He was an outsider and, as is often the case, the outsiders came together. They were the ones who didn’t fit in, the unpopular, the different, the ones who realized there was strength in numbers. Chris found friends with the rough-and-tumble crowd, the ones who would use their numbers, their fists, and eventually their weapons to intimidate. Chris became a god among their group of twelve, teaching them how to shoot, how to take care of their guns, how to use a knife, skills that the eleven Brooklynites embraced. Chris taught them the power of perceived threat and the sway it held over others, how it was so much more effective in persuasion than the actual physical carry-through.

Their group of twelve grew in notoriety, became a gang that ruled the streets. They took what they wanted from whomever they wanted.
They grew in arrogance and their power of intimidation, feeling that they owned the world and there was no one who could stop them.

It was on a Thursday night, Chris was all of fifteen. They had knocked over a few merchants for pocket change and thrills but had decided to move up in the world. Several stood lookout in the streets, while others took up position in the alley. Chris slipped through the small window, his waiflike size affording him easy access. The knife at his waist, the gun in the small of his back made him feel invincible. He hustled through the store, grabbing necklaces and watches, earrings and bracelets; he loved the moment, the thrill of breaking the law, of violating someone’s inner sanctum. The alarm blared but it made no difference, he was on his way out in less than a minute.

But as he slipped through the window, landing in the alley, he found himself alone looking down the barrel of a police-issue .38-caliber semiautomatic. His friends, his gang, his outsiders were gone. The cop was alone, holding the gun two-fisted, the drop of sweat along his right temple revealing his rookie status. The young cop was taken aback by the thief’s youthful appearance as he barked at Chris to put his hands in the air…

And that’s when the words of Chris’s father rang in Chris’s ear. This was why he had taught him how to shoot, how to skin, how to stay alive. Whether in the woods or the jungles of the city, his father had taught him how to survive.

Chris dropped his bag of jewels, drawing the cop’s eye, distracting him. The cop hesitated for the briefest of moments and before he knew it, he was dead, the knife driven up through his neck, exiting out the back. It was twisted violently, severing the carotid artery, continuing through the spine, practically detaching the head from the body.

Chris looked around, unfazed by the carnage he had wrought; he stared down at the corpse of the young cop as if detached from humanity. He was intrigued by the way the lifeless body twitched. He looked up to find that his gang had scattered, all diving back to their families, back to where it was safe, leaving him alone to face the repercussions of his actions.

The police arrived three days later, running down leads, acting on tips, and wanted to speak to Chris. Nuray, in her charming, convincing way, invited the police in and explained that her son was at the racetrack with her husband. She made them coffee, insisting there must be some confusion and said they could wait. But they excused themselves and headed straight for Belmont. She went upstairs, packed a bag, and woke Chris. They headed straight for Canada, where she gave him money, stuck him on a plane to Turkey, and told him he could never come back. He stayed with her relatives for all of a week before realizing how much he hated the country. He headed for London; they spoke English there, and if he was going to make his way in the world, he would at least need to understand the language of those he was robbing.

He had just stepped off the train, looking younger than his sixteen years, when the gun was jammed in his back. The man led him to an alley, held the gun to his head, and demanded his money. Chris emerged from the alley moments later. The blood had been minimal. The punk who had tried to rob and assault him had been carrying five thousand in cash. It was a start.

He lived in boarding rooms and flophouses. He worked the streets, developing a reputation. Learning a craft. It was trial and error. Pick-pocketing, mugging, small-time robbery. He was quick and deceptively strong for his size. He worked out, ran, and studied various martial arts, honing his body like an athlete to survive the dangerous world he chose to live in.

He worked his way up: jewelry stores, art galleries, high-end homes. He was polishing his craft. He educated himself, reading voraciously on gemology, on art history and technique. He became an expert on value. He learned from the auction houses, both the legal ones such as Sotheby’s and Christie’s and the invisible ones such as Killian McShane’s, which not only traded in black market art and jewelry but were also known for placing orders.

Unlike the other thieves of London, Chris knew no limit. He would set his sights on something, no matter how difficult, and would inevitably succeed. He moved about the continent, stealing a Renoir in
Stockholm, a Degas in Amsterdam, three Fermete charcoal sketches from the Louvre.

And throughout it all he developed one additional skill: killing. He was quite good at it, an expert, in fact. Other than a blood-riddled crime scene, he left not a trace of evidence that could implicate him. Whether through the use of a gun or his more preferred method, the blade of his knife, he felt no compunction at ending a life. Neither man, woman, nor child held sway over him or could still his hand. If they were in the way, they would be eliminated.

Chris had actually, on occasion, hired himself out on contract kills. It was a challenge he set himself, to see if he could plan a killing and carry it out without leaving a trace of evidence. Sometimes he did it up close with a knife, sometimes half a mile away with a sniper rifle.

And his slight, angelic appearance, which he had faced such derision for as a child, became his ally, the perfect mask to present to an unsuspecting world, a pure façade that allowed a monster to stand among the innocent.

By the age of twenty-one he had become the most respected and feared man on the street. No one knew his name, no one knew a thing about him other than the fact that his wrath should be avoided at all costs.