The Thieves of Darkness (25 page)

“Portable alarms,” Michael said. “Like trip wires. They send a radio signal when the pin laser is broken.”

“Don’t let Jeannie get hold of these. She still thinks I get home at eleven.”

Michael smiled as Busch pulled out four poker-chip-sized electronic chips. He read them closely, seeing the acronym GPS engraved in the side.

“Afraid you’ll get lost?”

“Hey, they’re good enough at finding my dogs; I tuck them in their collars when I run or go hiking.”

“You haven’t hiked in two years,” Busch said in a dismissive tone.

“Aren’t we cranky at six-thirty?” Michael said. “That’s what you get for staying out till two.”

“Thanks, Mom.” Busch shook his head. “And yes, I did brush my teeth.”

“Somebody’s got to mind your ass when you’re away from the wife.” Michael smiled as he picked up a chip. “We should each have one in case we get lost. They feed to this.” Michael held up a small dash-mount flat-screen receiver. “Works anywhere.”

“Anywhere?”

“Anywhere on earth, at least.”

“Remind me not to carry one.”

“FYI, Big Brother is already watching. They put a much cheaper chip in cell phones now and triangulate off cell towers. It’s pretty hard to get lost in the world these days.”

“Thank you for the education, George Orwell.”

From the last bag Michael pulled what looked to be a coiled roll of putty.

“Jesus,” Busch said. “You had that in the plane?”

Michael didn’t bother looking up as he removed and placed three squares of C-4 next to the coil.

“You could have blown us out of the sky.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Michael said as he held up a bag of small electronic blasting caps. “Not without these sticking in their guts.”

“You’re going to wake the neighbors with that stuff.”

“Only if I use it.”

“I don’t think KC will be all that happy if you blow yourself up.”

“I’m not saying I’m
going
to use it. It’s just for backup.”

“Did you figure out how KC is going to lift the lid off that dead guy yet?”

“You mean the lid on Selim’s tomb?” Michael looked at his friend and slid him a hand sketch of a Rube Goldberg–like contraption.

“Looks great.” Busch glanced at the paper and turned to walk away. “I’m going to rustle up some breakfast, see what kind of fixings they got. Hopefully some traditional bacon and eggs. You don’t suppose they have bagels, do you?”

Michael ignored Busch as he walked across the large hangar to the oversized kitchen and vanished inside.

Michael picked up his sketch and headed into the maintenance supply room. It was filled with everything one could imagine for plane and auto repair, from valves and oil to leather seats and instrument panels. Michael focused his attention on the hardware along the rear wall. He grabbed six long rubber hoses sheathed in cloth; they were heavy-duty and were used in the pneumatic control systems of jets. He took several pieces of copper pipe and four aluminum frame supports, grabbed a handful of brass fittings and a hand pump.

He carried it all back to the worktable and laid it out before him. He smoothed out the piece of paper with his sketch and studied it for a moment, thinking, planning. He pulled over the oxyacetylene torch, fired up the thirty-two-hundred-degree-Celsius flame, and set to work.

Iblis sat in Honessa’s, an outdoor café in the Spice Bazaar, sipping his morning coffee.

His man Jahara stood across from him, just having reported watching the Boeing Business Jet rocket into the early-morning sky carrying KC’s male companion out of Istanbul. The plane was the Cadillac of private air travel; Iblis had, in fact, considered one for himself but passed. Why waste the money when Venue’s jet was at his beck and call 365 days a year?

Iblis ignored Jahara as he watched the tourists pass by on the sidewalks, his eyes scanning the crowds, looking for someone. He finally dismissed his underling with a wave of his hand as his eyes fell on an elderly man.

He wore a wrinkled houndstooth suit, his thin gray hair slicked back over an overly large head, his shoulders slumped forward with the years weighing heavy upon them. The approaching man leaned with one hand on a knotted pine cane for balance and carried a black leather briefcase in the other.

Ray Jaspers was another expatriate, hailing from Chicago forty years earlier. His law firm, based in The Hague, had been on retainer to Venue for over twenty years now. Despite his weathered, hobbled appearance, Jaspers was a king of information who dealt in corporate
espionage, who knew what companies were vulnerable, who knew what CFOs were skimming the till and exactly where everyone’s skeletons were buried. His sources were never questioned and never wrong. Where Iblis was Venue’s lethal left hand, Jaspers was his right, keenly laying the gunsight upon the target.

Jaspers arrived at Iblis’s table and sat without invitation or a word. He laid his case down, opened it, and withdrew a thick manila folder.

“Coffee?” Iblis offered.

“No, it will only make me need to piss in fifteen minutes,” Japers said in a gruff, smoke-addled voice. He looked about the market as he withdrew his pocket square and dabbed his sweating brow. “Are you on schedule?”

Iblis nodded as he sipped his coffee. There was an undeniable tension between them.

“I hope so.” Jaspers’s words were accusing. “Venue will be here tomorrow. He’s growing impatient.”

“He’s been impatient since he was conceived,” Iblis said with annoyance, unable to mask his feelings for Venue. “There’s nothing to worry about.”

Jaspers slid the manila folder across the table.

“This didn’t take you long.” Iblis pulled the file out from under his hand.

“Nothing ever does. I think you’ll find this very interesting,” Jaspers said as the old man stood up.

“Leaving so soon?” Iblis said with a smile.

“No offense, but we have nothing to talk about,” Jaspers said matter-of-factly, turning and walking away.

Iblis watched the old man shuffle down the sidewalk until he was out of sight. He waved his hand at the waitress to fetch him more coffee, settled back in his seat, picked up the file, and began reading all about Michael St. Pierre.

B
USCH DROVE THE
limo past the Imperial Gate, the main entrance to Topkapi Palace— though “crawling” would have been far more accurate.
The streets were flooded with delivery trucks, catering trucks, news trucks, and almost every kind of truck Busch could imagine.

Hundreds of people scurried about like ants, pushing carts laden with supplies through the giant arch, unloading flowers and tables onto the sidewalk, focusing satellite dishes atop news vehicles. Everyone walked in double time, hustling about, shouting at those who stood in their way. It was as if the Super Bowl or the Olympics had come to town and they only had one hour to get ready.

Busch’s eyes fell upon the guards and police who flanked the archway, heads turning diligently, looking about. Everyone who passed them wore an ID badge hung on a lanyard from his neck. A flatbed truck pulled up and the driver waved at the police, who in turn waved him through. There was no mistaking the cargo: four additional airport security scanners.

“You had to pick tonight, huh?” Busch said as they came to a dead halt.

“Everybody likes a challenge now and then,” Michael said from the backseat, his nose pressed up against the smoked glass.

“So is KC a challenge?” Busch put the car in Park and turned around to face Michael.

Michael shot him a withering glance. “We back-burnered everything.”

Busch sat there, the moment dragging on until he couldn’t take the silence.

“Not to be nosy or anything, but which one of you decided that? You or her?”

“I did,” Michael lied. “We’ve got more important things to focus on at the moment.”

“That’s good. Not that I don’t like her, I like her a lot. Not sure I can trust her yet, but she’s good people. I actually thought you guys were perfect for each other—beyond the whole bad career choice thing—you seemed to be in synch even when you were fighting. But I’ve been wrong before. Only you know if it’s right or not.”

Busch turned around, put the car in Drive, and continued ahead
five whole feet before coming to another stop in motionless traffic. He put the car back in Park and turned to Michael.

“Don’t take this the wrong way, but are you looking to fill the hole in your life that Mary left? Because it won’t matter who you meet or who you love. They’ll never be her and they’ll never fill that chasm; that pain is with you forever. New love, when you find it, it will be different; you may not love her more, you may not love her less, but it’ll just be different. So if you do care for her—”

“Thanks, Freud,” Michael cut him off. “But I’m fine.”

“So, you don’t love her?”

“No,” Michael continued looking out the window.

“Just checking…”

B
USCH PULLED UP
to the Four Seasons and parked the limo in front; he grabbed a black duffel from the trunk along with a three-foot compact blue bag. As he closed the trunk, he caught sight of Iblis sitting across the street, his eyes fixed on the hotel.

Busch carried the bags into the lobby and took a last look, confirming Iblis’s presence and counting one other person in the car with him.

He had dropped Michael off on the other side of the Sultanahmet district at a small no-questions-asked apartment where he would lie low until dark and the time arrived when everything would become frantic. With Michael ostensibly flying out of the country, they figured Busch was free to roam as KC’s assistant, acting as a liaison to get supplies from Michael to her, perform as her chauffeur, and keep an eye on her safety. As he would not be venturing into Topkapi, he wouldn’t create concern on Iblis’s part, appearing as her driver.

Busch headed straight to the elevator, rode to the fourth floor, and went down the hall to find KC waiting for him. She was wearing an oversized T-shirt, her hair pulled back. Busch couldn’t help staring. Even without an ounce of makeup she was stunningly beautiful.

They smiled at each other, headed into the room, and closed the door behind them.

KC picked up a blue gown by its hanger off a side chair and hung it in the closet.

“Nice,” Busch said as he looked at the dress. “Somebody’s getting fancy.”

“It was in the boutique downstairs. I usually buy these things with nowhere to wear them to, but tonight…”

“For Michael?”

“For the job,” KC corrected him. “In case he needs my help.”

“Of course,” Busch said with a knowing smile. “Or in case a special occasion pops up.”

“Well,” KC said, changing the subject. “You’re looking like a regular summertime Santa.”

“Well…” Busch unzipped the black duffel. “I do come bearing gifts.”

He pulled out the three-foot-long leather tube and handed it to KC, not needing to explain its purpose. He pulled out a handheld radio and an earpiece with a built-in microphone. “Channel one is the main for you two, I’ll be on channel two.”

KC took the radio and laid it on the table. “How is he?” KC asked.

“Michael?” Busch asked. “He’s fine. How are you doing?”

“I’m fine,” KC said. “Why?”

“Just checking. I heard you guys kind of cooled it.”

“Yeah,” KC said softly.

“Listen, I know he may have said some things, I know he wanted to slow things. But that doesn’t mean—”

“He said that?” KC asked in surprise.

“I know it hurts when things hit a patch.”

“He said
he
broke up with
me
?” KC was getting a little upset.

“He didn’t?” Busch asked, realizing that his friend had lied, that the decision had been KC’s.

“I can’t deal with things that are trivial compared to getting my sister back.” KC words sounded more as if she was trying to convince herself.

“I can understand that,” Busch agreed, and turned back to the duffel filled with supplies.

KC leaned down and took the bag from Busch, rummaging through the stuff herself. She pulled out two black boxes.

“He said to give you those portable sensor alarms; you can have them signal you through channel three if someone breaks the plane of the sensor.”

“I know how they work.”

KC continued looking through the bag, finding a Sig Sauer pistol, several clips, a rope, knife, small crowbar and two waterproof dive lights.

“Things are so complicated,” KC said defensively out of nowhere. “I can hardly think straight. I’ve never been in a long-term relationship. He’s been married; I could never live up to the memory of his wife.”

“No, you couldn’t,” Busch said honestly. “But who said you have to?”

The conversation died again. Busch was unsure how much he should say. He hated being the intermediary in relationships; that was something for his wife, Jeannie, to do. She was the relationship expert.

KC pointed to the blue bag. “What’s that?”

“Michael said, and I quote, ‘If you’re not strong enough to lift the lid of the sarcophagus, here’s a little help.’” Busch pulled from his pocket a page of handwritten instructions and handed it to KC. “He said to practice using the dining room table, if that makes sense.”

KC stuffed the directions in her pocket.

“What else did he say?” KC asked, sounding like a teenager.

Busch stood up straight, rising to his full six-four height, and looked down at her, running his hand back through his mop of dirty blond hair as he exhaled. “KC, you want my two cents? Don’t let him get away. He cares about you very much and I know you care about him. You’ll never do better, that I can promise. And you know, I don’t think he’d ever find anyone better than you.”

KC looked up at Busch, a sad smile growing on her face.

He wanted to hug her and tell her everything would be okay, that
they’d save her sister, that they’d be reunited with Simon, that she and Michael would make it work, but he was unsure.

There was a knock on the door, saving Busch from the moment.

Both their eyes widened in confusion. No one else knew they were here.

Busch motioned KC to stay back as he approached the door. He withdrew his pistol, flicked off the safety, and held it at the ready. He inched up toward the door, hugging the wall.