The Thieves of Darkness (27 page)

She snapped out of her pity party. She would figure this thing out with Michael, they weren’t over; she’d figure out how to make it work, but first things first.

The security was minimal at best for the former mosque, former basilica, current museum. While it was a building of historical significance, it was not a common target of anyone beyond tourists, and all vigilance had been targeted at Topkapi.

Beyond the kissing newlyweds, the area around the walled perimeter of Hagia Sophia was vacant; it was as if all the world’s eyes were focused across the street, watching the rich and powerful enter the big EU party. All eyes except for Iblis’s, the ones she felt boring into the back of her head.

T
HROUGH HIS BINOCULARS
, Busch watched Iblis, who in turn had his eye on KC as she walked through the park on the far side of Hagia Sophia. Iblis was one hundred yards away driving his yellow Fiat taxi. The service light on the roof was, as usual, conspicuously off. Busch had followed him from afar as soon as he spotted him in front of the hotel. KC had emerged at eight-forty-five, supplies in hand, looking more like a model than a tourist, and walked the short distance to the grand mosque museum. Iblis had started up his car and followed, unconcerned with whether she knew he was there … In fact, Busch realized, Iblis wanted KC to know he was watching. He was keeping the pressure on her and would know her every move.

Iblis drove around the perimeter of the former mosque and finally
headed into the tremendous flow of traffic making its way to the festivities at Topkapi. The traffic was at a crawl, which made Busch’s job all the easier. The majority of vehicles on Babihumayun Caddessi and Kabasakal Caddessi were limousines, so Busch could get lost among the crowd while not being so concerned that the little yellow sports car would zip into traffic and escape his watchful eye.

Busch had made a promise to Michael: He would protect KC at all costs, he would ensure that Iblis never got his hands on her, and if he even got close, Busch would gladly crush his little head in his bare hands without an ounce of guilt.

M
ICHAEL DASHED ALONG
the rooftops, the sound of music, party chatter, and laughter growing upon his approach. The European Union party was in full swing, the bright lights of the festivities rising in a glow into the sky from the second courtyard of Topkapi, a party the likes of which hadn’t been seen within the palace walls in over a century. With various museum doors alarmed and locked tight, the fear of a robbery was at a low, the rationale being, who would be foolish enough to rob a museum that had never been robbed on a night of high security? And while the suspicion was low, Michael reassured himself that the world wasn’t even aware of what was hidden below the grand palace. Security was focused on the party on terra firma, on the dignitaries and their protection.

As he arrived at the roof’s edge overlooking the third courtyard, which sat quiet and empty for the evening, he scanned the area, noting two guards who stood at attention within the Gates of Felicity, their backs to the third courtyard as they looked out at the revelers within the second courtyard.

Michael looked down upon the construction opening, surrounded by cones and barriers, the blackness of the hole seeming to seep out onto the ground. The area sat in heavy shadow, made all the darker by the lights of the party on the other side of the Gates of Felicity. Michael leaped down to the ground, quickly pulled a kernmantle rope from his neoprene bag, and tied it off to the axle of the adjacent backhoe. He
took one of the work tarps and laid it over the rope, then placed some shovels and rakes over it to better disguise his line.

Michael checked the straps of the empty leather tube, pulling them tight on his back; he resealed his waterproof satchel, wrapped the line about his body in a juggler’s knot, and slipped into darkness. Fifteen feet down, he passed through the mouth of the shaft and stopped his descent, hanging twenty-five feet above the water in the wide, open cavern. He switched on his flashlight, shining it about, looking at a structure that predated Topkapi, that had been built over fifteen hundred years earlier and yet still remained. Designed and constructed in an age lacking modern technology, it had stood the test of time and was more sound than many structures built by modern man, which could barely last twenty years.

“KC?” Michael said into his microphone.

“Yeah?” she whispered. Her voice was static-filled.

“How you making out?”

“All’s good.”

“I’m going to lose radio coverage,” Michael said. “So…”

“Where are you?”

“Just dangling. You?”

“Watching the guards, timing their rounds, hiding in the shadows. Remind me again why you get the fun heist.”

Michael looked around the cavern, at the dark water, as he spun on his line. “Next time you can have the cold water and explosives, I promise.”

“Yeah, right. Be careful.”

KC
RAN ACROSS
the courtyard to the east of Hagia Sophia, staying tight to the shadows. She had put on a black stocking cap, her blonde hair tucked up inside. She had slipped through the service gate on the side of the building, the lock taking her less than five seconds to pick. While Hagia Sophia was a museum, it was not a place of artifacts but rather a place of reverie. The structure itself and its inlaid mosaics and outer tombs were the attractions. Its security detail was minimal, as
was fitting for a place where there was not much to steal. The guard and the caution were directed at deterring vandals and pranksters, resulting in a less than attentive staff who went about their shifts in boredom.

The world within the fifteen-foot walls of the holy structure was silent and asleep for the night, standing in sharp contrast to the bustling world outside, the sounds of cars and laughter seeping in to remind KC she was still in the modern world. The main sidewalk ran up the center of the courtyard from the side door of the museum, past the three tombs, ending at the large locked gate to the parking lot.

KC ducked into the shadow and sat with her back against the stone wall surrounding the ancient mosque, behind the trunk of a cypress tree. She looked at her watch; the guards had made two passes around the grounds at twenty-minute intervals. Both times their eyes were on each other, and they were lost in conversation. Their attention was lax, as the chance of a break-in at one of the three mausoleums was practically nonexistent.

Watching the movements of security for almost an hour had left KC too much time to think. She fought to keep her mind focused, to keep it from dwelling on Cindy and Simon and the danger they were in. But she fought the thoughts off, knowing that if she was distracted she would fail, and in so doing…

She banished her morbid thoughts and turned her attention to the entrance to Selim’s tomb, which sat across the courtyard.

M
ICHAEL SURFACED IN
the antechamber, the beam of his flashlight dancing on the surface. He briefly looked about the smaller cistern adjacent to the cavernous chamber he had rappelled into next door. The water seemed colder, feeling like small knives upon his body.

Michael hoisted himself up on the ledge of the eastern section and unzipped his satchel. He reached in and pulled out a handful of glow sticks, cracking them and tossing them about the walkway, lighting up the stone and brick cavern. In full light, it appeared like a lost grotto, the orange light shimmering off the cistern’s clear waters, reflecting off the rounded ceiling. The acoustics amplified his breath and exaggerated
the sound of the droplets of water that intermittently fell from the ceiling. It was easy to imagine the eunuchs and harem girls making their way around the walkway five hundred years earlier. Michael wondered if the echoes of their voices still clung to the stone walls.

He stood and ran his hands along the wall. They hadn’t just sealed up the doorway; they had built an entirely new partition, made of stone and mortar. It was fifteen feet from walkway ledge to ceiling, and forty feet wide.

Reaching into his dive satchel, he pulled out the coils of detonation cord, a thin, malleable explosive of pentrite wrapped within a soft, pliable textile that appeared to be a long strand of nylon rope. Designed for demolition, its workability enabled it to be used with surgical precision, concentrating its blast to cut rock or steel girders. Michael took four five-foot-long strands and worked them into the mortar joints three feet off the ground, spread at five-foot intervals. He inserted a thin metal rod—which looked very much like a golf tee—into the center of each piece of cord. Each electronic blasting cap had a small radio receiver on its tip that dangled on two thin wires, awaiting the signal from a detonator.

By spreading the charges, Michael would be removing only small sections of the wall so as to prevent the total collapse of the façade, which might not only render his mission over but end his life along with it.

Michael walked around the perimeter of the cistern, stepping over the glow sticks that littered the walkway, and jumped into the five-foot-deep water at the far side. In his right hand he held a waterproof radio detonator, much smaller and far more practical than the old-style TNT plungers that Yosemite Sam loved to wrap his hands around. Without a second thought, Michael flipped off the safety switch, thumbed down the green button, and dove under the water.

The five sections along the wall exploded simultaneously, throwing mortar and rock about the cistern, the five balls of flame curling upward and licking the curved stone ceiling. The muffled explosion was concentrated, its focused force blowing out five three-foot sections
that were spaced along the length of the wall exactly as Michael had intended.

Michael surfaced and climbed out of the water. He walked slowly, working his way around the cistern, making sure the walkway wasn’t compromised. Arriving at the wall, he inspected the first hole and found, as he had suspected, that there was a wall behind the wall. The façade had been constructed flush against the interior wall. He moved to the next hole, kicking the rock and debris into the water, and found the same. It was on the third section that he found what he was looking for. The three-foot hole did not reveal another stone wall but rather a dark opening. Michael pulled his flashlight from his waist, shone it into the dark recess, and smiled.

T
HE
E
UROPEAN
U
NION
party was in full swing. Dignitaries, VIPs, and celebrities were arriving, exiting their limos and walking up the royal blue carpeted sidewalk through the Imperial Gate of Topkapi Palace to the party within. News trucks sat across the street as video cameras rolled and reporters commented on the night’s festivities. The flashbulbs of the paparazzi lit up the faces and surrounding area in a constant strobe of pale blue light. Guards conspicuously flanked the gate, ten strong, with rifles clutched to their chests, sending the message that Turkey would guard the European Union with the same fervor with which it guarded itself. After years of opposition, discourse, and rhetoric, the country that spanned two continents, the society that had long embraced all faiths, had finally been embraced itself and welcomed into the union of twenty-seven European nations.

Busch sat behind the wheel of the parked limo; he could see both the Imperial Gate of Topkapi Palace alive with activity, a quarter mile away, and Hagia Sophia sitting directly across the street, serene and quiet for the night.

The yellow Fiat was lost in a sea of taxis two hundred feet ahead of him, quietly idling at the side of the road. Iblis sat in the driver’s seat, his attention upon Hagia Sophia, no doubt rooting for his protégée’s success. It had been twenty minutes and Busch’s legs were already
twitching. He had hated stakeouts when he was on the Byram Hills police force. Hours upon hours of tedium, waiting for someone to make a move, waiting for something to happen. But in this case, Busch was watching to make sure something didn’t happen.

But then it did.

Iblis emerged from his small car and, realizing what was happening, Busch’s heart doubled its beat. Iblis wasn’t going toward Hagia Sophia; with a hyperactive walk, he was heading left toward the Imperial Gates, dressed in a crisp black tuxedo, a tan briefcase in hand. This had been Iblis’s plan all along: He was going into Topkapi; he was going for the chart.

Busch checked his gun and holstered it. He turned off the engine, grabbed his radio, and nonchalantly exited the limo. He walked across the street and up the sidewalk towards Topkapi. With a quick pace he halved the distance to Iblis, one hundred feet away and closing. Busch wasn’t sure what he would do; he was running on instinct and hoping he would react appropriately. Iblis arrived at the gate and had begun walking up the blue carpet when a guard stepped from formation and stopped him.

And then suddenly, much to Busch’s surprise, Iblis turned and looked straight at Busch, looking him right in the eye. The small man smiled and nodded, and finally, turning around, he pulled a card and flashed it at the guards. And like that the guard stepped aside and Iblis disappeared behind the walls of Topkapi Palace.

M
ICHAEL CRAWLED THROUGH
the three-foot opening, shining his flashlight about the dark room. It was small, no more than twenty feet square. There were three rows of pews facing a crucifix that sat behind a small altar, and an open area covered in a large prayer rug. It had a star within a crescent moon woven into one corner, facing a wall where the rising sun of dawn glowed upon a city. A medium-sized tabernacle was set off to the side of a second altar, the Star of David carved into the small wooden cabinet door.

It was a private chapel in which friends of different faiths could
worship together praying to their respective gods. A room in which they could all join as one, a room created to allow those who had been stolen from their homes, from their Christian and Jewish lands, to secretly worship the gods they had been forced to renounce. But in truth it was one God, three faiths, all tracing the route of their faiths back to Abraham, the common denominator of a common God.