The Thieves of Darkness (32 page)

Then Iblis withdrew a knife; he looked at Michael without a smile
this time, without emotion in his dead eyes. Iblis’s left arm was flexed, the muscles straining his tight shirt. He placed the blade against the leather strap and unceremoniously cut it through. The strap snapped and the tube shot upward into Iblis’s hand.

And without fanfare, without a scream, Michael disappeared beneath the surface, the anchor about his wrist dragging him to a watery grave.

KC raced along the rooftop of Topkapi Palace, the leather tube lashed tightly across her back, her bag clutched in her right hand. She ran above the harem, working her way to the third courtyard, staying low and tight to the shadows. She occasionally glanced at the vast crowd lost in celebration within the second courtyard, all drinking, all congratulating themselves on deeds surely accomplished by others but for which they took credit, all the while oblivious to the illicit happenings above and below.

KC flipped off her radio for fear that its squawk would alert the world to her presence. She stayed close to the chimneys and away from the edges, scanning the rooftop for guards, tripwires, anything out of the ordinary. She was cautious but didn’t slow her run, her blue gown hiked up around her waist so as not to impede her stride.

She arrived and stood atop the Exhibition Building of Miniatures and Manuscripts and stared down at the backhoe in the third courtyard. The barrier-wrapped hole was a black spot among the dark nighttime grounds. The grounds were mercifully empty, devoid of guards but for the two who stood in the distance within the doorway of the Gates of Felicity. Their attention was on the party and keeping people at bay, and they were unaware of the occurrences behind their backs.

KC crossed herself, grabbed the edge, hung down, and jumped. She
landed in a crouch within the low shrubs and a nest of garden hoses, a shock of pain vibrating up her body from the rapid ten-foot descent.

She scurried to the work zone and sat within the shadow of the backhoe among a host of shovels, rakes, and hoes. She pulled the radio from her purse, lowered the volume, and thumbed the switch. “Michael,” she whispered. “Michael, are you there?”

But KC didn’t wait for a response; her fear was already confirmed as she saw the rope upon the ground. It led up to where it was anchored on the backhoe’s axle but ended before ever reaching the hole in a tattered, frayed mess.

Without thought, KC grabbed a long garden hose from the bushes, pulled out her flashlight, and shone it into the dark hole. It was as narrow as she remembered and she could see the reflection of the water as the spray of her light danced about the cistern. She removed her dress, her naked skin glowing in the rising moonlight, and stuffed it, along with the flashlight, into the bag. She slipped into the long black shirt and tied back her hair. She wrapped the hose twice about the frame of the backhoe’s undercarriage, crudely tying it off.

She looked at the case containing the rod and hoped the leather satchel was as waterproof as Michael said it would be. Not that the wood and precious-metal object would be damaged by moisture, she just didn’t want to get it wet or risk damaging it before she had her sister back. She thought of hiding it along with her purse but decided against the risk. Murphy was always lurking around the corner, ready to throw his law at the unprepared or foolish. She threw the satchel crosswise over her shoulder and across her chest and did the same with her purse, the two straps looking like a fashionable bandolier.

KC looped the hose around her body, gripped it tightly, leaned back, and began her descent into darkness. She slid the forty feet down into inky blackness, her determination holding her phobia at bay, and hit the cold water, sending an icy chill through her body.

And she felt it: The water was no longer still as on her first visit; it was like entering rapids, the water churning about her, a raging river of unknown origin far different from the placid water of twenty-four
hours earlier. And the noise: Where she had felt a peace before in this silent uninvaded world, now the cistern echoed with a modulating roar.

KC held tight to the hose, steadying herself in the darkness, removed her flashlight from her bag, and flipped it on. She looked about the cistern, shining her light back and forth. The water was flowing like a mountain river in spring swollen with snow melt and the temperature wasn’t much warmer. It flowed past her toward the southern wall, the waves ricocheting back. The water was rising. KC was sure the water had been at chest height before; now it neared her shoulder.

Her eyes finally fell on the source. Water raged from the far wall, sending whirlpools and eddies in all directions. The center of the wall looked like a boiling cauldron percolating with swells and breakers.

And something floated against KC, startling her; it slithered about, dancing upon the water. It was Michael’s rope, hung up on a ledge, skittering upon the surface of the flowing water. Though it was frayed and wet, there was no mistaking the knife cuts.

She looked at the distant wall, the one the cistern flowed to, debating which way to go. The strength of the current there diminished to an almost safe serenity. She knew solutions were never in the easy direction; she turned and headed for the cauldron.

She walked against the current, her feet fighting for purchase on the slippery bottom. She balanced and gripped the stone and brick wall as she approached the torrent, hoping to God that Michael was okay, that he was still alive. She banished that fear, and all of her nerves, as Michael had told her: Remain focused on the task at hand; don’t let emotion cloud judgment.

Reaching the far wall, KC inched her way toward the froth and bubbles of the water’s point of ingress. The current was strong. As she remembered, the tube was wide and short, no more than five feet in length with a three-foot diameter. She pulled two glow sticks from her bag and cracked and shook them out, watching as their green glow lit the wall and surrounding area. She laid them on the wall edge, flipped off her flashlight, and stuffed it into her purse.

Without thought she went under and straight at the pipe, grabbing
the rim as the water buffeted her body. She thrust her legs into the ground and pulled with every ounce of energy into the thunderous flow. Inch by inch she moved into the pipe against the raging water, and then suddenly she was thrust backward, caught in the current, launched out of the tube like a tumbling rag doll. She surfaced with rage in her eyes and charged back at the pipe as if in challenge. She checked the satchel and purse on her back, ensuring the straps were holding, inhaled, and dove under. She once again grabbed the rim of the pipe and pulled herself into the current, her arms burning in protest as she tried to gain purchase with her feet against the slippery pipe, but once again she was violently spat out, the force of the water’s flow propelling her backward. She surfaced, spitting water from her nose and mouth. Without anything to hold on to, without a surface on which to get a secure foothold, she wouldn’t make it through. She tossed her frustration away; it would get her nowhere and would serve only to delay her from finding Michael.

She pulled out her flashlight, flipped it on, and looked up the wall for a way to breach it, for any other way through, but found nothing. She thought if she could get a rope to the other side she could pull herself through, but there was no way without tools, nor was there anything to anchor the rope with, even if she managed to penetrate the wall of water.

And then it hit her. KC turned and raced back toward the dangling hose. It took her no time, as the current helped to carry her along with every step.

She restowed her flashlight in her purse, grabbed the gray rubber hose tightly in hand, and began to climb. She was thankful for the coarse rubber surface, which aided her wet hands and feet in her ascent as she shimmied up. She breached the surface, back into the grounds of Topkapi, cautiously looked around, and climbed out. She spotted the pile of garden tools by the truck, grabbed a rake and a hoe, and slid back down into the cistern.

She quickly made her way back to the hole, the two long tools helping her walk against the current. Both tools were five feet in length,
with thick wooden handles. The rake formed a T on the end and the hoe was a perfect hook. Both were ideal for sticking through the pipe and grabbing the lip on the other side.

KC went under and thrust the two tools through the water, the current resisting her efforts as they slid up the base of the pipe. She turned each until she felt them grip the lip on the other end, and without bothering to take another breath, began pulling herself through. The torrent shook her body, whipping her blonde hair back, roaring in her ears. She could feel the tube and her purse fluttering on her back, trying to rip free.

Within seconds she was through, and she quickly moved to the side, surfacing, holding tight to the garden tools. She filled her lungs in thanks as her ears filled with the crashing sound of a waterfall. The room glowed with a dim orange light from Michael’s fading glow sticks.

The anteroom of the cistern was a world of watery chaos. Where on the other side of the wall she had faced a strong current, what she saw now was nothing short of a tsunami coming from the wall on the other side of the room. Water exploded upward as it flowed in under the surface, rocketing up and out ten feet like a geyser. The pressure was nothing short of a violent aquatic war.

KC looked around the smaller anteroom, the water already up to her chin. There was no doubt that if the flow didn’t stop, the entire room would be under water by morning.

And then she saw the hole in the side wall. She fought against the waves, made her way to it, and climbed up to the ledge. The three-foot hole was blackened from an explosive breach. She pulled out her flashlight, shone it in to see the altar, and felt the calm of the room as she glanced about at the various religious symbols of peace and hope. Then her eyes fell upon the shattered wall. A pile of colored tiles lay upon the ground. Above them were three holes of varying heights. Whatever had been hidden away was gone. She prayed that it was Michael who had achieved success in here and not Iblis.

“Michael,” she called in the chapel, hoping he would answer and they could leave. But there was no response.

“Michael,” she called louder.

But again there was no answer. He wasn’t in the chapel, he wasn’t in the large water-filled anteroom or the main section of the cistern. As she looked out at the water geyser launching out of the pipe beneath the surface, she knew she could never get through there. Even if she could get close, the force of the water would crush her.

She looked again into the chapel … and a sense of dread filled her soul. As she turned back and looked at the mayhem of exploding water, she had no doubt where Michael was.

It all came racing in: her fear, her anger, and her rage. At Iblis for doing this to her, at her mother for killing herself, at her father for abandoning them as children, at the world for being so cruel. Without the map, Simon and her sister would surely die, and now because of her, because of who and what she was, she feared the worst for Michael. He was down here for her, selflessly risking his life only to have it…

Over the sound of the roaring water, the thundering cascade in front of her, she finally screamed louder than she had ever screamed, a rage-filled cry of frustration, of love lost, of pain and anguish. “Michael!”

I
BLIS WALKED OUT
of Topkapi, his cell phone pressed to his ear as he reported suspicious activity at the palace to the local police. He headed straight to his car and, as he drove off, he checked his rearview mirror. The tall blond American who had followed him around earlier in the evening still sat in his limo, oblivious to what had just slipped through his fingers. Iblis drove up the street and around to the rear of Hagia Sophia and parked.

He opened the tube and poured the chart out onto the seat. He stared at the tanned gazelle skin, amazed at the intricacies, at the level of detail: the deep reds and browns, the finely sketched mountains and oceans. Pictures of animals upon the lands, ships upon the waters. Islands and atolls, coral reefs and rocky shorelines, all depicted with a stunning level of complexity from a time before theodolites, GPS, satellites, and cameras, two hundred years before John Harrison established accurate longitudinal measurement.

Like the first half of the Piri Reis map, the one depicting the Antarctic land mass, under a mile’s worth of ice, that had not been mapped until the late 1950s, this chart held secrets, too—far greater secrets.

The handwriting was intricate, from an educated hand, descriptive and concise. And as Iblis read the Turkish words written five hundred years earlier, it all made sense. Iblis understood what the chart pointed to and why the grand vizier, Sokollu Mehmet, chose to hide it away from the world. This was not just a sea chart, it was truly a land map, a depiction of the world drawn from many sources, pointing to objects and places that were of great controversy in his time, concise directions to things that were not meant for the common man to know, secrets that were meant only for sultans, kings, and gods. Iblis realized why Philippe Venue wished to possess it and all that it led to. It wasn’t just some treasure, some prize to be won. It was a place of legend, a mystery sought by rulers, kings, and despots for millennia.

The chart that Iblis held in his hand led to a world lost in the haze-like tendrils of forgotten myth.

M
ICHAEL HIT BOTTOM
, the grate, handcuffed to his wrist, leading the way, dragging him to a watery death. And as soon as he touched down, his body was caught in a current, a riptide that violently snagged his body, pulling him feet-first toward the pipe at the base of the wall. But he stopped short of going through, his wrist still locked to the grate, to a virtual anchor. His body was tossed to and fro, vibrating up and down with the flow of the water, the violent surge flowing around him, seeking to escape under enormous pressure. His neoprene dive bag of tools pounded against his hip like a bag of stones. Michael struggled to see, but his vision was met with nothing but foam and bubbles whipping by him out of the well.