The Thieves of Darkness (6 page)

Venue took a moment, allowing his mind to calm. “Speaking of cleanups, I know you’re a couple thousand miles away, but you need to send someone to my office for a disposal.” He looked at Jean-Paul lying on the floor in a pool of his own blood. “Now do you mind telling me where they escaped to, where they’re going?”

“Where do you think? They’re coming here.”

“I thought they didn’t have the letter.”

“What does it matter?” the man asked. “We have a copy. I thought you didn’t care if they got it.”

“That was when I thought they wouldn’t survive prison. Before I thought they’d try to beat us to the punch.”

“I checked them both myself; they didn’t have it.”

“Bullshit. They’re smarter than you.”

“Smarter?” the man’s voice was laced with anger.

“Yeah, smarter. They have it and they’re going to use it.” Venue felt the rage flow through his brain; he wrapped his hand tightly around the paperweight. “What the hell have you been doing? It’s been two weeks since I gave you the copy of the letter. You told me it wasn’t going to be a problem, that you could break into both places undetected and get me what I want without delay.”

“Things like this can’t be rushed; it takes time.”

“You no longer have the luxury of time. You have to steal the chart before they do.”

“Relax, I have a plan.”

“What is it?”

“Mmm, no,” the man said, trying to take control of the conversation. “Just trust me.”

Venue looked at the monitors on his desk, at the images of empty spaces and crumbling dynasties. He wondered how it was all slipping away. “I don’t care what you have to do. I don’t care who lives or dies. Kill the priest, kill the girl if you have to, I don’t care. I need that chart. My world is falling apart. And if my world collapses, so does yours.”

The Range Rover cut across the rutted excuse for a road that bisected the nighttime Akbiquestan desert. Paul Busch pushed the vehicle to eighty, looking to escape this desolate part of the world as fast as he could, thankful for the luxurious suspension that cushioned them against the frequent potholes. At six-four, 225, Busch’s oversized frame could hardly be contained by the driver’s seat. He resembled a large blond bear, someone who looked more attuned to riding the waves in Hawaii than driving two escaped prisoners and their liberator out of this Eastern desert country. Over the past eighteen months he had gotten himself in shape, running five miles a day, and was proud of the fact that he could once again bench-press his weight. He didn’t mind the frequent comments on his ever-improving appearance from his wife, Jeannie, who said he looked like he did back when he was a rookie on the police force, though he couldn’t help thinking she was angling for a third child through flattery.

Paul liked to say that he tended bar at Valhalla, though his wife preferred calling him a restaurateur or at least the owner. He had retired after twenty years on the Byram Hills police force and was happy pouring drinks and running what had become a thriving business. What was once a quaint eatery grew into a destination that was sometimes booked a week in advance. The bar, of course, didn’t require a reservation
and was always filled with a crowd of singles looking for their next conquest.

While the restaurant provided them a comfortable living, he still played the Lotto every week, tucking the lucky sure thing in his back pocket—this in spite of the fact that he had a priceless ruby necklace hidden in the back of his sock drawer. The Russian souvenir from a life-threatening exploit with Michael could be sold for a small fortune, but he decided he’d leave it under the pair of blue argyles for the time being. Busch had found that the anticipation of desires sometimes outweighed their realization. Life was much better when you had what you needed but still held wishes for things yet unattained—it’s what kept the drive alive, kept him hoping.

Busch was a contented man, though he still missed his days on the force solving crimes, righting wrongs, burying the arrogant assholes who thought they were above it all. His “the law is the law” attitude had put him in conflict with Michael in the past, particularly when Michael had been his parolee, his charge, his responsibility to ensure he remained rehabilitated and a law-abiding citizen. But it was Michael’s unselfish actions in the service of others that made Busch realize that sometimes laws had to be broken for the greater good.

Michael was his best friend, like a younger brother. And like most younger brothers, Michael had a habit of finding trouble—finding it, creating it, solving it—and Paul was often at his side pulling him out of it. And so here he was driving Michael out of trouble—again—the only difference being this time there was a girl involved.

As he looked into the back of the Range Rover, it still hadn’t sunk in that KC had been in that prison with Simon. It was a surprise to both him and Michael. Paul had met her twice back in New York. He thought her perfect for Michael: beautiful, intelligent, with a biting sense of humor. He was genuinely happy that his friend was dating, but he never thought he would be dating someone like this.

So Busch was beyond amused as he watched Michael and KC argue and fight like an old married couple. He watched the two of them go at
it, trading barbs and accusations, criticisms and self-righteous boasts; there was no doubt in his mind that they were perfect for each other.

“Are you okay?” Michael asked as he saw the bruising and cuts on her arm.

“I’m fine.” Though you could see she wasn’t. She was banged up, her face smudged, a hint of dried blood ringing her nose.

“Is there something you failed to tell me?” Michael asked, a tinge of condescension in his voice.

“What?” KC snapped. She turned her head, looking out the window.

Michael paused, attempting to calm himself, to purge his veins of the adrenaline that still kept his heart and mind racing, desperately trying not explode. He continued to look at the back of her head, her blonde hair that was dirt-filled and windblown. He reached out his conciliatory hand, but just as it neared her shoulder—

“What?” KC said, still facing the window, seeming to sense his approach.

Michael pulled his hand back.

“What do you want me to say?” She spun around.

Michael finally boiled over. “A consultant?”

“Look—” KC began.

“You don’t work for the European Union.” Michael turned to Simon, the moment escalating. “And you … with friends like you … how the hell can you set us up and not tell me?”

KC turned to Simon, raising her voice, double-teaming him. “How come you didn’t tell
me
?”

Simon sat in the passenger seat, the questions hitting both ears. He kept his eyes fixed to the nighttime road ahead, remaining silent, keeping out of the battle.

“How come Simon didn’t tell you what?”

KC turned back to Michael, her green eyes growing intense. “Don’t start with me. An alarm guy has the know-how and wherewithal to skydive in, penetrate a prison, blow it up, and escape with two people?
The reason Simon knows you is the same reason he knows me.” She turned back to Simon. “Did you think it was cute to hook us up?”

Simon glanced at Busch, who eyed him, offering no help but a sympathetic tilt of the head as he gripped the steering wheel.

“Okay,” KC finally relented, calming down. “So I don’t work for the EU and you don’t own a security company.”

“I actually do own a security company,” Michael said defensively. “A legitimate security company where I make a decent, legal living.”

“Whatever delusions you live by,” KC said as she held up her hands and looked back out the window.

The Range Rover drove through a rusted wire fence and onto a runway. There was no tower, no terminal. The car’s headlights, the only illumination, fell on a group of five private planes at the far end of the runway surrounded by eight armed men. They were dressed in light gray pants and shirts; each held a rifle aimed at the high-end vehicle. Busch intermittently flashed the lights in a predetermined signal and the men stood at ease.

He drove the luxury SUV up next to the guards, who opened all four doors. He stepped from the vehicle, nodded, and handed the lead man a roll of cash. Michael, KC, and Simon exited the car and followed behind Busch as he walked toward the largest plane of the grouping and headed up the portable jetway stairs.

KC’s eyes went wide as she stared up at the Boeing Business Jet. She turned to Michael with raised eyebrows. “Must be some security company.”

The jet climbed into the star-filled sky, heading west toward Rome, its passengers all glad to leave the desert behind. The Boeing Business Jet was state-of-the-art, capable of speeds over 525 miles per hour, with a max altitude of forty-one thousand feet; it was truly capable of world travel. Beyond the spacious seating area it had a fully equipped office, a stateroom, and a lounge.

Simon sat at a mahogany conference table that would have been more at home in a Wall Street boardroom, a medical kit open before him, as he threaded a needle with a black suture. Michael and Busch had pulled out sandwiches and water bottles and sat in large leather recliners, the tan seats equipped with individual phones, media centers, and trays. KC sat directly across from them, downing the first food she had eaten in three days.

Michael was glad to be back in the plane. Though it wasn’t his, it still felt like home. Safe and sound. Far from danger and peril in the clear nighttime skies.

“I told the pilot to set a course to take you back to Rome,” Michael said to Simon.

Simon looked up at Michael, a question in his eyes.

“Okay,” Michael said. “If not Rome … where?”

“Istanbul,” Simon replied as he threaded the needle through the flesh of his arm. “I need to visit the Vatican Consulate.”

“Istanbul,” Michael repeated, the moment hanging in the air. He and Busch exchanged a concerned glance.

“It’s a beautiful city,” Simon added in all seriousness.

“Okay,” Michael finally relented with a smile. “Either Rome or Istanbul, we need to stop in Azerbaijan to refuel.”

“Azerbaijan?” Busch’s voice echoed with concern as he sat forward in his seat.

“Unless you prefer Tehran. But I don’t think you’d be as welcome.” Michael turned to KC, who hadn’t said a word as she polished off two sandwiches and a bottle of water. “Can I get you some more to eat?”

“Thirty-five-million-dollar plane…” KC said, more as an accusation than a passing comment. Her face was covered in dirt and grime, her matted blonde hair hanging flat against her face.

“It’s not what you think,” Michael said.

“Yeah, right,” KC said skeptically. “How the hell did you find us?”

“You can thank my father, who, by the way, owns all this,” Michael said as he waved his arm, alluding to the food and the plane. “He got a call from the Vatican; they got an anonymous tip that Simon was being held in Chiron.” Michael paused, looking back and forth between Simon and KC. “Any idea who Mr. Anonymous might have been or why they would call my dad?”

“Nope.” Simon shook his head, not bothering to look up as he stitched a gash on his right forearm.

KC looked at Michael, long, hard, and silent.

Michael didn’t press her on what she chose not to reveal; answers sometimes took patience and time. “At any rate, he received pictures of Simon in handcuffs along with a death notice and a rough diagram of the prison. We pulled some satellite pictures of the area, and presto…”

“Your father is rich?” KC asked.

“You might say that, with a capital R-I-C-H,” Busch cut in, his eyebrows raised.

“It’s not like you think,” Michael said in defense. “I’m not some silver-spoon kid.”

KC stared, confused. “You said your dad was an accountant and had died a few years back. I distinctly remember you saying, typical middle-class upbringing. You never mentioned this.”

“Long story. Abbreviated version: I was adopted,” Michael relented. “After my adopted parents died, I met the man who gave me up. We’ve grown close these past twelve months. He let me borrow his toy—insisted actually.”

“Why do I think there is more to the story?” KC said as she stared about the jet.

“There’s always more to the story,” Michael said, nodding. “But I guess you know that just as well as I do.”

KC held Michael’s eyes as she changed the subject. “I don’t suppose there’s somewhere I could get cleaned up.”

“Of course.”

“Do you think I could use the air phone to call my sister?”

“Use the one in the bedroom, it’ll be more private.”

Michael stood and led her through the plane, through the living area, past the galley, finally arriving at a master bedroom. Though small, it had a queen-sized bed and was decorated like an old New England inn: white lace curtains and bedspread, oak furnishings. There was a small door that opened into a full bathroom.

“The water pressure’s not great on the shower.” Michael pointed to a black duffel upon the bed. “There are some clothes in my bag, feel free to take what you want.”

KC said nothing as she looked around, unaccustomed to such wealth and convenience.

“And just be sure to dial the country code,” Michael said as he pointed to the phone on the wall by the bed.

KC nodded. “Thanks.”

The moment dragged on in silence. Alone together for the first time since the rescue, they stared at each other, as uncomfortable as if they had just been introduced. Neither said a word as their faces fought to
hide emotion. Michael struggled between the urge to grab her and hold her tight and the urge to just shake her for getting herself into such a mess and for lying to him. They had shared such a degree of intimacy, such a connection, and it all seemed to have been washed away by a tide of deception, leaving them strangers.

Without a word, KC entered the bathroom and closed the door.

Michael turned, walked back through the jet, and sat down at the conference table in front of Simon.

“She’s a thief … You set me up with a thief.”

“A very good thief,” Simon said as he finished up his stitches.

The statement cut Michael, in a bit of professional jealousy.