The Thieves of Legend

by Richard Doetsch

  “Killed on a classified mission, at an undisclosed location.” Jon’s eyes were still glued to the coffin as the door closed. “He’ll receive a hero’s welcome back in the U.S.”

  Jon turned and walked away. Michael thought that he had heard a hint of emotion in the man’s voice, though he wasn’t sure if it was disgust, sympathy, or regret.

  A shuttle van pulled up with Jon at the wheel. Without a word, Michael and Paul threw their bags over their shoulders and hopped in back. As the electric vehicle drove across the tarmac onto a service road, Michael glimpsed the enormous terminal, the third largest in the world. Built on an artificial island, reclaimed from the sea, it was accessed by the Tsing Ma suspension bridge and miles of tunnels. Planes came and went on the two runways with the frequency of taxis at a stand in the center of Manhattan.

  Instead of heading toward the terminal, Jon turned left and drove toward a series of docks on the east side of the grand complex and pulled up alongside a sixty-foot dark-blue yacht. The boat was sleek and aerodynamic, with a salon, a rear deck, and a second-floor deck. Jon led them across the dock, up the gangplank, and onto the rear of the boat. Busch stepped aboard left foot first.

  Jon walked through the salon, through the open door of the bridge, said a few words to the captain, and returned.

  “Wait here,” Jon said. “I need to fetch some things.” And he ran down the gangplank back to the van and drove off.

  Michael and Busch looked around at the luxury, at the teak and brass finishes, the leather furnishings; this was not military-issue. Without saying a word, they both knew Jon had connections.

  Through open teak doors, Michael could see the captain, a man with dark eyes and tea-colored skin who sat silently in wait at the helm. Busch walked up and offered his hand, but the man ignored it, not even bothering to acknowledge his presence with a look.

  “Nice,” Busch said as he walked back through the cabin and out onto the rear deck. “Friendly guy.”

  “Not everyone shares your outlook on life,” Michael said as he stared across Hong Kong Harbor at the Chinese junks, the sleek sailboats, and gleaming megayachts whose running lights seemed to stretch on forever. Michael rolled the fingers of his right hand on the rail as if playing trills on a piano.

  “So what are you thinking?” Busch asked.

  “Huh?”

  “You drum your fingers when you’re lost in thought. Did you look at those plans?”

  “In case you forgot, I was standing right next to you.” Michael paused a moment. “I have no idea how we’re going to do this.”

  The two of them looked out over the water, lost in thought, until finally…

  “Don’t worry,” Busch said with a smile, slapping Michael’s back. “You’re far better with the impossible than the easy. Let’s get there before you consume yourself with doubt.”

  “Where do you think they took KC?”

  Busch turned and looked at Michael. “If there is one woman on this planet who can stay alive in the worst of circumstances, it’s her.”

  But all Michael could think about was Annie’s eyes. It didn’t matter how emotionally strong and resourceful KC was. Michael had seen Annie’s eyes when she shot the man in New York. She had acted without remorse; it wasn’t her first kill, nor would it be her last.

  ANNIE POURED TWO glasses of wine. She walked up the aisle of the luxury jet and set a glass in the recessed cup holder of KC’s chair.

  “You proved yourself far more impressively than I thought you would,” Annie said, “than any of us thought.”

  KC looked out the window at the cloudless sky, ignoring Annie.

  “I had my doubts,” Annie continued. “Extreme doubts, in fact. But the colonel was so insistent.”

  “Where are we going?” KC asked, still looking out the window.

  “You did us a great service. Have a sip of wine,” Annie said, tilting her glass toward KC’s.

  KC turned and stared at Annie. “Where are we going?”

  “We will need your services, your particular talents over the next two days.”

  “Absolutely not,” KC said as she shook her head.

  Annie took another sip of wine. “The Granada police will take quite an interest in you.”

  “Until I explain how I got there, who shot those men. I don’t think your country wants that getting out.”

  “I do like you, KC. You’re unique.” Annie smiled and nodded, “like me.”

  “I’m nothing like you.”

  “I disobeyed orders for you,” Annie said as she moved closer, bending down, her face within inches of KC’s face. “I was told to be direct, brutal if need be, but I thought maybe—two loners, both unconventional, both smart—maybe we could be friends.”

  “Friends?” KC shook her head, smiling back, her eyes mocking. “I used to be alone in the world because I chose to be. You’re alone because others choose to avoid someone like you.”

  Annie glared at KC. “I’d like to show you something.”

  KC turned away, refusing to make eye contact.

  The TV monitor on the front bulkhead lit up with static until an image of the interior of a jet filled the screen. It took a moment for the two figures to become clear: Michael and an unknown Asian man.

  “What the hell is going on?” KC looked closer. And as her question went unanswered, the sound of the jet engines’ whine seemed to grow, portending danger, reminding her of her confinement at twenty-five thousand feet.

  But unlike most women, KC didn’t crumble. “Who is Michael with?”

  “You’re coming with us, and you will do exactly as we say. If you deviate from our directives, if you attempt to escape… one phone call and that man will snap Michael’s neck like a twig.”

  THE DEEP SOUND of a ship’s horn cut across the harbor as the dark-blue yacht backed up out of the dock, its large motor churning the water. Jon was on the bridge with the captain after taking nearly an hour to return with two large duffel bags slung over his shoulders. Without a word, he had carried them to the bridge and closed the teak doors behind him.

  Clearing the dock, the boat turned about and headed into the open harbor. Paul looked out over the water, his thick blond hair whipped by the wind, and reached into his pocket, pulling out a battered brass pocket watch. He flipped open the clear glass lid and looked at the compass floating within.

  Busch had grown up with boats, as his father had been a commercial fisherman. He had gone out on several occasions with his father, swabbing the decks, sitting up nights with the crew, listening to their risqué jokes and stories not fit for children. Those weeks off Cape Cod and the Continental Shelf had been a magical time. He’d been baptized into a man’s world, bonding with his father only to lose him to the sea. One evening, he’d tucked him into bed, kissed him good night, and walked out the door never to return. The compass watch was his father’s; his mother had given it to him at the funeral, telling him it would always point him in the right direction.

  The yacht began to accelerate, picking up speed, twenty knots, thirty knots, until suddenly the bow of the boat began to lift out of the water on hydrofoils. And as it did so, the boat picked up even more speed, racing across the water faster than Paul had ever thought possible. As they cut across the Pearl River Delta to the island of Macau, Busch estimated they were traveling at nearly fifty knots and would make the thirty-seven-mile run in less than forty-five minutes.

  The island of Macau was a former Portuguese port that had since grown into the gaming capital of the world, far exceeding the former leader, Las Vegas, in decadence. If “What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas” was their phrase, with a wink and smile, Macau’s was “What happened in Macau never happened in Macau.”

  As the boat slowed, the craft settled down off its hydrofoils back into the water; slowing to twenty-five knots felt like they were crawling. The captain took a wide arc and pulled up to a modern dock aglow with light. Large ferry-sized hydrofoils filled ten slips to their left. Strea
ms of people poured out of the ships, unleashed into a world very different from the city they had left behind.

  Pulling up to the dock, Jon leaped off with the two large duffels upon his shoulders and headed straight into the ferry terminal. Michael came ashore right behind him and followed. And as Busch’s left foot hit the dock, the boat and its silent captain raced away.

  Busch caught up and the three climbed the terminal’s stairs. A distant rumble began to fill the air.

  “What the hell is that?” Busch said, looking around.

  Michael heard it, too, but followed Jon without a word.

  Michael emerged from the ferry terminal into a mass of people tens of thousands strong. All eyes were fixed, unwavering in silent anticipation, focused on a vacant strip of road fifty yards in the distance.

  The roar of thunder approached, though the evening sky was crystal-clear. The sound grew, shaking the ground, strong enough to vibrate up through their bodies. The air was heavy with the smell of exhaust and gasoline.

  And then from around the corner they exploded into sight, Formula 3 race cars, hurling down the narrow streets of Macau. The roar grew, its pitch climbing from thunder to an otherworldly scream. Bright red, deep blue, traveling at over 160 miles per hour, accelerating down the straightaway, impossibly fast, and in the blink of an eye they were gone. But then more skidded around the corner, hugging the ground, their bodies painted yellow, green, white, their engines howling in pursuit of the leader. They were sleek, beautiful, with the heart of a beast as their drivers pinned the accelerators, white-knuckling the steering wheels with nothing in their eyes but the will to win.

  The Macau Grand Prix was a race known the world over, attracting not only Formula 3 racers but motorcyclists and touring cars. The three-point-eight-mile track wove through the narrow streets, past the historic district, and through the heart of the ancient city.

  The crowds overflowed the bleachers, the various stands; necks craned from behind concrete barriers, heads poked out of windows, a mass of people over fifty thousand strong.

  Though the Macau Grand Prix didn’t have the cachet of the Monaco Grand Prix’s Triple Crown of Motorsport, it attracted not only the refined and proper but the young and hip.

  Macau was the Monte Carlo of the East but on a far grander scale. Where the legendary Belle Époque Monte Carlo Casino, the standard bearer of glamour and prestige, was sixty-five thousand square feet, the casinos of the Cotai strip were high-octane versions with more than two million square feet of gambling. There was the Macau Jockey Club, a racetrack where thoroughbreds competed for Triple Crown–sized stakes, and handicappers spent days and evenings betting on their favorite horse. Michael instantly thought the city was like Vegas, Churchill Downs, and Indianapolis rolled into one.

  With Jon in the lead, they made their way through the crowds, past the pit stops and enormous gas tanks, the fumes so thick they could almost be seen. Michael knew the fuel was high-octane, highly flammable. One of Busch’s forever fears was burning alive, something that had haunted him since his youth, when he was burned on his father’s boat, something that almost took his life years earlier, something that Michael knew still ran in Busch’s veins.

  Moving away from the noise of the race, the three walked into the heart of Macau. The Portuguese had arrived on its shores in the sixteenth century, bringing with them their vast culture, Christian religion, and diverse culinary tastes. For more than four hundred years the Iberian people and their customs had blended with the local Chinese and theirs, bringing about a unique world combining East and West.

  Walking the cobblestone streets past the European architecture, the smell of cooking in the air, Michael felt transported to the other side of the world only to be reminded by the beautiful ancient temples and crowds that he was actually in the heart of Asia.

  As they continued, the crowds began to thin out and they found themselves in a decrepit part of town: run-down buildings, gangs milling at corners, looking for a target. They walked down old streets, rutted and smelling of urine and refuse, finally arriving at an unkempt brick building six stories high, curtains pulled in every window.

  As they entered, Michael knew at once where they were. The brothel was tired and dusty. Women of various cultures dressed in colorful simple dresses sat about with far-off looks in their eyes. A glamorous hostess smiled at the group; unlike the other women, this woman stilled possessed an unmarred beauty and a clear mind. The woman smiled, nodding at Jon, her eyes never falling upon Michael or Busch.

  Jon headed past the front desk, ignoring the hostess as if he owned the place, and walked through a curtain into a dark back hall. Michael and Busch followed him up a flight of stairs. The echoes of false passion reverberated through the stairwell and halls as they walked past a series of rooms to a chipped wooden door at the end of the hallway. There was no handle on the door; incongruously, a shiny metal keypad was shoulder-high next to the doorjamb. Jon pressed his thumb to a small pad, simultaneously punching a code into the keypad, and the door unlatched.

  They entered a sparse apartment, the door slamming behind them. The living room had a couch and a host of chairs arranged around a long dining table. Against the wall was a large workstation covered in an array of electronic equipment; four monitors displayed images of the hallways and building exits. Upon turning, Busch could see that the wooden door was anything but, as the interior was made of pure steel; the windows were tempered, bulletproof.

  “Nice safe house,” Michael said to Busch.

  Jon threw down the two duffels. Unzipping the first, he pulled a pistol from the small of his back and threw it into what Busch now realized was a bag filled with weapons, assault rifles, and pistols; he thought he glimpsed a grenade and a block of C-4 before Jon zipped it up.

  Jon opened a double-wide door to reveal a filing cabinet, a safe, a gun rack stocked with an array of more pistols and assault rifles, and shelves stacked with clips and two-way radios.

  “All the comforts of home,” Busch said as he walked to the closet and picked up a 9mm Glock.

  “Feel free,” Jon said, pointing at the shelf. “Clips are up there.”

  Busch grabbed and slammed home a clip and turned the gun about in his hand. “Do you realize how badly I want to use this right now?”

  Jon nodded, understanding Busch’s subtext. “Wouldn’t prove healthy to your friend’s ex, though.” Jon opened an adjacent closet filled with clothes and put on a sport coat. “No rest for the weary.”

  “I think he means wicked,” Busch said under his breath as he ejected the clip and put the gun back. He opened his bag, removed a change of neatly pressed clothes, and changed into the preppy uniform of a blue sport coat and khakis.

  Michael turned and saw Jon affixing a large gold chain about his neck, his fingers already adorned with rings, his wrist wrapped in a Breitling watch. Reaching into the armory closet, into a drawer built into the wall, he withdrew a large wad of cash and stuffed it in his pocket. The man on the Manhattan street yesterday morning was different from the man on the plane, who couldn’t be more different from the man who stood before them now. Jon had not just changed clothes; it was as if he had changed bodies and personalities.

  Michael threw on a dark jacket over a white shirt and dark pants, less concerned with his appearance than Jon and Busch. His focus was on the room, what was available, his mind cataloguing everything he saw, from the weapons and the money to the files and the electronics at the workstation.

  Jon turned to the door, and as he thumbed another pad and punched in the number to open the door, Michael realized this room was not only difficult to access but difficult to escape.

  They exited the brothel to a limo, the door held open by its driver. They climbed in and headed up the street. Michael stared out the tinted windows as they drove through the foreign world, committing buildings and landmarks to memory. It was a habit he’d established on his first job, and it was the first task he performed whenever he visited a new c
ity. Since he had gone legal, whether it was a conference, a business meeting in a different city, or a vacation, he always spent the first hour getting to know the territory because the first rule of survival was figuring out your escape route.

  Michael had traveled all over Europe, to parts of the Middle East, and had been to northern India a year ago, but in all of those places he’d felt as if he could move without drawing attention. Here he was truly a foreigner in a foreign land. He didn’t know the language, the people, or the customs. The modality of thought between the West and East was different in many respects. Here it was about balance, about dark and light, strong and weak. There would be no hiding among the masses, no getting lost in a crowd; he couldn’t blend in, and if he got lost, he might as well be on an alien planet.

  As much as he didn’t want to admit it, he would need Jon—his language skills, his understanding of the world they were in. He would need him like a child needs his mother if he was to survive. And it sickened him, for there was no doubt in Michael’s mind that Jon had every intention of killing them once the task was done.

  Within minutes, they hit the Sai Van Bridge, a two-mile-long span over the river, leaving the Macau of old behind. And as they exited the other side, it was as if they had entered Oz, a magical world where the sky was aglow with brilliant colors, where fountains filled the air in glowing cascades of water.

  They finally turned in to their destination, a modern world replicating an ancient one, but there would be no old-world locks to pick, no simple walls to breach. This was a world ruled by modern security and death, a world Michael would have to penetrate if he was to ever see KC again.

  CHAPTER 13

  LOS ANGELES 1974

  Jane Lei was sixteen years old when Jon was born. Having lived in Los Angeles since she was three years old, she embraced everything American and considered herself American and nothing but. However, others didn’t see her that way; her parents considered her Chinese, and as much as she wished to be part of the crowd, her Asian appearance set her apart. Her parents had come from Hong Kong, her father a senior vice president for Hong Kong International Bank, her mother a homemaker trying to raise her two daughters in a distant land. If you were white with an American accent, you were American; if you were Chinese with an American accent, American habits and values, you were still considered Chinese.