The Thieves of Legend

by Richard Doetsch

  After checking out their rooms, they gathered in Busch’s.

  “We can sleep in our rooms,” Jon said. “The safe house is for staging. I’ll have your bags brought over, but may I suggest you each purchase some clothes from the on-site stores. You can have a tailor visit you and tailor the clothes. It will enhance our ability to blend in if you do so; charge it to your rooms.”

  “I hope they have my size,” Busch said as he flexed his arm in mock vanity, his statement more of an allusion to his six-foot-four frame.

  “We need to make our presence known,” Jon said as he handed Michael and Busch each fifty thousand in chips.

  “Happily,” Busch said with a smile.

  “Who’s funding this?” Michael asked.

  Jon ignored Michael’s question. “We have a private tour of the lower level scheduled for midnight. We can take as much time as we need.”

  “Is that so we can get our faces on their security cameras?” Michael said. “So we can make it easier for them to capture us before we even get near our goal?”

  “You asked to see the lower levels, the area you need to penetrate,” Jon said without emotion. “I’m providing that opportunity.”

  “And laying the groundwork so that after I have stolen what you need, you can direct everyone to a midnight video of us casing the area,” Michael said, his voice filled with annoyance.

  Actually, Michael wasn’t annoyed because of the camera situation. He did need to see the lower level, needed to confirm the space was constructed as the plans had indicated. He was angry because he was being forced to do this, to partner with a stranger he didn’t trust, and mostly for being forced to rely on someone else. Michael had a trust problem. He could count on one hand those he trusted with his life, and Jon wasn’t on that list.

  BUSCH HAD AN affection for poker, always had. He had fancied himself a bit of a card sharp in his teens, fleecing his friends on Friday nights, explaining to his mom that all the extra cash came from tips he got while working at the gas station and the deli. And while the games had fallen by the wayside, except for an occasional game with Michael or Simon, he still fancied himself sharp and attuned to reading others, to knowing when to fold, to knowing how to win.

  He took a seat at the poker table in the Red Dragon casino, the red ceiling, gold accents, and elaborate dragons painted upon the coffers imparting a true Chinese feel. The chair was soft, rich leather, the table a dark walnut. He loved the green felt, the way the dealt cards would glide upon it. As if out of nowhere, a gorgeous waitress appeared and whispered in his ear, asking what he would like to drink; he whispered back for a Jack Daniel’s and turned his attention to the others already engrossed in a game.

  There were six at the table: three well-dressed Chinese businessmen—or at least that was the appearance they hoped their pinstriped suits would convey—a Japanese man dressed in a black polo shirt and dark pants, and a blond woman who kept glancing Busch’s way.

  As a new game began, they all anted up as the young dealer threw everyone five cards. Again, as if the job description called for beauty, the dealer was exceedingly beautiful: dark hair, deep eyes, a mix of cultures combining into a sensual woman who knew how to gamble.

  The game was five-card stud. Busch’s initial hand was nothing. An ace, a jack, a five, a three, and a seven. The Japanese man threw in a hundred, which was matched by all at the table. Within two minutes he won with a pair of queens.

  To Busch, the first few hands were about reading faces, reading tells and quirks. With the second hand, all had folded except for a Chinese man and the blonde, who ran up the pot until the man called and lost.

  Busch played the next hand aggressively, building up the pot, drawing three cards, watching to see who was paying as much attention to him as he was to them. With two pairs, Busch scooped in his winnings with a smile.

  Four hands in, he could read all but two of the Chinese. The Japanese man’s face never changed, but his right thumb subtly rubbed his next finger’s knuckle with unbridled excitement when his hand was strong. The blonde was easier. While most men would become distracted by her beauty and flirting eyes, thinking they would be scoring with her after the game, Paul never lost his focus. Little did she know that though he returned her smile, he had no eyes for her: He had been with Jeannie forever and had no intention of ever breaking his vow.

  Twelve more hands, four small losses, four huge wins, and Paul had tripled his money.

  CHAPTER 15

  BEIJING

  KC and Annie walked into the large hotel suite, dropping their small luggage bags on the bed. Annie picked up a card and read it out loud. “‘Welcome to the White Pearl Suite… ’ We are not the type of women who wear pearls,” Annie said.

  KC glared at her.

  “Oh, we can wear them, probably make them look better than most women, but we are not the type, no matter how much we want to be.”

  The Crowne Plaza Beijing was on Wangfujing Street, one of the most famous streets in China, in the heart of Beijing. It was known for luxurious accommodations that were designed to meet the expectations of Western travelers while imparting a subtle flavor of the East.

  Annie set about putting her clothes away, meticulously folding them as she took them out of the bag, laying them in the drawers, her military background shining through.

  “Are you going to tell me what we are stealing?”

  “No,” Annie said without looking up. “But come tomorrow, I will show you.”

  Annie finally looked up at KC. “You think me despicable, but you don’t know my motivation, why we’re here.”

  “Maybe if you told me…” KC said.

  Annie pulled out the tube and the small book they had stolen from the safe in Granada. She opened the tube and dumped a set of architectural drawings on the bed. They were detailed schematics of a modern facility. KC studied the plans closely. Though she didn’t comprehend the Chinese writing, she recognized advanced environmental controls, fire safety mechanics, and an elaborate security system. In the upper lefthand corner there was a room circled in red marker, the number 9296273 written in the center.

  Annie opened the small book, it was leather-bound, worn and stained by age. She quickly turned the pages, searching for something. As KC turned her attention to it, she was glad to recognize the language and realized she was looking at a ship’s manifest written in English.

  Annie paused. “There’s a small crate from World War II. It was stolen by the Japanese only to be returned to China by the United States at the end of the war. Tomorrow you will see what it contains, and then you will understand.

  “If you help me,” Annie continued, “if we succeed, everything will be all right; we’ll let you and Michael go. I promise.”

  Annie flipped open her phone, checking for messages, but there were none. “Have you ever known someone who unconditionally had your back, who had absolutely no obligation to do so, yet was always there for you?”

  “You seriously think we can just chat?” KC said. “That I can look past what you are doing to Michael and me?”

  “Obviously, it’s Michael,” Annie continued as if they were friends. “And you walked away from him.”

  As much as KC tried to ignore Annie, her words cut through her. KC couldn’t believe the woman who had kidnapped her was helping her to put her life in perspective.

  “So were you planning on spending the holidays alone?” Annie asked, a crack showing in her tough exterior. “Do you know what that’s like?”

  KC could see the hurt in Annie’s eyes… and felt a wound open up within herself. She had loathed the holidays until last year.

  The tree stood twelve feet tall, larger than any Christmas tree KC had ever seen, wrapped in white lights. It was covered in ornaments of all shapes and sizes, crystal and glass, detailed Santa faces, colored balls, and ceramic angels. It was in the middle of Michael’s great room, whose mantel was adorned in garland and poinsettias, the tables displaying a collection of San
tas of all shapes, sizes, and styles from the world over. There was holly at the entrance and mistletoe hanging in every doorway.

  And sprinkled throughout the house were pictures of her and Michael at the beach, in the yard, with friends, and with Michael’s dogs.

  KC had never loved Christmas until last year. Growing up poor with only her mother and sister, there was barely enough money for food and rent in their small two-room apartment in London. There was no Santa Claus, no stockings or tree, no Christmas dinner, though KC would awaken to find a single present on the end of her bed, usually a scarf or a sweater, sometimes a dress. Her mother had forgone her lunches at work, had saved what little she could to at least give her girls one gift. And as appreciative as KC was, the single gift, the lack of holiday decorations in their apartment, was made all the more painful once she walked outside to see the streets aglow in Christmas lights, carolers singing on the corners, parents rushing home with numerous bags under their arms.

  Over the years, KC would take solace in Christmas Mass, sitting in the rear pews with her mother and her sister, the strains of “Silent Night” filling the rafters; it reminded her of the day’s true meaning. She loved the choir’s angel-like voices, the peaceful smile on her mother’s face as she mouthed the words. It always brought tears to her eyes, for it reminded her that they had each other.

  When their mother died two days before Christmas when KC was all of fifteen and Cynthia was nine, the holiday became almost too much to bear. They were two children alone.

  KC, looking far older than her fifteen years, convinced the child welfare officer that she was twenty and could raise her sister. She had convinced the kindly woman not to take Cynthia away and place her in foster care, not to separate the girls, for they only had each other.

  As Cynthia cried herself to sleep that Christmas Eve, KC quietly left the house. Walking the streets among the lights, laughter, and songs of those who rejoiced in the holiday, she’d felt as if her heart were breaking. She was overwhelmed with desperation not for herself but for her sister, alone in bed with dreams that should be anything but nightmares.

  To escape the cold, KC walked into the large department store, open late for last-minute shoppers. She looked at the jackets, the beautiful dresses and shoes, things that she and her sister had never had. She looked at the TVs and stereos, pink pillows and posters, items that people took for granted but that she and her sister knew nothing of. There was a red cashmere sweater, softer than anything she had ever felt. She placed it to her cheek and closed her eyes, pretending for just a moment that she was someone else.

  She held it up and looked in the mirror and a small smile escaped her lips, it was far too small for her. But the feel of it was something she would always remember. Seeing the revelers leaving with gifts and wreaths, heading home to be with family and friends, she realized that the only person she could rely on, whom Cynthia could rely on, was herself. There were no friends, no family to turn to; if they were to survive, it was all on KC’s teenage shoulders.

  When Cynthia woke on Christmas morning, it took a few moments for reality to sink in, to remember her mother was dead, to remember that it was Christmas. And the tears she had cried for two days returned.

  But as she got out of bed, she saw the gift at the end of her bed. She looked at it, confused, picked it up, and read the note.

  Happy Christmas, Love Mom.

  Cynthia tore open the package to find a beautiful red sweater; it was softer than anything she had ever known. She held it up, quickly putting it on, feeling it against her skin.

  KC had watched through the crack of the open door and smiled.

  The sisters bundled up and went to Mass, Cynthia so proud in her sweater that her mother had gotten her before she died, her young mind believing in the miracle of Christmas. They sat in the rear pew, the same one they had always sat in. KC knew how they would survive, she knew how to get money, and in the days to come she took the steps into her new life.

  But as the choir began to sing, as the first words of “Silent Night” filled the cathedral, tears washed down KC’s face, for she knew that she was truly alone.

  Last year, the holidays had changed; they had taken on a true meaning. She and Michael had celebrated Christmas Eve at the Busches’ house. Jeannie had fixed a turkey and a standing rib roast. Simon was there, visiting from Rome, laughing and poking fun at Paul as he always did. Busch’s children could barely contain their excitement. New friends arrived with gifts and bottles of wine, laughing and talking about all they were thankful for. It was magical; she was no longer an outsider, observing others’ happiness. With Michael she had found not only love but a life.

  KC had awoken Christmas morning in their large bed, the snow falling, the smell of bacon filling the air. She quickly threw on a robe and went downstairs to find a roaring fire, the sounds of holiday music pouring from the speakers, Michael sitting there in wait with a broad smile on his face. Beside him were gifts, dozens of them, all shapes and sizes, beneath the enormous tree. And though KC was well past the age of believing in Santa, she believed in the miracle of Christmas; it was something out of her dreams, what she had always imagined.

  And as the strains of Harry Connick, Jr., filled the air, singing “Silent Night,” KC had softly wept tears of joy, for she wasn’t alone.

  Within the Beijing hotel, a sharp pain filled KC now, an actual pain that ran up her side and hit her heart; she was devastated that this past Christmas might be her last.

  CHAPTER 16

  MACAU

  Michael walked through the Imperial House Casino within the Venetian, past the poker, roulette, and blackjack tables to a large waiting area, his mind absorbing the room as he walked. He poked his head into a beautiful theater: Cirque du Soleil was dancing on the walls, tumbling and flying about the stage to the joy of the audience, who were fixated in wonderment at the impossible feats being performed before them.

  Michael turned and headed through the Golden Fish, the Phoenix, and the Red Dragon casinos, each one’s decor reflective of its name while the gaming was nearly the same if not identical. The crowds were equally spread out, no pattern evident in demographics, winners, losers, or staff. He continued past an array of shops: Tiffanys, Gucci, Prada, all bustling as if it were the day before Christmas. There was a business facility the likes of which he had never seen, and a spa, manned by a staff of masseuses who looked as if they had stepped off a movie set.

  Any and every need could be met with a vast array of restaurants, catering to every imaginable taste, and shops and services to ensure that the clientele never needed to pass through the main doors to the outside world until either it was time to go home or they were flat broke.

  Michael marveled at the business model. The house edge on slots was anywhere from 3 percent to 15 percent; for every ten-dollar wager the house would lose thirty cents to a dollar-fifty on average. Craps, poker, and blackjack varied, but on the whole the casino’s average was an 8 percent to 11 percent edge. And for those lucky few who finished ahead, the traps were set behind the doors: gleaming shops where they would give that money right back, spending it on gifts, clothes, massages, food, and alcohol.

  Michael changed his focus and walked outside into the cool night air. It was like being in the middle of Venice: 350 shops, cafés harking back to the Italian city’s heyday, and it was all brought to surreal life by the grand canals.

  Michael examined the wide canal, the water blue and clear, far cleaner than Venice had known in centuries. He boarded a black gondola and had the gondolier take him through the meandering waterways twice. The Asian man was dressed in black pants, a red-and-white striped shirt, and a straw hat wrapped with red ribbon about its crown. He guided the long and narrow craft with gentle strokes while music drifted on the night air. As Michael closed his eyes, he felt as if he were in Italy.

  The canals wound their way for over a mile. Michael had noted the drainage and piping on the plans Jon had provided; he knew there we
re access ways, tunnels connecting the various canals that were used for cleaning and maintenance. He estimated there was more than 100 million gallons of fresh water with no perceptible smell, a dramatic improvement on the occasional stench and murkiness of Venice’s signature feature.

  As the gondola completed its final loop, Michael looked up at the five-year-old “ancient” city; in his estimation, the facility generated more than $10 million a night. And the amount gave him pause. While gambling had always been part of the culture of Macau, it was only in the late nineties when the new-age boom began, when the big corporate entities came with their Las Vegas designs, their Middle Eastern grandiose desires, when the island’s old-world casinos were swept away to make way for a new dawn that would bring a potential for profits that would exceed the GNP of a small nation.

  But Michael knew that this dream came with a price. No one gave up business to a foreigner, particularly the Chinese. And as the Triads had controlled the old world with an unspoken understanding, so, too, they had their fingers in every casino on the Cotai strip.

  The public relations firms had wiped any mention of their existence from the shores of Macau, but like a shadow cast on a moonlit night, they were always there. The corporate world was in partnership with them, there was no question. Much as Vegas was initially controlled by the Mafia, the Triads controlled Macau. And where corporations used the law to deal with thieves, the Triads took a much different approach.

  CARL WANG WAS impeccably dressed in a designer suit, his hair perfect, his nails manicured, but Michael knew that despite the man’s metrosexual appearance, he was much more. Wang had two features that were difficult to disguise: a jagged scar that poked up through his white-collared shirt, haphazard and obviously not from a surgery, and tattoos that peeked out of the sleeves of his shirt.

  Michael wasn’t sure if he was a former or a current member of a Triad, though his presence and position spoke volumes. For where they were headed, the security was rumored to be at such a high level that no man should be venturing there unless he was in a position of power, unless he was on the board of directors, unless he held the keys to heaven.